by Jim Plautz
It started with Anna Kournikova, or did it? Some say it was a political revolution, tracing back to the additional funding arising from former President, Boris Yeltin’s love of the game. Some say it was the fall of Communism in 1991 and the subsequent opening of the borders. Promising players could now go to Spain, France and the United States where training facilities are better. Still others point to the stark conditions in the former Soviet Union and the anger that has built up in a proud people. Whatever the reason, everyone agrees that the Russians are here, and they are hungry.
“Maybe they want it a little bit more,” said former Stanford all-American Marissa Irvin, who was ushered out of the French Open on Saturday by 19-year-old Svetlana Kuznetsova, 6-1, 2-6, 6-0. Irvin’s departure leaves just three Americans, Lindsay Davenport and the Simpsons; 22 American men and women opened play less than one week ago.
Myskina is gone, but six Russian girls advance to the final 16. In order of their seeding, they are: Maria Sharapova (2), Elena Dementieva (4), Kuznetsova (6), Nadia Petrova (7), Elena Bovina (12) and Elena Likhovtseva (16). This isn’t new. The Russian women exploded on the international scene in 2004, claiming three of four Grand Slam titles. The revolution started in Paris, where Anastasia Myskina won the French Open’s first all-Russian final. Four weeks later, 17-year-old Sharapova vanquished Serena Williams to claim Wimbledon’s crown. Kuznetsova delivered Russia’s troika by defeating Dementieva at the U.S. Open.
Veteran tennis journalist Barry Flatman traveled to Russia for a first-hand look at how Moscow was minting its female tennis phenoms. He found the famed Spartak Club, where Marat Safin’s mother, Rausa Islanova, had coached the young Myskina and Dementieva. The club was in a pitiful state, with just one usable indoor court. Writing in the London Times, Flatman described “a sad, silent, almost derelict place” in which stray dogs roamed around piles of rubbish and the handful of clay courts were “in dire need of layers of top-dressing.” Spartak’s students routinely shared tennis rackets because there weren’t enough to go around. Dementieva, he learned, didn’t get her own racket until she was nine, and to this day can’t bear to see pros toss theirs in fits of pique. Maybe this is why the Russians seem to want it more?
Ambre was slotted to play Elena Bovina, the #12 seed, in the 4th round. The match was scheduled as the final match on Court Chartrier, which meant waiting all day and not knowing for sure when or if the match would be played. If you know you will play at an exact time, you can schedule when you practice, when you rest and when you eat. The waiting made preparation a guessing game.
Ambre had never played Bovina but she knew it would be a tough match and every point would be a battle. Both players were nervous and unforced errors outnumbered winners by a large margin. Ambre managed to win the first set 7-5, when Bovina double faulted twice in the 12th game and essentially broke herself. Bovina won the 2nd set 6-3 and was serving at two-love in the third, when momentum turned. After netting an easy forehand, Ambre looked up at her coach in exasperation. There was Pete standing and pumping his fist. He had slipped into her ‘friends and family box’ so that she would see him. The message was obvious, “fight!”
The 3rd set took over 75 minutes, longer than the first two sets combined. Both ladies picked up their game and the quality of tennis rose to a championship level. Ambre had the added advantage of 15,000 French fans pulling for her, but it was Pete’s support that pushed her over the top. She broke Bovina at 3-4 to even the match and then again in the 18th game to win the third set 10-8.
After accepting congratulations from a downcast Bovina, Ambre pointed at Pete and blew him a kiss. Later she would tell the press that she was pointing at her coach, unaware that television cameras had been showing Pete cheering for her throughout the match.
Pete won his match in four sets against another Argentinean, but all he wanted to talk about at dinner was Ambre’s comeback. Mary and I just sat back and rolled our eyes. We remembered how their last affair had ended and how low Pete had felt for the next six months. “We can’t live their lives for them, Jim,” Mary told me later as we got ready for bed. “They have to make their own mistakes.”
“Twice?” I asked. “Maybe that’s why the good Lord made the young stupid, but resilient”
“Pete’s not stupid, he is just in love.”
“There’s a difference?” I asked as I turned off the light and took Mary into my arms. “I never felt stupid for falling in love with you. That was the best decision I ever made.”
“And don’t you forget it.”
The French police were furious that the story was leaked about the connection between Agbu and Roland Garros. They had hoped to find Agbu before the public became aware of the danger. It was time to increase the pressure on the suspects taken into custody. “Are we getting any information?” the Spanish Captain asked the interrogator. “Do any of these shitheads know anything?”
“There are two men from Vitoria-Gasteiz, Agbu’s home town. I’m sure they know something, but they’re not talking. The older one is a real hard case. Give us a couple days and I think the kid will break.”
“We don’t have a couple days. Transfer them both to the main cellblock. Let’s see how they get along with some of the men doing hard time.”
The two boys were fingerprinted, strip-searched and sprayed with delicing powder. They were stark naked standing in front of a half dozen guards who didn’t hide their interest. “Take a shower and put these on,” the prison guard ordered handing them standard prison uniforms “You have ten minutes.”
There were six men in the shower room. Each man looked like a giant, laden with heavy, prison muscles hidden only by tattoos. “Well, what do we have here, a couple of faggots?” one of the men said walking up to the older boy. “It looks to me like this faggot wants to give me a blow job, isn’t that right, faggot?”
The boy resisted and was beaten half to death before being gang raped by six men. He stopped screaming after the third. The younger boy was forced to watch.
When they were done with his friend the younger boy was ordered to kneel down in front of the man that had been holding him. The boy was sobbing uncontrollably but couldn’t help staring. “Boy, look at me,” the man said grabbing his hair and forcing him to look up. “You have a choice. You can have what your friend had, in fact you can have it every day, or you can tell those people in the next room what they want to know. Your choice.”
Five minutes later the younger boy was telling the interrogators everything he knew. He had plenty to tell including stories about Agbu growing up with his best friend, Carlos Cordero.
Chris was shocked to hear the connection between Agbu and Carlos. “How sure are we that Carlos is not part of this?”
Day 8 (Memorial Day)
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