Trophy Son(10)

I kept losing, the entire season. I’d start a match knowing I was the better player, that I should win, even expecting to win. Anyone watching the match would see my game was far more explosive, that I was strong from both sides on the ground, moved well, volleyed well, huge serve. If they watched a few minutes, they’d guess I’d win in straight sets, easy.

But somewhere early in the match I’d start to slip. I’d make some bad errors, force some dumb shots, get tight. I could feel it drift over me like a fog through the city, choking me. It got so I expected it to come. The way each day the fog rolls toward the Golden Gate then consumes it, I would look for it to come for me. I waited for it. Relented to it. Once it came, I wanted only for the match to end quickly. I’d force more shots, make more errors, accelerate my downfall. I knew I didn’t have the mental strength to recover, to reverse the slide.

I came to dread matches, like a person afraid to sleep because he knows a nightmare is waiting.

Dad saw all this happening but didn’t know how to stop it and that scared him. He hated to go outside for help. He never intended to do it but he was scared enough that he started a search for a full-time coach for me. Dad was so uncertain of himself at this point that he didn’t trust himself to conduct the interviews. He just took the coach most highly recommended for a junior player and paid him exactly what he asked to come work with us in Pennsylvania.

His name was Gabe Sanchez. He wore shorts no matter what the temperature. When he walked his calves would flex into a ball the size of a child’s head. His thighs were proportionally large. He was only 5'9" and I don’t think any pants were cut in a way to fit his legs.

He was in his late forties then and had been the number one–ranked player in Argentina about twenty-five years earlier, had some Davis Cup wins. He never had big weapons in his game but had a reputation as a tenacious, grind-it-out player who never beat himself, ran down balls, made his opponent hit winners and wore down the other player both physically and mentally.

He was the exact opposite kind of player from me, but I realized this made some sense. What I had couldn’t be taught. What I needed, he could teach me.

He loved my serve. He would say that if he had my serve as a twenty-year-old, he would have won the French Open.

I liked Gabe right away. He believed in working hard but also had a Latin love of life. He always smiled and I loved his accent. In all the years I’ve known Gabe he either started or ended a conversation by saying, “Arriba, arriba.” It was something he’d committed to doing as a player and a coach. Just words, a phrase to say, and it became a discipline. Players could create positive energy out of habits and positive energy is a required ingredient for winning. So I would say “Arriba” back and I think it helped.

Some parents feel their position of unconditional love permits unfettered abuse. They can rationalize self-forgiveness for harsh treatment because parenting is an obligation and only the parent can do certain things. That’s how Dad saw it.

Gabe was the hired coach and I knew he’d be tough and would never abuse. It was a great change for me.

Gabe and I would hit balls for two hours in the morning while Dad watched. Then Gabe and I would have lunch together and talk tennis while Dad left us alone, then we’d hit for two more hours.

After a week of workouts, Mom, Dad, Gabe and I sat for a meeting in the living room while Panos pretended to do homework in the next room.

Gabe said, “We have an unhappy player.”

It sounded like a medical condition and I guess it was. Gabe said nothing more while we all looked at each other wondering if this was as serious as cancer. Then Dad said, “What does that mean?”

Gabe leaned forward. “It means we have a decision to make. Anton has a decision. You have a decision. I always insist on having these talks with the entire family with everything out in the open because this decision affects the whole family.”

“What’s the decision?” said Dad. He always wanted facts, yes-or-no questions. He needed to keep things moving forward. Mom would have asked for all sorts of context and been nonlinear, but not if Dad was around.

“This is a common crossroads for a young teen player,” said Gabe. “You need to decide how hard you want to go after it.”

“You mean whether he’s going to keep playing tennis?” said Dad. I could tell he was wondering if Gabe’s approach was a motivational tactic. He couldn’t imagine this question as anything other than rhetorical. It was like asking Dad if he planned on taking his next breath.

Gabe picked up on the same thing. “It’s a real question. Mostly for Anton but also for all of you. Panos too. Everyone should think through the answer and not take this lightly.”

Dad was wondering if he had been wasting his money on Gabe. “Anton’s a great player. He could be truly great. Do you agree with that?”

“I do,” said Gabe. “He has the potential to be number one in the world.”

Dad’s face was delighted. He sat back and his look said prosecution rests.

Gabe had seen plenty of asshole tennis parents and he handled Dad beautifully. He turned to me. “Anton, I don’t want you to give me a definitive answer until you’re ready. Maybe a few days, maybe a few weeks. Whatever the timing is, it is. But I’d like now to hear what you think. Your first reaction.”

I didn’t have an answer ready. I felt like I was thrown on the podium in front of hundreds of people with no speech ready and no pants on. I realized I’d never seriously been asked the question before. I always knew I hated tennis but I always thought the answer to the question of playing had to be yes.