Trophy Son(11)

I said, “I don’t know, Gabe.” I started and stopped answers and stammered for a while. I wasn’t sure that the option of “no” was real. Dad would just fire Gabe and pull me back in, do more research on the next coach he hired.

“Okay,” said Gabe. “I understand. Take your time. Just know that if you say yes, it’s an absolute yes. I need you all the way in with me and I want you to have fun. Do you understand?”

“I do.”

“So I want to propose a third option,” said Gabe.

We all stared at Gabe. Panos too. I could tell Dad was thinking what the hell next.

Gabe said, “Give me everything you have, everything. Show up early, work hard, stay late, laugh, enjoy it. Pour your soul into this with me.” He paused and stared back at me. “For one year. Everything and for one year. Then you can stop or you can do it for one year more.”

It was such a simple thing and I knew it was really a kind of trick anyway but it sounded so good to me. It took me out of the endless, hopeless darkness and gave me a light. It was an escape hatch. I could do anything for one year, and already the time with Gabe was better than the time with Dad.

Dad looked satisfied. Mom was silent and seemed relieved looking at Dad.

“Okay,” said Gabe. “One more thing. A hypothetical thing in case the family answer is yes.”

“Alright,” said Dad.

“I would like you to find a sports psychologist to work with Anton. There should be no stigma attached to psychotherapy. It’s an important thing and many successful athletes do this.”

We’d never thought about this before so we had no ready answer. Dad wanted to say no right away but knew he would sound like a brute so he said, “I’ll think about it.”

Gabe said, “I cannot recommend this strongly enough. It is an important step for a dedicated professional athlete. Most do it at some point and it’s better to do it early. As in pain anesthesia, it’s important to stay ahead of the pain. The best time for therapy is before a crisis.”

I never thought anything good or bad about therapy. I was just always up for somebody new to talk with. Dad was old-school so I could tell he didn’t like the idea but I could also see that he was starting to believe in Gabe.





CHAPTER

7

The time of day that I would call my own began at 9:30pm, after I’d been fed the right amount of calories, done my stretching exercises and climbed into bed. Sometimes I would read, sometimes I would lie on my back with the sheets up to my ribs, my hands behind my head, and I’d stare up at the ceiling until it became a dark sky filled with stars over my campsite in the wilderness, or a sunset on the horizon of the Caribbean Sea as I’d sit in the sand with my back against the trunk of a palm tree.

For a time, I abandoned the self-flagellating, wallowing-in-loneliness routine and my addiction was the 9:30pm dial of Liz’s phone number. She wasn’t on a strict get-your-eight-hours-sleep schedule and so wasn’t always home and available, but often was and I loved our calls. Connection with a person validated my personhood. Sometimes we spoke only a moment, sometimes much more.

“You have to win this week so I can come watch your match on Saturday.”

“Consider it done.”

“Good. I’m going to train up to New York to meet a friend and will drive out. Are you coming home in between or staying up there?”

“It’s a three-hour drive one way which is too far. I’ll be in a hotel starting tomorrow.”

“With your dad?”

“Yup.”

We each held our phone silently for a moment then she said, “I love watching you play. I always feel proud of you. Attracted to you.”

“That’s nice to hear.” And it was.

“In a way, you’re like I was five years ago. With the violin. My mom was the Caucasian, Main Line version of a tiger mom and she got it in her head that I could be a concert violinist and go study at Juilliard.”

“I didn’t know that.”

“It was a long time ago,” she said with the youthful gravity and perspective that adults find cute. “I managed to put an end to it, but it had gone on for years. Five hours on Saturdays, five on Sundays, three in the afternoons Monday through Friday. I got pretty good because how could I not, but I wasn’t a natural. And I hated, hated, hated it.”

“How did you get her to let up on you?”

“You have to prove you aren’t gifted. You have to demonstrate to your parents beyond a reasonable doubt that you have no aptitude for excellence in anything at all.”

“You tanked your play?”

“It’s the teachers too, if you have a good one. A strong one, enough that they can give the parents the truth. They see so many kids, they can see things more clearly than the parents. Every mom and dad thinks their kid has some kind of gift. My teacher told my mom I was pretty good but never headed to Juilliard.”

“And your mom backed off.”

“That, and I said if she made me keep up with the lessons and practice that she would only make me hate her. Then she backed off. But it was almost five unhappy years of yelling and crying and smashing violins against walls.”

I pictured the twelve-year-old version of Liz smashing a violin to the ground like a carnival-goer with a hammer, ringing the bell at the strongman game. “Good for you.”