Trophy Son(23)

“It’s going alright,” I said. I wondered if Panos knew anything about the steroids. I hadn’t yet taken any at that time. I was still in the period of thinking it over. It was like standing on the edge of the thirty-foot high dive and feeling there was no way to will myself over. I sipped my beer which tasted like crap to me as all alcohol did then and I said to Panos, “Did you know Dad wants me to start taking stuff? Performance-enhancing drugs?”

Panos didn’t look at me and didn’t say anything so I knew the answer before he said it and thank God he was honest. “I know.”

We were both silent, looking straight ahead.

We went on like that for a while until Panos said, “We could take off.”

“Take off?” I said.

“Sure.”

“What does that mean?”

“I don’t know exactly, but leave. We’ve got the money, we’ll get you tickets for the ski trip for starters. Then come live with me at college. At least for a while.”

“You’re nuts.”

“No, we could.” He was excited and turned his stool to face me. “You can call home from a blocked number, they’ll know you’re fine, won’t call the cops. You can say you need time out and you’re taking it.”

I laughed.

“Anton, I’m serious.”

“Hey, I’d love to go skiing for a week.”

“Then come live with me at school. College with no classes. And I’ll cover for you with Mom and Dad. Tell them we’ve been in touch but I don’t know where you are.”

“I suppose it could work.”

“It could work for a while,” he said. “It could give you a break.”

It already felt good just talking about it. I felt empowered discussing it like a real option. I remembered sneaking away with Panos as a kid when my young perspective turned a small adventure into a whole world. When I was eight or nine, Dad had screamed at me in frustration that I was giving a lazy practice session and not moving my feet, then he stormed off our home court. Panos sneaked on the court and helped me move the tennis ball machine into the yard where he angled it into the air and shot a hundred balls upward like mortar fire, landing most in the swimming pool in a mock World War Two invasion. One hundred balls were ruined, a small expense for Dad but it was the principle and a major act of defiance, which we paid for, and it was worth it. It was something I knew we’d retell as old men.

I imagined sleeping on the floor of Panos’s room after a party with girls and grain alcohol punch. Waking up to get a breakfast of crappy fried cafeteria food then napping off the hangover, exercising once or twice a week but only as a means to liven myself up, like taking a shower. Since Liz, I’d had no one to share moments of imagined rebellion. “I could use a break.”

“Of course,” he said.

We were quiet for a moment which was a mistake. The silence left room for reality to sneak back in. The momentum we had built wasn’t enough to carry even thirty seconds of dead air. “You think it might work?” I said.

“Sure.” Much weaker voice than before. I heard the difference. He heard it too. We both knew Dad would stalk us, hunt us down, bring us back to a life worse than before.

“Yeah,” I said. We wouldn’t do it. That was obvious, but it felt good to be loved for something other than being a tennis player. Panos loved me not as a tennis player, just as a brother who might come live with him in his dorm room.

Quiet again. We’d just been on the same up and down fantasy ride and were catching our breath. Panos said, “What are you going to do? About the drugs?”

“I don’t know. They’re telling me I can’t do it without the drugs. Lately my body is telling me the same thing, but I don’t know.”

“I’m sorry, brother.”

“Thanks, Panos.” It would be worse without him.





CHAPTER

17

In March I entered the Miami Open where four of the top-ten players in the world were in the draw, including the world’s number one player. One of my earliest memories as a toddler was visiting this tournament back when it was called the Sony Ericsson. Spectators, reporters, camera crews moving around a complex of dozens of courts and vendors selling T-shirts, drinks and hot dogs. Now people were coming to watch me and I was playing great against the best. Of course now I was taking the drugs. Nothing with needles. Just oral supplements and I never asked for details about what. Plausible deniability. It was only with a wink and a nod that I knew they were steroids at all. But I knew.

Because it was Miami there was a little more star power in the crowds. Who knew Jay Z liked tennis? That gave us something to talk about.

My first-round match was against the eighth seed who was ranked twenty-two in the world. I pummeled him. My serve was clicking, my ground strokes were heavy and locked in, I was focused, anticipating his shots and moving fast and always forward. He was stunned and shaken after the match. He knew that he didn’t just have an off day or that I had a fluke day. He was routed by a better player and that put a new and lower ceiling on his career.

A weaker player had squeaked by to face me in the second round and I beat him in straight sets: two and two. People around the tournament were starting to talk about me. I was an eighteen-year-old up-and-comer. Maybe the future of American tennis. And next up for me at the Miami Open, the world number one. The meat-grinder. Ilya Kovalchuk. 6'1" Russian, lean body, all muscle and bone who moved around the court fast and easy like a design for perpetual motion that never has friction with surfaces. He had a rugged, handsome face and always ruffled hair like a youthful lumberjack, only he had experience. He had been a top-five player in the world for twelve years.