Trophy Son(3)

I looked to the bench. It was a Susan Boyle moment. Shock and awe. There was no apparent correlation between the performance and the package. Other than the team, the coach and my hidden father, there was no one around to see my quiet victory. The coach was already walking down from the bleachers like Simon Cowell ready to offer me a recording deal except this guy was no billionaire and I had no interest in a college scholarship. I knew I’d never go to college. I didn’t even go to the ninth grade for Christ’s sake.

If poor Jim had harbored any hope of playing pro tennis, it died that afternoon. He realized there was another class of player out there and he couldn’t handle the fourteen-year-old version of it.

Jim had a steady game with few errors but his ball had no pop. He couldn’t push anyone around. He would just hang around and make his opponent beat him but his ball set up exactly the way I liked it. I got to balls early, stepped into my shot and ripped my swing as hard as I could. When I was older I’d hit harder, but that day was the hardest I’d ever hit in a match to that point.

I beat Jim 6-0, 6-1. I gave him a game in the second set because I’m not as ruthless as Dad and the goodness I felt from doing it meant more than the criticism I would get for it on the ride home.

They were all so amazed by the severity of the beating that they forgot to feel hustled. They handed me the can of cash and gave me some pats on the back. They were sure they’d watch me win matches at the US Open in a few years.

The coach walked over to talk with me. I glanced up and saw Dad sitting in the bleachers. He’d come out of hiding and looked relaxed. He didn’t care about the money, but he did need to make sure I didn’t get hurt.

The coach smiled at me and said, “What’s your name, son?”

“Anton.”

“How old are you Anton?”

“Fourteen.”

“Where do you play?”

“Mostly my backyard. Some satellite tournaments.” I knew he was about to praise me and I was excited to hear it. Dad never praised me.

The coach looked around and saw Dad and knew exactly. Then the coach surprised me. “I don’t expect to see you around here again. Ever. I don’t like hustlers. Get going now.”

I picked up my massive tennis bag and started for the bleachers.

Then the coach said, “Anton,” and he walked over to me, still out of earshot of Dad. He put a hand on my shoulder and looked nice again. “Balance.”

“Balance?”

He said, “Don’t think about what I’m saying all at once now. But every once in a while, when you have a decision to make, think about balance.”

“Okay.”

“Good luck,” he said.





CHAPTER

2

Dad met Mom in 1983 during the lead up to the 1984 games. She was an Olympic downhill skier. In those days, the winter and summer games were held in different cities but in the same year so there was more intermingling of winter and summer athletes at social functions.

Mom was a much less intense person than Dad, but a natural athlete who loved skiing. She was 5'7" with strong legs and a low center of gravity. She didn’t medal either, but she became well known in America for how attractive she was. Certainly she became known to Dad.

In the 80s she kept her long blonde hair in a ponytail that would whip around from under her ski helmet when she came down the mountain. After kids she cut it shoulder length.

The awards of their athletic careers filled our attic. I’d go up there once in a while to poke around old pictures of them in their teenage years and wonder what kind of people they were then. There were huge trophies and photos of them competing or waving from the winners’ podium and the pictures were all beautifully framed with a caption to identify the event, but they all sat in boxes like a travelling museum exhibit that never got unpacked.

It was a long time before I realized that all this stuff made Dad more angry because there wasn’t an Olympic medal with it. The more grand everything was, the more apparent that something was missing.

Dad was a sprinter. His best event was the 100-meter freestyle and he was expected to medal in 1984. In the final he was in the lane next to an Australian who was also a favorite to medal. You can see in the old TV footage that as they were stepping on the platform by the pool, the Australian said something to Dad, then Dad said something back and pointed a finger at the guy.

Dad never said what the words were. He shrugged it off as nothing but the Australian had gotten in his head and Dad was late off the platform. There’s no way to make that up in a 100-meter race. Dad came in sixth. At least another American took the gold that year.

We drove back from U Penn with Dad laughing and talking about points in the match the whole way. He scolded me about giving away a game, but lightly. He let me keep the five hundred bucks but we had to go deposit it in the bank. Five hundred bucks can buy a lot of distraction from tennis.

We pulled into our driveway and I walked into the living room. Sparely furnished. Area rugs that left lots of hardwood uncovered, piano, a few paintings on the wall but mostly white space, all like it was done by a staging company in preparation for a real estate sale. My older brother, Panos, was at the dining room table with his homework spread out in front of him. Greek. Dark hair, dark skin, a thin and less dangerous-looking version of Dad.

“How’d it go?” said Panos to me.