Trophy Son(40)

“Now ve svim, Anton,” she said after.

“Sure,” I said. I didn’t dislike her at all, but I didn’t know her well enough to like her very much. We had sex as much as we had conversation, which was easy since half the relationship required no thought. It was just biological.

I dated a few tennis players like her, a few models hoping to be actresses. The consistent threads between them were that they all had unconventional backgrounds and that I never got to know them much. It was a release and it was some company. It was a way to float, the way I was doing things on the court too.

An elite athlete must have a willingness to suffer. There’s the endurance training through thresholds of physical pain. There’s also the mental and emotional sacrifice to narrow the world. A willingness to suffer is either born in us or beaten in early. I believe mine was beaten in. Either way, I was losing my willingness.





CHAPTER

28

Another bad loss. My opponent had cracked a top-five world ranking but that was six years ago. He was ranked thirty-seven at the time of our match. He was twenty-nine years old so he had some tennis left in him, but still, I should be on my way up and he should be on his way out.

I was playing the Memphis Open. It was second round so the field hadn’t narrowed down much. There were still lots of matches and a few guys coming and going in the locker room. I had my big tennis bag with extra rackets and my energy drink. I dropped it in front of my locker and sat down leaning forward with my forearms on my knees, thinking about the flight out of Memphis for the next tournament and how could I stop losing.

Jim Crane had beaten me. He skipped into the locker room behind me and dropped his bag but didn’t sit. He jogged in place the way runners do when held at a stoplight. It was a ridiculous sight only twelve feet from me in a locker room that was otherwise sluggish and where eye contact was avoided.

Jim did a three-sixty still jogging in place. There were Jim, me and four other players in the room. “Hey, Christos,” Jim said to a Spanish player on the tour. “Your match is tomorrow, right? Want to go hit some balls? There are a few things I want to work on.”

No one looked up at Jim. Not even Christos. Everyone knew the message Jim was sending. Anton was no opponent today, he didn’t push me, I ain’t breathing heavy. What a dick. “Not today,” said Christos.

“Alright, man. Anyone else? Otherwise I gotta go for a run. I gotta get someone to bring a pair of running shoes down here.”

I wanted to break my racket over his face. I’d never seen such overt dick-ness. The match had actually gone three sets but he’d whooped me 6–1 in the third. I knew right when I was going to lose. It was early in the third set and I was facing break point when mentally I crossed over and predicted my own loss. I felt it coming. Once I knew that, I wanted it right away. Kill me quickly. He recognized it in me. So he killed me a little and I killed me a lot and it was over fast.

No one answered Jim so he said, “Alright.” He took his phone from his bag. “I’m going to find some running shoes.” He put the phone to his ear and jogged out.

I was too embarrassed to look up from my sneakers. Too embarrassed to unlace them, get undressed and get into the shower. Too embarrassed to move. Nobody spoke.

I wanted the room to clear. I stayed motionless, like Rodin’s depressed and embarrassed Thinker. I wanted everyone gone before I moved, I wanted the whole exchange wiped away from memory, then I wanted to find Jim Crane and beat the crap out of him.

A hand rested on my shoulder. “You should take it as a compliment, Anton.”

I was still bent forward and I looked up like a swimmer breathing to see Mark Woodbridge standing beside me. I’d never played Mark before, he was too old for that, but he was American and I knew him. He was a coach now and had been a doubles specialist and won some doubles Grand Slams. He was probably only late fifties but was weathered from too much sun and booze so that his skin was dry and lifeless like a brown leaf in winter.

He said, “Jim wouldn’t bother doing that with a lesser player. All those theatrics.”

“How do you mean?” I said.

“He’s already thinking about the next match he’ll have with you.”

“By going for a jog?” I said.

“By getting in your head. He knows you have more talent, more firepower. The both of you playing great, straight up, you’ll kill him. And you’re younger. The only way he beats you is if he rattles you, breaks you down mentally. Like he did today.”

I grunted.

“He was just getting started on it for next time. You’ll probably see him again in the next month or two.”

“He’s a dick,” I said.

“You’re angry?”

“I’m pissed.” I was extremely pissed.

“I’m happy to hear that,” he said. “If it makes you feel any better, there are no true jerks in the world. There are only some unhappy people who behave like jerks,” and he walked away.

That was a helpful moment for me. I had confused, misdirected rage and Mark helped me tap into it. I needed more rage. Good rage.

I had dealt with other losses. Plenty, and I had always managed to stomach them, move on. I told myself that part of tennis was that every couple weeks you took a loss. That’s the way it is even for the top players.