Trophy Son(42)

Listening to myself talk this way, I could hear that I had quietly become a veteran. Being the one to open another’s eyes in this way was a rite of passage.

Dr. Minkoff shook his head. This news made the man who loved me like a son very sad. “Anton,” he said after a moment. “What do you want to do?”

I said, “I want to increase my training program, in every way, focus on tennis, use all my firepower. Then I want to go out and obliterate people. I don’t want to win, I want to put a beat-down on anyone I play.”

Minkoff nodded. “Okay.”

“I’ll look up again at life a few years from now. First I’ll finish this business.”

We sat in silence together for a few full minutes. Finally he said, “Do you know of the economic theory of specialization?”

“Maybe I read about it.”

“It was developed by David Ricardo. Comparative advantage. Imagine you’re a tropical island and you can grow bananas like nobody’s business. Bananas naturally grow well, but you’d have to work your ass off and use acres of land to turn out one potato. Of course you wouldn’t bother with potatoes. You’d grow millions of bananas and trade some with Ireland when you want potatoes.”

“Right.”

“That’s fine as a macroeconomic theory, fine for a country. Not for a man. A man has to be a whole self. A man can’t trade for character or life experience and he can’t get those from a book either.”

I shifted in the leather chair.

Dr. Minkoff said, “You are specialized, Anton. The danger for an elite athlete like you is that you can get to be thirty years old and all you’ve ever done is grow bananas.” He held his stare with me. He really wasn’t cautious with me at all. “You were instructed to grow bananas from the time you were six years old.”

We were silent again, then I said, “You want me to quit tennis?”

“No. I want you to be prepared for when you do.”

I knew what that meant more than I did even a few years ago. “I’m working on that. I’m trying. Whether or not it’s a mistake that I ever started in on tennis, I’m in it now. It’s not really who I am. Not everything I am, anyway. It’s all a masquerade but I’m so far in that it can’t end now. I don’t want it to, and one thing I’ve realized is that the only way to succeed in tennis long-term is to stay unconscious.”

He said, “What do you mean by stay unconscious?”

He knew what I meant and he knew that the words were so tragic that if I said them out loud they might give me pause so I used his words instead. “Grow bananas.”





CHAPTER

30

It was late August. Ana was in New York City for meetings because she had written a play and was trying to get it produced on Broadway. Late August in the tennis schedule meant the US Open and New York City so we found ourselves in the same city at the same time and we went out to dinner.

I picked the Waverly Inn. We both would naturally prefer a place that is less of a scene but I wanted the night to be special so I picked a place where celebrities and paparazzi go, just in case the flashiness would give me support in making things special. I hired a car service for the night which was an investment of a few hundred dollars. Also, I could pick up Ana at her hotel so we could ride together rather than meet at the bar of the restaurant like people on a blind date.

Our driver pulled onto Bank Street and stopped in front of number 16 which had a speakeasy-style entrance and would be easy to pass by except for the two tabloid photographers on the sidewalk a respectful ten yards from the restaurant door. We had an 8:30pm reservation so there was only the gray light of dusk in summer.

I told the driver to stay put and I came around to get the door for Ana.

“Thank you, sir,” she said as she took my hand and stepped up from the car.

“Ana,” one of the photographers called.

I took her arm in mine and escorted her like we’d been introduced at a state dinner. I initiated the arm clasp though she was willing.

“Ana, look over here please.” She looked to the right at the photographers who had cameras ready against their faces. Flashes popped. Ana smiled and waved.

“Thank you!” they said. A few more flashes. They were actually nice.

A moment later I heard one say to the other, “Is that Anton Stratis?” Then, “Anton! Anton, would you look this way?”

Nice. I smiled and waved, held Ana closer. Maybe they’d post the photos somewhere so her boyfriend would see them. Not a kind thought, but I couldn’t help having it.

The entrance led to a small crowded bar with a low ceiling and little light. The hostess greeted us right away by name and took us around the side of the bar through a short corridor of booth-style seating to an open room of dining tables. A table was set for us in the corner. It gave us a bit of audio-privacy but was where the other tables could see us, which is how the restaurant liked it and how most celebrities liked it too.

I hustled around Ana and the hostess to the chair with its back to the corner and pulled it out for Ana. I was being my best gentleman self. I was in competition with some actor I’d never met.

“How’d your meetings go?” I said.

“Exciting.” Once in a while you can see a person in real life who doesn’t look real. Their body isn’t bound by the same properties of light, doesn’t seem bound by anything earthly. Anyone who walked in that room would see she wasn’t like anyone else. She glowed the way a half dozen or so people in each generation do. Grace Kelly. Marilyn Monroe. “I met with a producer who can pull this off. Broadway is a whole other world of unions and insider stuff that I’ve never dealt with so I need someone strong.”