Trophy Son(53)

“A little aggressive in there. You were rude.”

He laughed but it wasn’t a real laugh. Just a way to bare his teeth. “They’re fine, I wasn’t rude. I just want to tell you about this kid. It’s impossible to talk to you anymore.”

I didn’t like talking to him. Not my fault. “Okay, tell me about him.”

“What, just like that? Well, sure, but the thing is you really got to go see him play.”

“I’m leaving for the airport in thirty minutes.”

“I’ll send you some video tape.”

“What would I do with that? I’m not a coach. I’m working on my own game. I don’t understand what you want from me.”

His anger rose again. It was clear to us both this had nothing to do with the kid. He said, “Whose side are you on?” He pointed a finger in my chest, pushing into my sternum.

“I’m on my side.” I knocked his hand away. It was a hearty smack.

That froze him for a moment. It was the first physical challenge of any kind from me to him. He hadn’t expected it. Had never dealt with it before.

In the next moment his instincts took over. He was the silverback and the leadership of his troop had been challenged. That’s how he saw it. I wanted to go to London and have nothing more to do with him but he’d gone primal and unconscious.

Rage caused the involuntary transformation of his face that I recognized from my youth. His mind was in an altered state, barely aware of where he was, what he was hearing. He knew only to attack.

I saw the change in his stance, his nostrils, his raised shoulders and fists. I remembered all of it and something triggered in me. Hidden, hurt, angry. Maybe a gene for rampage that he had passed down to me.

We stood face-to-face, committed to whatever came next. It was a moment bigger than what a psychologist would describe. More for a biologist. It’s how species operate and evolve.

When his fists shot forward together toward my chest I was ready. A decade before those fists had launched me backward but now I was wiser. And much bigger.

I rotated my right shoulder back and cocked my fist. My left hand came forward and held his right arm above the elbow. Then my right hand exploded into his face. It felt like I was punching through his head.

He went down in a bush by the restaurant wall and he stayed down. I stood over him and watched the blood spill over his chin to his shirt. His eyes were closed and I watched his sleeping face for a moment then went back inside.

The dining room fell silent when I stepped in. Panos had an arm around Kristie, holding her close.

“Panos, would you get some ice for Dad.”

“What happened?”

“He’s outside. I hope you two have a great honeymoon. I need to get to the airport.” And I left.





CHAPTER

37

Neither the Charleston nor Dad’s face injured my hand. I was into the second week at Wimbledon and playing well. I looked at the draw of the tournament but spent no time worrying about matchups. I’d take any comers.

The top seeds were all winning that year. I was in the semis, playing the number four seed, a young Croatian guy coached by Ivanisevic. Another tall, lanky left-hander with a big serve, grass specialist and decent on hard courts but lots of holes in his game that made him vulnerable on clay.

He was a threat on grass here at Wimbledon but if I served well I’d have easy holds and would just need to keep taking chances against his serve until I broke him once each set.

That’s exactly what I did the first set and won it 6–4. I was executing the plan. It was as certain as mixing chemicals in the lab for a known result. I knew I’d win 6–4, 6–4, 6–4, or better if my opponent gave in.

A day at the office, except there was a fan near Centre Court about ten rows back who was a pain in my ass. It was hard to know if he was for or against me, but he was vocal and loud, and all comments were directed at me. If I hit a winner he’d say something like “That’s the way.” When I hit an unforced error he’d ride the hell out of me.

I tried to shut out the crowd and didn’t want to give him the satisfaction of staring right at him so I took only peripheral, blurred looks. He seemed to be alone and probably drunk. He had a long ZZ Top beard, baseball hat and sunglasses. Big guy too.

He got louder in the second set. He was shouting a running commentary on my play and it was pissing me off. After one outburst I looked at the chair umpire to suggest he might shut the bastard up, but the hollering came between points, not during them, so the umpire felt the guy hadn’t yet crossed the line. He made a generic appeal for civility into the loudspeakers.

The fan kept on and got in my head during the points. As I was chasing down balls and hitting strokes my mind would wander to what the next shouts would be. I started to lose more points and the hollering got worse.

After the heckle and my next error I approached the chair. “Can you please get that guy to stop yelling?”

The umpire said into his microphone, “Will the audience please refrain from disturbing the match.” He had an English accent which made the warning sound charming and useless. He looked back to me to say that’s the extent of what I’m going to do.

I didn’t want to show that anything was getting to me and I’d be damned if I was going to double fault the next point so I laid in an easier serve but the Croat walloped it back. A winner up my forehand line.