Trophy Son(54)

The caution from the umpire must have only fired the guy up because after this point he stood and yelled, “What the hell kind of serve was that? The women’s tour would eat you up!”

A voice loses distinguishing characteristics when in a yell but I could hear that he was American. He reminded me of someone. The devil in one of his disguises. I looked to the umpire who agreed that this was too much. Security was already on the way so I waited at the net by the chair.

Tournament security waved to the guy from the aisle but he wouldn’t move. Security moved into the row to assist him by the arm. The guy stood and yelled, “Play the match!”

He was big and he was a problem. The security guard backed off until two more of his colleagues showed up.

My opponent was up at the net with me. He and I and thousands in the stands and millions at home watched the scene play out. A large, maybe drunk, certainly mentally unwell fan brought Wimbledon Centre Court to a halt.

The three security guards moved in. They didn’t get rough but they put hands on him, asked him to leave with them. Six more guards arrived in the aisles on either side.

The guy didn’t like being touched. He didn’t hit but he shook them off. The spectators immediately by him cleared out. It was getting violent.

With one hand he picked up a guard and tossed him forward over a couple rows. The guards from the aisles crashed in.

Two were on his back, two went low and each grabbed a leg. It was like four dogs fighting a bear in a medieval circus. The man fought hard. The hat and sunglasses flew. The beard twisted and ripped off.

Holy shit. Dad.

The loss of disguise seemed to stun him. He stopped putting up a fight and allowed himself to be shoved away, stiff, like a boated marlin staring up from the deck through a lidless eye.

He was gone. The actual tennis match was a distant event and no one knew the way back, least of all me. The stadium was silent, everyone waiting for a voice to fill the air and explain the spectacle.

“Anton,” said my opponent. “That was your father?” He knew easily enough. Dad and I had been on the tour a long time. Certainly McEnroe, Carillo, Cahill calling the match from the booth recognized him as well.

It was a private and grotesque moment. Of course I wanted to hide away, pull the curtain over my face, be anywhere but on display. Eyes were on me, cameras were on me recording micro-expressions to be viewed and reviewed for weeks to come. I was conscious enough not to move, to freeze my face, but some facial muscles are involuntary, especially in the moment of surprise. I bounced a tennis ball off the grass to release energy, unfreeze my joints, make sure I could still move. I said, “Yeah. Sorry about that.”

The umpire called us back to business. Just like that. There was no injury timeout for mortal humiliation. It was the middle of my service game. I walked back to the baseline giving real thought to defaulting the match, but walking away from the Wimbledon semis would be news as big as Dad rioting in disguise.

I had moments of decent play when the stages of my recovery were anchored in anger but mostly I wanted off the court and I couldn’t mount a sustained and serious level of play. I dropped three sets in a row. There was no crowd noise at all the entire way. They all felt a measure of my embarrassment. They didn’t want to be there either, as though they felt they were intruding on me despite being paid ticket holders.

I showered with my forehead pressed to the tile, water aimed at the back of my neck as hot as it would go. I was certain they wouldn’t fine me for skipping the post-match media event.

In the end I decided to go because that is what is expected, that is what we do. We’re creatures of schedules and routines.

I sat behind the cloth-covered folding table, a bottle of water and microphone in front of me. The questions came in a flurry, on top of each other, none about tennis, all about Dad.

Part of me was glad it happened. I could say to them, now do you see? Now do you understand what I’ve been dealing with?

My mouth had not responded, which made the questions come more furiously, attempts at a rephrase, a new line of inquiry.

I realized it was a mistake to come. I was wounded, raw. I’d say something that revealed too much, make things worse for myself. The press didn’t feel they were intruding at all. Cameras clicked and dozens of reporters called out their questions like a pen of excited chickens.

“My dad is not well. Obviously. I’ll get him help.” I stood and walked out.





CHAPTER

38

Within hours of the match I got two phone calls that mattered. The first was Mom.

“Honey, I’m so sorry. Are you okay? I’m so sorry.”

“I’m okay.”

“Oh, dear God, how could he.”

“Where is he?”

“He’s on a flight back to Philadelphia now.”

“He needs help, Mom.”

“I know, it’s terrible what he did. He’ll see that. He’ll feel awful about it.”

“I hope you’re not asking for sympathy.”

“Of course not, I’m sorry. No, it’s just that things can get so dark for him. He loves you so much, Anton. He drives himself crazy, he doesn’t know what to do about it. He feels shut out.”

“Mom, after what you just saw, if you put one bit of this on me, I’m hanging up. For good.”

“That’s not what I mean. I’m sorry.”