Trophy Son(57)

“No, it’s no mistake, it’s too far down the path. I spoke to the lawyer for the ITF. They’ve checked and rechecked.”

“How the fuck did this happen?” I was still standing, walking now, and Adam stood too.

“I don’t know. Maybe they started using a different agent in the test, maybe Bobby tried something new he shouldn’t have.”

“Fucking Bobby.”

“Let’s pick this up when we get together in person.”

That was code for shut-the-hell-up-about-your-steroid-program while talking on the phone, just in case, and I was sober enough to get it. “Fine.”

“There’s a bit of good news,” he said.

It took me a moment but I circled the room back to the sofa, sat, and said, “What?”

“Well, the thing is, you’re the number one player in the world.”

“So what?”

“That gives you some leverage, even in a situation like this.”

“What do I do?”

“You won’t have to do anything, other than say yes to what I expect will be a pretty sweet deal. Under the circumstances.”

“What’s the deal?”

“He wouldn’t say, but we have a meeting. Tomorrow. In New York.”

*

We met at Keens Steakhouse in Midtown at 11:30am the next day. The lunch crowd hadn’t come yet so there were only a few waiters getting ready and a hostess in front. The restaurant was dark with low ceilings and stretched far back like a cave.

The hostess was expecting us and took us in a different direction, up a flight of stairs then turned right and opened a set of heavy double doors.

“Your party is here. Welcome to the Theodore Roosevelt Room.”

Two men stood at the far side of a huge, round table that could seat twenty-five. One was tanned with black hair and a trim tailored, bright-blue suit with a purple tie. He said, “Anton, Gabe, thank you for coming. Come in, come in.” He had a Spanish accent. He came around the table to shake our hands and lead us to two seats at the table, leaving one seat of space between us and them.

“Of course,” said Gabe.

“My apologies,” said the man. “I didn’t know this table would be so absurd for our purposes today, but I wanted a private room and this surely will be private.”

There were old tobacco pipes and animal heads hung around the walls. I stayed standing and speechless. I was nervous. I was a convict waiting for my sentencing to be read.

“My name is Chi Chi Ruiz. I serve as the Executive Vice President of the International Tennis Federation. My office is in the London headquarters.” He had a smile full of very white teeth, he was happy, relaxed, like we were all here for a social lunch. He put a hand on the shoulder of the man in a charcoal suit next to him. “This is Alan Eberhart with Couchman Harrington Associates, the law firm that we keep on retainer. It’s necessary that Alan be here today,” he said by way of apology.

“Hello,” said Alan. He was so curt it was hard for an accent to work its way into the syllables but I detected British.

He shook hands with two pumps for each me and Gabe, then sat, so then we all sat too. I still hadn’t said a word.

Chi Chi said, “Thanks again for coming,” which was a silly thing to say. It wasn’t a favor. I had to come. “We all know the unfortunate reason we’re here and Alan and I have come all the way to New York so we can handle this situation in a way that is best for the ITF, best for you, best for the game of tennis, best for the fans of the game of tennis. Now, I have to tell you, this is a highly political issue within the ITF leadership, but over the last week we’ve worked out some ideas for moving forward. Alan will take us through the basics.” Gabe and I were scared, Alan seemed angry. Chi Chi turned to Alan with a lunatic smile.

Alan started, “By way of background,” he had the tone of reading text he hated, “in 1993 the ITF and ATP began the Joint Anti-Doping Programme. In 2006 the ITF took control of the programme for the men’s tour and in 2007 for the women’s tour as well. The ITF handles all drug testing at ITF-sponsored events, including the Grand Slam events, as well as all ATP-sanctioned events.” He paused. “The ITF is the governing body for drug testing.” This sounded very much like a threat.

“So you just deal with us,” said Chi Chi, putting on a positive spin.

Alan ignored him and continued in official speak, “On July thirty-first of this year, at the BB&T Atlanta Open, the ITF conducted a routine post-match drug test of Anton Stratis. The testing detected banned substances.” He paused and shuffled a new paper to the top of his stack. “Mr. Stratis, the test detected three banned substances. First, diuretics, a banned substance commonly used to help the body lose fluids and mask the presence of other drugs. Second, beta-2 agonists, a banned substance commonly used to relax smooth muscle around the lungs, enabling greater lung capacity and higher performance. Third, anabolic steroids, a banned substance commonly used to build muscle and speed physical recovery.”

I wished Bobby was there so he could also receive the failing grade personally. Our enormous room and enormous table were all quiet for a moment, then Chi Chi laughed. Through his laughter he said, “It really was a spectacular failure, Anton. I mean big-time.” He shook his head. “So here we are. Our head clinician, Dr. Miller, ventured a guess that the diuretic in your program failed. It showed up present in your test but didn’t mask anything.”