Trophy Son(61)

We ordered room service for dinner rather than go out and I said, “I’m sorry there isn’t more for you to do here this week.”

“Don’t be, this is perfect. I get to watch great tennis from the player’s box, I’m getting some writing done, and I’m with you.”

“You have a life to get back to.”

“It’s a week. There’s no place in the world I’d rather spend this week.”

I cupped my hands around her jaw and kissed her forehead.

She said, “I want to be with you and I can be here without any problem. In a few years it’ll be your turn. You’ll have to sit in a Broadway theater watching play rehearsals.”

“I can’t wait.” I dropped my hands. “When I retire, there are no more tournaments on grand stages, first-class travel, fancy parties with fancy people. I’m just another guy without a high school diploma.”

“That’s exactly the person I want to get to know better.”

My second-round match was a terrible grind. He was a left-handed Spanish player, veteran, great on clay, steady as hell. Every game seemed to go to deuce, back and forth. I had moments of playing like my best self but that’s never enough. Tons of guys can play great for moments.

Each set went to a tiebreaker. I’d have flashes of great stuff to go up, then he kept coming, staying with me, drawing even then taking the lead. My body was still strong, willing, needing a leader to guide it, but my mind was still not tournament sharp.

I lost to this Spanish veteran who had barely taken games off me in our three previous meetings. I was less than I had been before but he was also more. I wondered what steroid program he was on.

In my months away from the tour Ben Archer had taken over the number one ranking. He’d been hovering around the top five for a few years, then put together a strong half season that put him in the top spot. I had mixed emotions because I liked Ben, but it felt unjust to me that after everything I’d been through, a lesser player on emotional cruise control could accomplish the same, leave the same legacy that I had feared would elude me, a legacy that I had felt desperate to establish because I needed something to show for all the hell of it.

In the hotel room I said, “I hope you weren’t falling in love with Houston.”

“Paris in a couple months sounds good.”

“I’ll be playing better by then.”

“I know you will.”

“The saying goes, you don’t need to be the best player every day, you just need to be better than the one guy across the net. Couldn’t do it today.” I hated losing. I hated talking about a loss. Having Ana with me was one more reason to stop both.

“It was your first tournament back.”

I nodded. “I still have some great tennis in me.” I kissed her. “Let’s pack.”





CHAPTER

42

A player’s will has endurance that can be trained and conditioned. The will can get in poor condition more easily than the body. I made the semis in each of the remaining three majors my first season back. It was a decent showing because I was able to feed off the energy of the large stage.

It was the smaller tournaments where I struggled to keep my intensity. When people talk about mental toughness and a test of wills between players, that’s not just something to say. There’s an invisible battle in every match, simultaneous with the points played with a racket.

Even in a match that ends in victory a player might lose more than a hundred points. That’s a hundred points that didn’t go your way, ended in disappointment, that you need to bounce back from immediately and play on at your best. If a player can’t do that every single time, whole games slip away, whole sets, whole matches. It’s really damn hard. Damn tedious.

I was back in Atlanta of all places. Ana wasn’t with me. What should have been an easy forehand winner up the line I sent two feet wide. The miss angered me. Fatigued me, at the thought of the hole I’d needlessly dug for myself in that game. I went on to lose the next point, then the game, then the set.

My mental state was exhausted, worn out. I had the mental fragility of my teenage years, but with more firepower to mask it. With my firepower failing, I had the horrible thought return from my youth: Kill me quickly. I disappeared from the match in a way that I hadn’t done since before turning pro. I lost 6-0 in the final set.

I could feel the physical wear and tear of the season on my body more than ever, though if I wanted to get the number one ranking back, it was more important that I get my head in shape. But my willingness to suffer was almost gone.

I went to the locker room by myself. I’d talk with Gabe after the press conference and a shower. I dropped my racket bag then slumped into a cushioned chair. At twenty-eight and as a former number one, I was an elder statesman in the locker room. Other than a “Hi, Anton,” people spoke with me only after I spoke with them first. There was a general feeling that any player after reaching number one could be as bad a diva as Jimmy Connors.

I sat in silence, letting my mind rest, heal from the injury it had just suffered. My eyes were open, looking through the floor at nothing. Players went about their routines around me, maybe glancing, knowing it was better to leave me be.

In a moment, two bright white tennis sneakers came into my view and stopped in front of me. I followed the legs up to the stomach, chest and face to see Martin Sage, a former player turned coach.