Trophy Son(62)

Martin was an American who retired around the time I first came on the tour. Early forties now, coaching a young Australian kid who had good talent. Martin had been a top-twenty player himself for long stretches in his career.

“Nice sneakers,” I said.

“Haven’t seen much action yet.”

“I guess not.”

“Take a walk?”

I knew Martin a bit. We’d had maybe four conversations in ten years. None of them was over a walk so it was odd, but I thought what the hell. “Sure.”

He reached out a hand and lifted me up from the chair. There was a back door from the locker room that led to a player’s entrance from the parking lot behind a security checkpoint. Plenty of people could see us but nobody was closer than thirty yards. We stopped there and Martin said in a normal conversational volume, “How are you?”

“Shitty. What kind of question is that?”

He laughed. “I’m sorry. I meant bigger picture.”

“I’m alright,” I said.

He nodded and waited awhile before talking again. “I don’t know you that well, Anton, but I’ve always liked you. Always thought you were a class act.”

Martin was a respected guy around the tour, especially among Americans. He hadn’t been a star player but everyone liked him. “Thanks, Martin.”

“You can still play some great tennis if you want to. Dominant tennis.”

“I think so too.”

“Take it from a retired guy. The window slams shut very fast. People think their babies grow up too fast. They should try having a professional tennis career.”

“Clock’s ticking, I know.” The advice was a little condescending but coming from a good place and somehow I didn’t mind it.

“Make what you can of it, my man. I’m rooting for you.” He clapped my shoulder. “So you’re dating Ana Stokke? How’s it going?”

“Is that rhetorical? It’s fantastic, of course.” Martin was single and known to be a ladies’ man.

He laughed again. He laughed easily. Maybe retirement was okay. “Well, hang on to her.”

“You bet.”

The laugh faded out and I realized it came easily because it had little substance, was hollow, nearly weightless, only a cover. “I mean it. Hang on for dear life. Not an expression. Hang on.”

This was weird enough that I changed the subject. “How’s coaching going?”

“It’s good, you know?” he said. “It’s good to be around the game. Maybe I’ll make a run at the announcers’ booth one day if I can get McEnroe to back me. Anyway, you know the deal. What the hell else are we going to do?”

I wasn’t ready to sign on for that. I feared it, but still had hopes of a second act of Anton, a second life that was me and not tennis, but I didn’t want to say any of that to Martin so I said, “Right.”

Some fans screamed to us from the ticket-holders parking lot. I looked over and several were taking pictures with their phones. I waved.

Martin waved too and smiled. He said, “If you’re going to die at age thirty-five, professional sports is the best life ever. If you’re going to die at eighty-five, it’s the worst. The best life ever lived by anyone in any walk of life was Lou Gehrig.”





CHAPTER

43

I won the Doha tournament in Qatar to start the next calendar year. The Qatar ExxonMobil Open. The tournament drew top players and it was a solid win for me so I was surprised I didn’t feel more of an emotional lift.

Ana was with me. Qatar was one of the more fun destinations so she shifted her schedule for me and got to do some sightseeing, ride Arabian horses. I was physically beat up after the final so we celebrated the win with wine and room service in our hotel suite.

Ana said, “You look exhausted.”

Something a woman can say to a man but not the other way around. “I feel it,” I said.

She poured the wine. My back was killing me and I couldn’t sit comfortably. Bobby had given me a cortisone shot after the match but I was still in pain. Ana carried some pillows over then stood by me not knowing where to put them.

“I think the best position is if I just sit up as straight as I can.”

“This better not affect our sex life.”

“We’ll find a way.” In the morning Ana would fly back to New York and I would fly to Melbourne. “Or I’ll quit.”

She poured more wine. “You can’t quit now. I’m just beginning to enjoy being a tennis roadie.”

I smiled. “I’m almost done.”

She looked at me wondering if we were still joking or if I had turned serious. She said, “Don’t make tennis decisions based on me. Truly, I’m fine. I’m okay doing this for a while.”

This communicated a lot to me. The words and the tone. She loved me, but this was a system that wouldn’t last. Not more than a year or so. “Well, I’m almost done anyway. For lots of reasons.”

“You’re playing great tennis.”

“That stopped mattering to me. Playing great matters only when it makes you happy. Borg was playing great when he quit. He just stopped wanting to play anymore.” I drank my wine and tried standing up to relieve my back. “Maybe I’ve done everything I set out to do in tennis. I made it to number one, I won a major, I made plenty of money. I met you.” She was seated and I kissed the top of her head. “Now it’s drive for the sake of drive. More winning, more winning, build the résumé, the legacy. As my father would do it.”