Trophy Son(63)

“You’re very different from your father.”

“But I’ve internalized him as my tormentor. This wasn’t what I chose, but here I am on my own and choosing it, every day, pushing myself as hard as he did.” I twisted and untwisted my spine in a stretch. “At least I’m doing the pushing, it’s a willful act, but what does that say about me?”

“That you’re a champion, that you demand excellence of yourself. There’s nothing wrong with that. Your father pushed you into tennis so you made the most of it, and you’ll make the most of whatever you decide to do next.”

“Maybe I’m becoming the monster. I’m my own monster now, and what if I have a son or a daughter? And I’m irreparably a monster?”

I felt certain I would not push my imagined kids too hard but be kind and loving and if anything would overcompensate and be too soft. But maybe it would be an instinct I couldn’t resist or even identify, like people who complain about angry soccer sideline parents and then become them. Ana said what I’d hoped she’d say. “That’s outrageous.”

“Maybe not.”

“If you want to quit because winning tournaments doesn’t make you as happy as it used to, then fine. But don’t quit because you think you’re transforming into a beast.”

I hadn’t had the same feeling about tennis since I’d come back from the suspension. This was the same period when Ana and I had gotten together so it was hard to know if the change was due to the time away or if Ana had given me a window to what a life away from tennis could be, or if it was just that I was in more physical pain at that age.

My world ranking was back up to four. The next spots were always the hardest to make up but I wanted to do it. I wanted to get to number one or win another major, then say good-bye.





CHAPTER

44

I finally had some time in my New York apartment before travelling to play Cincinnati. Ana was also in New York but her new play was running four weeks of preview performances at the Ethel Barrymore on Broadway before opening night so she was there every evening.

I went to the downstairs bar at the Gramercy Hotel with some other players who were decompressing for a few days in the city. Adam came with us. Some of the big-name female players would travel with security but on a social night I was always fine if just a few friends came along for insulation.

The downstairs at Gramercy was a huge, open square room with comfortable chairs and sofas that created different conversation pods. Security at the door was selective about the people they let inside but they knew we were coming and one of the guys in a suit and earpiece led Adam and me back into the bar lounge.

Darren Rose was one of the guys meeting us. He was thirty-six, one of the oldest on tour, and still a top doubles player. He’d always been a doubles specialist. Big guy, about 6'6", big serve, monster at net. He had blond surfer hair that took a few years off his appearance and he could pass for Laird Hamilton. Darren was with Toby McInerny, another doubles player.

They were sitting in a square with three sofas that had been cordoned off by the same red velvet rope used outside. The enclave made a spectacle of us but gave us a buffer. A hotel security guard unclipped the rope from a corner post and waved us in. There were about a hundred people in the room outside our square watching us.

“Come in, gentlemen,” said Darren. He gestured to a coffee table in the middle of the sofas where he’d ordered bottle service. There was a liter of Ketel One vodka, carafes of orange juice, cranberry, club soda and a bowl of lemons, limes and orange wedges.

“Don’t mind if I do,” said Adam.

We sat and Adam made two vodka sodas for us.

“Where’s your super-hot girlfriend?” said Darren.

“Working. Directing a new play she wrote.”

“She might have had the courtesy to send a few friends in her stead.” Darren liked to talk smart, as though it was a skill and benefit that came with being thirty-six.

There were several very good-looking girls, and maybe some hookers, watching our group. “I don’t think you’ll have any trouble tonight.”

“I guess not,” said Darren. He looked over at two girls in miniskirts who had been looming by our red rope. They were attractive enough to reasonably expect an invitation in, and Darren said, “Ladies, come have a drink.” He nodded to the security guard who unclipped the rope then clipped it again behind them. They slotted into the sofa with Darren and Toby and paired up easily as though all were following stage direction. Toby fixed four new drinks then each girl nestled under the wing of a doubles player.

“Don’t let me hold you back,” I said to Adam. He knew I wouldn’t mess around on Ana, nor did I want a photo of a girl on my arm to go around the Internet.

“I’d like to have a drink or two first.” He clinked my glass. “To Cincinnati.”

“Don’t remind me.”

I looked at Darren. I liked him. He was one of those guys with a big personality, always smiling, always having fun, always with something to say, never complaining. He was harmless. Unless you were a girl who expected things might end differently. Or you were the husband or boyfriend of the girl. I suppose the thing is he meant no harm.

But I saw him differently in that moment, past the surfer hair and the still-hard muscles of a professional athlete. I saw for the first time the wrinkles around his eyes and mouth, his worry, regret, as though the oils of his Dorian Gray painting were oozing back into him.