Trophy Son(64)

He looked old to me. Seated next to the fresh, young and pliant girls he looked old and pathetic. Desperate for their youth. I saw more fear in his eyes than I did in the timid and wondering eyes of the girls.

I remember video clips of Patrick Ewing running the floor in his last NBA season. He looked like a lame dinosaur and it hurt my own knees just to watch him. He was one of the greats but he’d stayed too long.

Darren looked the same to me. Not in any physical way, and he could still play great. Just that he was out of place. He shouldn’t have been here, but I knew why a guy like that stayed. Not the money. Not even the game. It was the lifestyle.

And that’s the irony. The sick truth of it, for any top player, for any child prodigy gone pro, for me and my relationship with tennis.

We hung on to this thing that crippled our humanity because now that our humanity was crippled, this thing was all that we believed could make us happy anymore.

I got cortisone shots about once a tournament. I could sit in one position about five minutes before my back would start to hurt. “Atom Bomb, you look bored,” said Adam.

“Just relaxing.”

Adam put more ice, vodka and soda in my glass while I held it. I pulled a long sip and thought about the differences over ten years. I used to live and travel with Dad, a late-teen player with promise, known to a few people deep in tennis circles. Now I was in an exclusive Manhattan lounge, perched on a sofa behind a square of red rope like a museum exhibit. I’d earned a fortune and millions of people knew my name, my face and something of my story. I was dating a famous actress. All enviable stuff.

People in that bar would be surprised to learn that I spent any time fearing what came next for me. But the fact is that every person is fighting a battle we might know nothing about. Minkoff helped me identify my battle years earlier. I was specialized. My battle was to be a whole man.

Adam had managed primitive, nonverbal communications with a great-looking girl who was loitering by the security guard. She came through the unclipped rope led by her breasts six inches ahead of the rest of her. Adam was delighted and fixed her a vodka cranberry. Her voice was breathy and affected like a 1940s Hollywood star.

I said a pleasant hello and was relieved when she shared our sofa on the other side of Adam so I could lean back in seclusion.

I thought to myself that all Americans should go out at the US Open. It was the last major of the season and it was New York City. A player should see it through to there, then retire.

I saw a T-shirt once that read “New York Fucking City.” That said it all.

I’d be twenty-nine by this year’s US Open. It seemed like the right time to do it. I’d stopped waiting for Ana and I could stop waiting for everything else just by deciding to make it so. I finished my drink with a second long sip and wondered if I’d feel the same after I woke in the morning, after I’d spoken with Ana. Were these decisions real or would these be like the vows of a drunkard?

In twenty minutes more I bid my friends good luck on their adventures and went home to meet Ana who would soon be there.

That night I slept well. I had fallen off before Ana got home from her play. In the morning we rolled on our sides to face each other.

“How was the play?”

“Almost entirely smooth for the first time. The kinks are out.”

“Good.” I took her hand. “My mind wandered into a couple decisions last night and I want to run two things by you.”

“Yikes.”

“Maybe. Hopefully not.” She was stretched long and sideways with her head resting in her hand supported by her elbow on the mattress and her eyes looked huge and beautiful. “I don’t need a yes, but I need to know these are not deal-breakers for you.”

“Still yikes.”

I laughed and sat up. “I want kids. Some day.”

“Okay.”

“Deal-breaker or not a deal-breaker?”

“Not a deal-breaker.”

I squeezed her hand. “That’s one. One to go.”

“So far, not yikes.”

“I want to retire at the US Open.”

“The one in one month or the one in thirteen months?”

“One month.”

“When your mind wanders, it doesn’t mess around.”

“It feels right.”

When I was on the tour I had little time for relationships outside tennis and people had to work harder to stay in my life. Panos did what he could but was mainly there as an example of what a happy life could be. Successful financial advisor, house in the suburbs, kid on the way, happy wife, good enough at tennis to win championships at the country club. Not for me, but not bad at all.

Ana didn’t say “And then what.” She knew I would go after whatever was the next thing and that for now we were together so we could go after it as partners and see if we could make our partnership work too. She said only, “Great. I’m in.”

I didn’t want a whole season with my retirement pre-announced, sentimental good-byes at each tournament. I wanted it quick like this. I called Gabe, Bobby, Adam, the only team I’d ever had as a pro, and I told them. Gabe called press contacts and told them. And so it was announced. Anton Stratis would be out of tennis by a week after Labor Day.





CHAPTER

45

Everyone I passed spoke to me that time at the US Open. Security guards, ushers, caterers, tour officials. They all said things like “This is your tournament, Anton,” “Get one more,” “Thanks for all the great tennis over the years.” It felt damn nice and made me think that a little bit of a child’s game is what a grown person needs. I touched a lot of lives and though I was only a diversion from their own battles, I touched them in a positive way.