Trophy Son(7)

The next month my tutor came over to the house—a retired history teacher from the Philadelphia public school system. He was old and smelled old. He talked slow and was boring as hell, and even then I knew this was a deliberate choice by Dad to head off any interest in academics that might have developed. But he was a nice, gentle guy and I liked him. His name was Ned. Boring.

I was so ready to love academics that Ned’s dryness didn’t matter much. We’d share reading lists and talk about books and the characters in them. All in all, we would have a nice time together.

Mom would check in on the lessons sometimes. She wanted to be there and be a part of it but didn’t know how. I could see her look of uncertainty when she’d open the door a quarter of the way to ask in a bright voice how we were doing, then her awkward expression during the expectant silence after our answer of just fine, then she’d step back and close the door like releasing a tent flap she’d been peeking through.

Ned was an avid tennis fan, though he admitted he was never much of a player himself. When we’d get together he’d ask about my last matches and my training and what I thought about the top pros. He’d come watch any of my matches that were local. He liked to follow my embryonic tennis career in a way that I appreciated.

“Good morning, Anton.” We sat across from each other in the dining room at a long rectangular table for twelve and we’d huddle in one corner by the sideboard table with the silver service tray on top.

“Hi, Ned.” I’d guess he was about seventy. His name was Mr. Billings but he insisted I call him Ned. I think he hated being called Mr. Billings all those years of teaching.

“I was excited to see this.” He pulled a copy of USTA Magazine from his leather messenger bag then slid it across the table to me. It was opened to the article on me and there was a picture of my face that took a third of one page. “Congratulations.”

I hadn’t seen it. We didn’t subscribe to USTA Magazine, or if we did, Dad didn’t let me see it. I was sure Dad wouldn’t want me to see this. I leaned over it. The words were all blurry because my eyes were focused on the photo.

It was a nice picture of me. I was looking right into the camera, my smile didn’t look forced. It looked as though I might be happy and unafraid. More than that, it was just me in the photo. Not me and Dad. A person who saw this photo and read this article might think, Here’s this impressive kid, doing it, making it happen.

I’d never thought of myself that way. Not really. I was always just doing what I was supposed to do, what I was told, which was always made very clear to me. I’d always thought of myself as carrying out instructions as though I were an appendage to someone else’s body.

This article made me feel like an independent force. There was no mention of Dad anywhere.

“Thank you,” I said to Ned.

“You really smoked them at that tournament.”

“I hope I can keep it up. That was the best I can play.” A lot of the kids I played were almost two years older but the toughest match came against a kid who was only six months older. Ben Archer. I already knew I’d be seeing a lot more of Ben Archer.

“You’ll get better and better,” said Ned. “You’re on the earliest part of the curve. It isn’t even steep yet.” Ned smiled. “Let’s start with some calculus.”

The only subject I liked was literature. I hated calculus but I liked my time with Ned. He was kind and treated me like a whole person, and it was something else to do.

Two weeks later I was at another satellite tournament in North Carolina. These are played at tennis centers, pretty small venues, not like the big stadiums you see on TV for the majors. From watching professional matches as a kid, I always had thought there’d be something of scale, something big, but there wasn’t. It was flat and sprawling. Aluminum bleachers by the courts, no buildings higher than two stories, nothing as big as a high school gym. The spectators usually had a professional connection to tennis or a family connection to a player or they just lived in the neighborhood down the street and thought it would make a fun afternoon to watch some decent tennis live. In North Carolina the tournaments offered sweet tea in an oversized thermos, a nice touch.

Security wasn’t a big deal at these things so players and spectators wandered the grounds intermingled. There were never paparazzi of any kind. My brush with the reporter at the last tournament had been my first ever.

Dad walked with me to the court entrance for my first-round match. It was sixty-five degrees, sunny, slight breeze, and the calm of the day matched the calm of the people milling around us. Everything felt pleasant.

The match schedule was published in advance. Two reporters with cameras were by the court entrance and stepped forward as Dad and I approached. They waved, smiled and raised cameras to take a few shots.

Dad went nuts, chopping at cameras with his hands and yelling, “Get the fuck out of here.”

Everyone was surprised by the suddenness and the sickness of his actions. I was surprised only by the suddenness. He must have harbored pent-up rage over the USTA Magazine article that he’d been given a chance to stop and didn’t.

Dad had a long wingspan and when he swung his arms like that he seemed even bigger, like an angry bear. As soon as the reporters came to their senses, they ran like hell. There were a couple of volunteer ushers nearby but no security and the whole thing was finished in five seconds. Once the reporters ran, the people near us watched Dad and me walk on the court like nothing happened.