The Players (19 page)

“Ready?” Fred called from the opposite end.

“Let ‘er come,” Mike said.

Fred Olney was not noted for the strength of his serve. Indeed, from Mike’s previous vantage point on the sidelines it had seemed a soft ball that no one should have much trouble returning. Tennis was one of those sports, like golf or pocket billiards, that the average man secretly feels he could master on a professional level with a few months’ intensive practice. Some such thought was in Mike Wilder’s mind as little Fred Olney tossed up a ball for his first serve.

The Aussie arched his back and swung. Racket met ball with a resounding
thwack
. Something small and pale streaked across the net, raised chalk at the service line, and thumped against the canvas backstop before Mike could move out of his crouch.

“Come on, wise guy,” he yelled, “ease up. That thing sizzled as it went by me.”

“Sorry, old cock,” the Aussie said, grinning. “I’ll slow the next one down for you.”

“I’ll appreciate it,” Mike said.

On the next serve Fred appeared to swing in slow motion, with a mere whisper as the racket stroked the ball. It floated into the air and over the net, giving Mike plenty of time to get into position where he would have a good whack at it. The ball hit the grass six feet in front of him and slightly to the right. Perfect. Mike swung the racket and hit nothing but air as the spinning ball bit into the grass and ricocheted off at a crazy angle. Mike could only shake his head as Fred Olney doubled up in laughter.

While a small group of onlookers snickered the little Aussie hit Mike another half dozen serves of varying speeds. Of these, Mike managed to get his racket on a total of one, pounding the ball straight down at his feet.

The results with ground strokes were much the same. Mike would bounce the ball once and sock it across the net, then watch helplessly as it came blazing back, humming with topspin, impossible for him to hit. Well before the half hour was up Mike was dripping sweat and gasping for breath.

“Freddy,” he said between gasps, “you look like you could use a rest.”

The little Aussie came around the net laughing. “Not as easy a game as you thought, is it, old cock?”

“You can say that again,” Mike admitted. His mind was already choosing the words he would use to describe the helpless feeling of the average man having tennis balls fired at him by a professional player. And a pro who seldom survived the early rounds in singles at that. His column might give second thoughts to a few armchair athletes who figured they were only a few lessons away from Forest Hills.

“Do you have a place to shower?” Fred asked.

“No, I’ll just towel off and drive back to my hotel.”

“I wish I could get you into the players’ dressing room, but they’re awfully stuffy about that.”

“So I hear,” Mike said. “I’d give a lot to get in there on a tournament day just to watch and listen. Be great material.”

Fred looked thoughtful. “You say you’d give a lot, eh. How about including a few of my mates in the free beer offer if I get you safely into the locker room tomorrow?”

“I’m probably crazy offering to set up brew for the whole Australian tennis team, but if you get me into the locker room it’s a deal.”

“There’s just a chance we might pull it off. One of our older blokes was supposed to play in the seniors division, but he’s had to cancel out. Came down with bloody pneumonia. I might be able to get his pass for you. I hope you’ll get some proper togs, though, and not that bloody underwear you’ve got on.”

“It’s worth a try,” Mike said. “And whether we make it or not, the invitation for you and your buddies stands.”

Mike left Fred Olney at the players’ dressing room and walked out and around the Centre Court stadium, heading for the parking lot. A knot of brightly dressed girls in their early teens waited by the gate where the cars picked up the players to take them back to their hotels. One of the girls in particular stood out. She could not have been older than fifteen, but her chest would have been the envy of many a topless dancer. Mike had seen her on opening day wearing a T-shirt that stretched across her abundant bosoms and bore the legend:
Timmy’s For Me!
Today the T-shirt had been replaced by another that read simply:
Jean-Pierre
. Each half of the hyphenated name bulged forward over a boob.

Ah, the inconstancy of youth, thought Mike. He wrapped the towel closer around his neck and continued out to the car.

Tim Barrett, too, had seen his former adoring fans switch their attentions to Jean-Pierre Leduc. Suddenly, nearing twenty, Tim felt quite old compared to the seventeen-year-old French player.

For Tim the defection of the teenyboppers was not a cause for great concern. Jean-Pierre would be more the type for that sort of thing. The dark-haired boy with his long-lashed Bambi eyes and flirtatious smile gave the little girls the kind of response they wanted. Tim had always been embarrassed by their giggling hero worship, and unnerved by their childish attempts at seductiveness. He was happy enough just playing his game and being left alone.

Still, the experience gave him a glimpse of how fleeting fame could be. The crowd that loved you on Monday could ignore you by Friday. It would be nice, Tim thought, to have someone who cared for him as a person, not as a tennis player. Somebody who would love him and stand by him even when his competitive days were past. Tim did not want to wind up alone like Vic Goukas.

This line of thinking brought him around to Christy Noone. Being with her made him feel like a whole flesh-and-blood person, and not merely an appendage to a tennis racket. He had hoped to spend this Friday evening with Christy, but she begged off, saying she had long-standing plans to see her brother who was in from Brighton for just the one day and she simply could not disappoint him. Tim was not happy about it, but felt better when Christy promised that for the rest of Wimbledon she was his alone.

The change in plans left him free to spend this evening with his parents, something he had not done since they arrived in London a week ago. Tim was not looking forward to it, but it would make his mother happy.

He took a cab from the modest hotel in Kensington where he and Vic stayed to the Regency House. When he arrived at his parents’ room on the third floor dinner service for three was already set up. Vic Goukas had been invited to join them, but the coach declined.

Jack Barrett met his son at the door and gripped his hand, pulling him inside and thumping his shoulder heartily. Tim’s mother hugged him and told him he looked thin. His father phoned for room service to bring up the food, and the three of them stood around feeling strangely ill at ease.

“Isn’t this elegant,” Fran Barrett said. “This is the first time I’ve ever had dinner served in a hotel room. I wish I could cook for us, but I guess this is the next best thing.”

“I was all for going out to a restaurant,” Jack said, “but your mother wanted to stay here. She thought it would be nice to have just the family together at least once while we’re over here.”

Tim nodded, pretending not to notice the reproach in his father’s tone.

“We’re having roast beef,” his mother said. “They had some fancier things on the menu, but I know you’ve always been a meat and potatoes eater like your father.”

“Roast beef will be fine,” Tim said.

There was a discreet knock at the door, and a waiter came in wheeling a cart on which were covered dishes of various sizes. The waiter served the food onto the plates and went out.

Tim and his parents sat down and began to eat. The food was a little overcooked, but still tasty.

“Well, I guess tomorrow the real action starts, eh, Tim?” Jack Barrett said. “Just the sixteen best players left.”

Oh-oh, Tim thought. Here comes one more expert opinion on what’s wrong with my game. He said, “That’s right, Dad.”

“What do you think your own chances are from here on?” Jack asked casually.

“I’ve got as good a shot as anybody.”

“That doesn’t sound as confident as the way you were talking a week ago.”

“Maybe I’ve grown up a little since a week ago.”

“Have some more gravy on your potatoes, Tim,” said Fran Barrett, trying as she always did to head off a potential clash between her husband and her son.

“Are you all right physically?” Jack asked.

“I’m fine.”

“I’ve been watching your play closely this week, son, and to put it bluntly, you’re lucky to still be in the tournament.”

“They’ve all three been tough matches,” Tim said, keeping his eyes on his plate.

“That’s what I’m talking about, they shouldn’t have been that tough. You normally beat players of that quality ten times out of ten, and from here on you start meeting the good ones. You’ve got to get your game together.”

“I know what I have to do, Dad. I’ll be all right.” Tim wanted to scream at the old man to for God’s sake stop it. From his opening match on Monday this was all he’d been getting from Vic, from reporters, and from people he didn’t know from Adam.
What’s wrong with your game, Tim?
What made people feel they had the right, the duty even, to criticize him? They seemed to look at him as a tennis-playing machine whose flaws, if any, could be corrected by some simple mechanical adjustment.

Christy Noone was the exception. She thought it was fun that he played tennis for a living, but she would probably think it was fun if he sold neckties. What was more, it didn’t seem to matter to Christy whether he won a match easily or just squeaked through. It probably wouldn’t even matter a lot to Christy if he lost.

Even as the thought flashed through Tim’s mind he rejected it. Losing was something you never allowed yourself to think about. This was what Tim had been taught as far back as he could remember. If you think about losing you
will
lose, and the world is made for winners.

“It’s your concentration,” his father was saying. “You haven’t got your mind on what you’re doing out there. You’ve played the game long enough to know you can’t afford to be daydreaming out on the court, Tim. Not if you expect to win.”

All right, all right, so it was his concentration. Tim didn’t need his father or his coach or anybody else to tell him that. For the first time in his life there were other things on his mind when he played tennis. To be precise, just one other thing—Christy Noone.

She was something new in his limited experience with girls, and Tim did not know how to take her. At first it was all frivolous fun, but after they had made love in her apartment Monday night Tim had thought there would be a marked change in their relationship. For his part Tim surely felt a new deep tenderness for the girl. He was even ready to call it love. Christy, however, acted as though nothing had happened. She was the same laughing, irrepressible fun-time girl as always. She had brushed aside all of Tim’s attempts to talk seriously about the two of them.

Now there was this business about going out with her brother tonight. If there
was
a brother. Tim forced the suspicion out of his mind. Even if it was true, he ought to have gained precedence over a brother.

“It’s clear to me that the girl is just not good for you.”

Tim started at the sound of his father’s voice, and realized he had missed some of what he’d been saying.

“What do you mean by that, Dad?”

“I don’t want to sound like an old-fashioned heavy father, but I know what I’m seeing out there on the court. The trouble with your game is that you’re too wrapped up with that girl, that Christy Noone.”

“Is there anything wrong with me liking a girl?” Tim said, making an effort to keep his voice level.

“Can’t we wait until after we’ve had dessert to talk?” his mother said.

“No, Fran, it’s best that we get this out in the open now,” Jack Barrett said.

Tim laid his knife and fork across the plate and met his father’s gaze.

“Son, this girl just isn’t the kind you should be seeing right now.”

“Oh? What kind of a girl is she, Dad?”

“Now hold on, Tim, I’m not accusing the girl of anything. She’s probably great at a party, but this isn’t a partying time of your life. She’s flighty, she’s frivolous, and she probably hasn’t a thought in her head deeper than what to wear tomorrow.”

“What if I told you I was going to marry Christy?” Tim said.

He sat back and watched the reaction. For a long moment his father and mother sat frozen in their chairs as though paralyzed by the news.

“You can’t mean it,” Jack Barrett said finally.

Tim let them sit there staring at him for several more seconds. Then he said, “I hadn’t really thought about it until just now, but maybe it’s not such a bad idea. I like her a lot, and she likes me. Keep that in mind if you’re going to say anything else about her.”

“I’m sure your father didn’t mean to sound harsh,” said Fran Barrett. “The girl did seem quite nice in her way. And, Timmy, you know that anyone you choose will be welcomed into our family.”

Jack Barrett said, “All I mean is that you ought to wait until after Wimbledon to have your, er, relaxation. Keep your mind on the game in the meantime.”

“Dad, I’m not a kid any more, and I wish you wouldn’t treat me like one.”

“Sometimes you act like a kid, damnit.”

Father and son locked eyes over the table. Jack Barrett was the first to look away. In a quieter voice he said, “I’m only thinking of you, son.”

Like hell you are, Tim thought. You’re thinking of the trophy room in your office and how impressed the clients will be if you can add the Wimbledon Cup.

He said, “It’s getting late. I’d better go.”

“It’s only eight, Timmy,” his mother said. “Couldn’t you stay a little longer?”

“He needs to get his sleep, Fran,” Jack Barrett said. “Tomorrow’s a big day.”

Tim said hurried goodbyes to his parents and as quickly as he could got out of the room and out of the hotel and down on the street where he could breathe again. This was the first time he had stood his ground in an argument with his father. The fact gave him no satisfaction. He wished he could talk freely and openly to his parents, tell them about the turmoil in his mind over his feelings for Christy Noone. But somehow they had never learned to talk together. The only subject they ever discussed comfortably was tennis. Now it seemed they couldn’t even do that.

Tim waved away a taxi that pulled up at the curb. It was too early to go back to his room. And he didn’t feel like talking to Vic Goukas; that would just be more analysis of his tennis game.

On an impulse he found a public telephone and dialed Christy’s number. No answer. Well, what did he expect? Damn her brother, anyway. Why couldn’t he have stayed in Brighton at least another two weeks?

The streets were crowded with Friday-night merrymakers. Tim wished he knew where the Australian players had gone tonight. He could enjoy himself with the Aussies and not be expected to contribute much to the conversation. However, finding them was out of the question. Every night they started at a different pub. They might stay at the first until closing, or they might go rollicking off into the night hitting one pub after another, depending on their mood.

There was no one else Tim wanted to be with. After walking aimlessly for a while he bought a ticket to a cinema showing a pair of American movies He went inside and sat down alone in the dark. A hell of a way, he thought, for a recent teenage idol to spend Friday night.