Break Point Down Read online

  PO Box 221974 Anchorage, Alaska 99522-1974

  [email protected]—www.publicationconsultants.com

  ISBN 978-1-59433-111-4

  ebook 978-1-59433-173-2

  Library of Congress Catalog Card Number: 2009932628

  Copyright 2009 Marthy Johnson

  —First Edition—

  All rights reserved, including the right of

  reproduction in any form, or by any mechanical

  or electronic means including photocopying or

  recording, or by any information storage or

  retrieval system, in whole or in part in any

  form, and in any case not without the

  written permission of the author and publisher.

  Manufactured in the United States of America.

  Dedication

  to Ted

  Contents

  Dedication

  Chapter 1 Serve and Volley

  Chapter 2 The Qualifier

  Chapter 3 Double Fault

  Chapter 4 Match Point Down

  Chapter 5 Tiebreak

  Chapter 6 Advantage Kitt Buchanan

  Chapter 1

  Serve and Volley

  SLAM!

  It was five points away—get this one, then a couple of killer serves. A sizzler down the line.

  Moisture pearled down his forehead and soaked his shirt, and at nearly every point now the ball kids came running with a towel. He ritually wiped his face with his sweatband, siphoning another wrenching drop of power from his tortured arm and his burning legs. The hard court flamed under his feet, scorching the thick soles of his custom-made shoes. The footwear of champions, they called it. Like sticking your feet into boiling oil.

  Back to deuce. There was a rhythm to it, a sort of mythical pointlessness, like the guy pushing the boulder up the hill and having it roll back down every time he reached the top.

  Just this game, Buchanan. A little vacation wouldn't hurt, either. If he made this one—

  After five single-minded, sweating years in the tennis academy and on the pro circuit, it was within reach. He was at the top of his game with nearly flawless tennis, piling up aces and impossible returns. The Golden Slam was on his racket.

  He ran his wrist over his forehead, his sweatband sopping wet. Tension convulsed every fiber of him, and in the blazing heat each hair was a quivering thread of fire and ice. The crowd, empowering and threatening, hovered over and around him with bated breath, then retreated from his consciousness as he inhaled deeply, drawing oxygen into every hungering cell. He relished his grip on the racket. Between serves he stared at it, picking from time to time at the mesmerizing pattern of strings. He bounced the ball once, twice, three times, then looked up and began the ritual again. Once, twice, three times, four. Each twitching, cramping muscle stretched, then hardened. His hands throbbed with the energy of thousands of eyes willing him to win.

  Fifteen-love. Thirty-love. Forty-love.

  His body vibrated with racket and ball, and he listened for the swish of the wind in the strings. The rhythms, the sounds, the feel—there was music out there, songs and symphonies, blues and waltzes and chants. Flutes and violins at the net, and cymbals at the baseline. And now, there were trumpets and tubas marching in triumphant crescendos through these last moves to that shivering silence before the final drum roll.

  Ace.

  Game, set, match, championship. Slam. Handshakes, posing with the trophy, autographs. Security guards convoyed him through the crowds to the locker room. He dropped heavily on a bench.

  The radio in the locker room blasted a news bulletin. Two children killed in a crossfire between street gangs. Hunger in East Africa. Suicide bombing in Tel Aviv. AIDS numbers up. Ritual murders in Algeria. Roadside bombs in Iraq. Mass graves found near Kosovo. Another school shooting. Toddler thrown out of high-rise window by playmates. Fraud in the tobacco industry. A ten-point rise in child abuse.

  He was seventeen, a Golden Slam to his name. The future was dazzling.

  They were all there, his coach, his weight trainer, his fitness trainer, and his hitting partner, even his stringer. Everybody explaining his part in the victory to anyone within shouting distance. His agent, Rick Sargent, eyes big with neon dollar signs, and his sports psychologist, nodding wisely and acting as though he had hit the winning ace—and Jeff, his brother and manager. The whole entourage thumping him on the back, talking, laughing, shouting. Around him swirled questions, congratulations, the exuberance of his handlers who'd scored the big one. Someone pushed at him to get into the shower, to change his clothes, to get ready for more interviews, more autographs, more— To be able to go away now, to just think about this moment, this match, the moves, the good points, the way it felt. Alone, in the mountains, in the desert, on a lonely beach. Jeff and Rick already had him booked for the late-night shows, the banquet. No hike any time soon.

  Dazed and a little desperate, he buried his face in his hands.

  Is this all there is?

  You couldn't duck the interviews with the endless questions, some of them no-brainers, most of them old. How big is this win? Keep a thesaurus in my locker. You have a 6-0 record against this guy. Did you base your game plan on that? Gotta remember that idea.

  He was at the top of the pro tour. Write-ups in the magazines. Photo sessions, endorsements, talk shows. Commentators analyzing his game, speculating on his head, his hands, his future. Inane interviews, demanding wit and wisdom because of a fiery forehand. Exhibitions and guarantees—the never-ending money hunt. Jeff kept telling him they needed to take advantage of these golden years. Better humor him. Jeff knew the business, he made the decisions. He'd made sacrifices and it was time for payback. But he didn't have to be Jeff.

  Good hours on court made up for a lot. And the hikes, far from everybody. Sloshing through mud, sliding off rocks, struggling up with all he had, and cooling off in the waters tumbling down from the cliffs. Wind swirling around his aching head. Rain in his face. He loved wind. Hot desert winds and cool sea breezes, and the kind of gale that made you strain every muscle to stay on your feet.

  He made his token appearance at Jeff's private posttournament party for his friends. Command performance. You got over it. These were Jeff's steady companions at the tournaments, at the posttournament celebrations, at the clubs, and on the golf courses. Not a dreamy-eyed idealist in the lot. Leaders and front-runners. They oozed money.

  Over cocktails Jeff grinned at his guests. After a delicious meal they were toying with drinks in supreme contentment. A congenial group, tennis buffs all. Jeff sure was in his element hosting the exclusive little victory banquet. Kitt grimaced when his brother slapped him on the back.

  “I can't get over that last match. Think about it, Kitt, you could go on like this for fifteen years.”

  “Seventeen years old and you've broken 155 miles per hour, nine slams. What's coming next?”

  “What do you think, Jeff? Another Golden next year? And the year after that?”

  “Wouldn't be surprised.”

  “Got girls eating out of your hand, do you Kitt?”

  He shrugged irritably, and went off to the buffet while the conversation rumbled on behind his back.

  “He's young. Pretty cute. Famous. Rich. You're telling me there aren't any girls in his life?”

  “He's an idealist who thinks noble thoughts. Girls are not on his mind for now.”

  “They will be. Take my word for it.”

  “He's pretty naive.”

  “Some cutie is gonna wind him right around her little finger. The innocent look will bring in the vultures. Someone's going to pitch him some glamor and sex and bank on having college paid for. You better keep an eye on it.”

  “Nah. T
hat approach wouldn't work with him.”

  “They'll find the approach that does work with him.”

  The way they talked, you'd think he wasn't even here.

  “Anybody want to take a long guess—three in a row?”

  “I'm in.”

  “I like his net points. With that wing span, he isn't missing any. How tall is he, Jeff, six four or five?”

  “Six five, I think. Haven't measured him recently. He could be six six by now. We feed him good.”

  “Be an interesting guess. Prizes, endorsement money, appearance fees per year.”

  Kitt gave the group death looks and refilled his plate. In passing, he shot a pleading look at Jeff, who shook his head. Kitt rolled his eyes and sat in a corner feeling awkward.

  Laura hadn't come back east for the tournament this year, but it wouldn't have helped anyway. She'd have been right in there doing the hostess bit and loving every minute. Jeff had shown him the diamond necklace with matching earrings he'd bought for her, and the T-shirts for Kari because they just came in small, medium, and large, and he didn't have to keep track of sizes.

  He was glad when people started leaving.

  Before Davis Cup Kitt managed a few days at home. He had his driver's license now and his first truck, and Jeff obliged him by driving it to the airport to pick him up. Later at the house he called out for Kari.

  “How about helping me unpack this bag? It's getting heavy!”

  Picture books about puppies for Kari, who loved dogs and wasn't allowed to have one, and a cuckoo clock because she was learning to tell time. She was all over him, laughing and hugging him.

  “You're spoiling her rotten, Kitt,” protested Laura, but her tone was indulgent.

  Jeff came in from his den.

  “I need Uncle Kitt for a minute,” he said cheerfully, waving off Kari's protest. “Can you take a look at my computer? I can't seem to get into some of my files.”

  He had little trouble finding Jeff's lost files and cleaning up the hard drive. He clicked on the icon and the file popped up on the screen, a sort of spreadsheet affair with column after column of numbers. Kitt glanced at it, then did a double take.

  “Hello–what is this stuff, anyway? Aces, UE's, bagels, break points—”

  “Just a log of your matches. Some day you may want to write your memoirs. Or I might.”

  “Yeah, right. And we put in the stats from every match I ever played. Should be fascinating reading.”

  “Just background data. Come on, let's go.”

  After a while he took Kari swimming in the pool by the lower end of the terrace. She dove into the deep end and came up giggling, her dark eyes lighting up. A kaleidoscope, he thought. Bits and chips of light and color. Dad's eyes. The warmest brown with shattered sunshine. Diamond dust.

  In the evening, after Kari had gone to bed and visitors had left, Jeff, Laura, and Kitt sat by the pool. A blow-up toy quivered on the water in the evening breeze. Laura stretched luxuriously.

  “The papers have given you a lot of space, Kitt. Your name is all over the newsstands.”

  “For a day or two.”

  “Nonsense.” Jeff rubbed his hands. “You're in the tennis history books. They're saying you're the best ever.”

  “They say that every year about somebody.”

  “You've worked long and hard for this. Now you're there.”

  “I guess I'm tired.”

  “Of course you are. But Kitt, the commentators think no one will touch your ranking for years. That puts us in the driver's seat. The management companies are going to bid against each other for you come time to renew. We can write our own ticket. I can get you just about anything you want in the way of contracts if you keep this up. And there's no reason why you shouldn't. I'm telling you, Kitt, we're cruising!”

  Tennis, packages for Kari, endorsements of watches, health foods, and athletic shoes. He was a tennis player. A good tennis player. Who knows, maybe the best, for now. Was the whole anything like the sum of its parts?

  “I guess I'll get some sleep. Haven't had much since the Open.”

  Jeff laid his hand on his brother's shoulder. “You're exhausted, kid. You need to relax for a few days before Europe. There's still a lot of tennis to play before Christmas.”

  “I was thinking of getting out for a few days. Maybe hit the trails upstate. A good hike—”

  “It'll have to wait, Kitt. Rick's coming in day after tomorrow. Time for business. Calendar, endorsements, that sort of stuff. And the ROCA banquet. That's a must.”

  “You go. You like'em.”

  “They want you. Got to humor the sponsors. They're the ones who pay you the big bucks. And Kitt, dress right, will you? Maybe I'd better order you a couple of suits.”

  “I don't need more suits.”

  “Yes, you do. You've been growing again.”

  “I could have a garage sale with my suits and feed an orphanage.”

  “Kitt, you've got to get a solid footing while you can. Now, next week you have an exhibition in—”

  “No way. Not an exo!”

  “You've got a commitment. Your name's on the dotted line.”

  “Wonder who put it there. That power-of-attorney thing again?”

  “Kitt, be reasonable. I know they don't count for your ranking, but they give you exposure, and the money is right.”

  “It's always about money, isn't it.”

  “You don't deal with the headaches. Believe me, your expenses—”

  “Yeah, yeah, yeah. The more I make, the more I need. Expenses go up. Percentages go up. Taxes go up. And of course, I'm not a CPA and I can't understand the finer points of high finance. But never fear, I have you to sign my name to matches I don't want to play.”

  “It's your chance to show up Kurt.”

  “Who cares? Exos are a joke.”

  “You have no sense about money. I know what it costs to run this show, and I know what it takes to bring it in. A lot of people depend on you.”

  “That one's getting old real fast.”

  Scalding water soaked the lingering soreness from his muscles. A lot of people depend on you. Sure they did. They depended on his forehand and his serve and his volley. It wasn't his wisdom they craved, and it wasn't his sparkling personality. The input people wanted from him came off his racket.

  Jeff was playing the angles again. If they could just work together instead of having Jeff make decisions and expect him to suck it up. Jeff had played rather well himself, but not well enough to break into the pros. In a way he was fulfilling Jeff's dream.

  So at fourteen he'd gone professional. Private tutors, tour schooling, correspondence courses. Odd man out at the tennis academy—respected because he could blow any of them off the court, but not part of much else. Nothing ugly or hostile, just this feeling on all sides that you weren't on the same planet. Two years ago at Wimbledon he'd become the number one player in the world. Two majors that year, and three the year after. Now a Slam—why wasn't he higher than a kite?

  He adjusted the temperature controls, felt revitalized by the stinging cold jets pummeling his body. Afterward, he sat on the window sill, staring out into the sparkling night. More than anything he wanted to get away, to wander alone through the mountains. Go see Danny or Dimitri. Not a chance with Rick coming. Life to Rick was signing contracts and making money and investing it and making more money and investing more of it. How much would be enough?

  He stretched out on the bed. Apologize to Jeff first thing in the morning. My only family, and he's been knocking himself out for me for years. I'm being a jerk.

  He remembered the day of the crash, Mom and Dad dying, and Jeff flying in to be with him. They'd sat in the small room at the hospital together. It's going to be all right, Kitt. I'll be here.

  Sleep didn't come as the sounds of the night drifted into his room, chirping and tapping and whispering. He strained to hear, listening, as he had since he was a little boy, for the messages he'd always hoped to hear in t
he stillness of the night. The answers.

  Soothing cool air feathered his burning eyelids. Now and then the tinkling of the wind chimes on the terrace drifted in through the open windows. Was this the life for him? This compartmentalized life with coaches and trainers and agents managing his tournament schedule, his playing style, his on-court strategy against different players, his conditioning, his practices, his daily routine. Jeff running his finances and his personal life. Laura dictating his social image. All of them happy as long as he met their expectations and their expansion plans. Conditioning, strength training, running, hitting balls, studying tennis videos, discussing game plans, analyzing opponents, boarding airplanes, and checking into and out of hotels—a business asset, a patented product.

  But the thrill of balls popping off his racket, the feel of a clay court slide, the odd bounces at Wimbledon, or the speed of a hard court—that was real. The pain of the ultimate stretch for an overhead; outrunning his feet and getting to a ball he should have missed. Wind swishing in his racket as he powered a serve down the center T or out wide against the sideline. The matching of wits and speed at the net. The rush of adrenaline that erased agony and pushed back his boundaries ever farther, until finally he felt free, able to fly—then nothing could go wrong, and everything he touched turned to gold. The zone. Victory then had nothing to do with trophies or rankings, and applause became meaningless. It was the triumph over restraints, a reach for physical and spiritual rapture.

  How could a game reach into spirituality? Try to capture the thought and you got trapped in words, but it was there as the world vanished and his exertion reached a near-paralyzing peak. The times when he was able to step beyond that, to shed all pain and pettiness and watch himself, as in slow motion, transcend the physical. There were no doubts then about God, and in those fleeting moments he'd known Him. There were many other dimensions yet to explore before that brief touching with divinity could grow into something more than a moment of ecstasy.