Break Point Down Read online

  Mateo had it right. He knew where he was going. He was the champion.

  Wynne laughed when he told her about it.

  “He's not as naive as I thought,” she said. “Nice ploy to get gifts for the kid.”

  “This is not about money. Mateo is my friend.”

  “He knows how to pick ‘em.”

  “Knock off the cynicism, Wynne. Don't you have any friendships without strings?”

  “Believe me, the godfather business has strings. The religious part of that racket has gone out of style a long time ago. But the Catholics keep it alive.”

  “You got something against Catholics?”

  “They're not the most enlightened species. They pray to statues, for heaven's sakes.”

  “Come on, Wynne, they don't pray to statues. You want to know what Catholic symbolism stands for, ask a Catholic.”

  “You'll admit they have a yen for the medieval. Like this godfather thing. And all the ritual.”

  “Just because it's not mainstream Protestant doesn't mean it's wrong.”

  “I am no mainstream Protestant. I just think these superstitions are archaic.”

  “I see.”

  “I don't think you do.”

  “Does it matter?”

  “Yes, it does. I don't like your tone. And I want you to understand where I'm coming from.”

  “I'm just asking you not to make fun of Mateo's beliefs. That's all.”

  “He can worship the sun and the moon for all I care. You act like I'm a bigot.”

  “I'm sorry. What are you, anyway?”

  “If you're talking about religion, I'm not tied down to any church.”

  “What about the Bible?”

  “What about it? Superstition. Literature. Mostly legend. Not to mention a hefty shot of manipulation. Stuff from primitive times that has nothing to do with today.”

  “You've read it, then.”

  “What is this, a righteousness test? I don't accept any book as the last word in right and wrong, least of all a stack of outdated sermons. It's a suspect document.”

  “I'm suspending judgment. There's a lot in there I don't get. I guess cultures don't translate easily. It gets a little hard to follow. Some parts put me off, and others are—I don't know, inspirational maybe. Then, too, there are so many translations you wonder who got it right.”

  “I didn't know you even read that kind of stuff.”

  “It's on my list of things to figure out.”

  She shrugged impatiently.

  “Simple, rational thinking should settle that question.”

  “Logic, observation, reasoning—that's what I've always believed in. But don't you ever wonder if the only way to get at truth is through the intellect?“

  ”A medium perhaps.”

  “No, seriously. Think about the extrasensory, intuition. The sense of right and wrong people have, conscience maybe. What do I call it—a connection with the universe. Some spiritual reality—not the occult. Faith, even. Who knows what all is out there.”

  “I set a whole lot more store by scientific discovery than by voodoo.”

  “Perhaps if we broadened our perception to include the spiritual—”

  “That's what has always been wrong. Subjective scientists and incorrect premises. The minute you bring emotions into it you pollute the scientific process.”

  “Not emotion—spirit. What we call science is just that little part of what's out there that we've got a grip on. And our perceptions of the laws of nature change all the time, even though the laws don't.”

  “We get closer and closer.”

  “But even if we had some little piece of absolute and eternal fact, discovered exclusively through the scientific process—would that invalidate what we haven't yet explained? These laws of the physical world, the ones we recognize— they're part of something bigger. The spiritual may be subject to scientific laws just like the physical. Perhaps the only reason we call it nonscientific is that we don't know enough. There's a lot more out there. There must be.”

  “Because you say so? Why waste your time speculating on something you can't prove?”

  “I can't see myself, or you, or anybody, as just the meaningless end product of random chemical processes. I can see those processes as vehicles, as circumstances, but not as the substance of everything we are.”

  “Going fundamentalist on me?”

  “One of the few things I don't question anymore is that spirit is real. I don't believe we can work out all the answers with just a left-brain effort.”

  “Better than the superstitious crap of TV preachers.”

  “They don't have an exclusive on tunnel vision. Just imagine it, Wynne, an unbiased, integrated effort to get at knowledge, with each approach supporting and drawing on each of the others—isn't it exciting to even think about?”

  “So you think there is such a thing as universal truth some supernatural being doles out to those who pray hard enough. Or pay hard enough.”

  “Apart from the sarcasm—I don't know. I've been round and round about it in my head, and I try to read about it from all angles, but I just don't know.”

  “Let's leave it at that. Where do we eat?”

  “You pick the place.”

  It was stupid to get into this with Wynne. He'd tried Jeff, and now Wynne, and Mateo. Jeff got annoyed and Wynne sarcastic, and Mateo started from an alien set of beliefs. The only fragile beginnings of answers had come from inside. If truth didn't connect you with the rest of the world, what would?

  Time became a blur of airports and hotels, matches, interviews, commercials, and running forehands. Winning was a routine. He went out on the court expecting to win, and did, in less and less time. His entourage included no one with whom he had anything to talk about except tennis. Mateo had a bad year that dropped him in the rankings, and Kitt saw little of him. Danny, too, had been ousted in the early rounds of the majors. Dimitri Romanov, a Russian rival he'd become friends with, was out injured for much of the year. Talks with Jeff went nowhere Kitt wanted to be, and Kitt felt lonelier than he had in his entire life.

  “I don't understand you,” Jeff told him irritably. “You've got everything. You're rolling in cash. The take is bigger every week, every month. You're twenty-two and you're making more than thirty mil per year. You are top-ranked and you will be for a long time to come. What do you have to be down about?”

  Two years later, looking back on yet another fabulously successful year on the courts, a fourth Golden Slam all but assured, Kitt urgently considered his agonizing options.

  During the first day of the tournament a hurried meeting was called in the locker room. A somber-faced tournament director announced that Mateo Villaflores, the number twenty-three player in the world, had been mugged while jogging near his hotel.

  Kitt was stunned.

  The next evening Kitt and Danny received permission to spend a few minutes with him. They left the hospital a half hour later. No, Mateo would never play tennis again, doctors had said. He might not walk, even. They were otherwise guardedly optimistic. A young man, in top shape. He could pull through.

  But he didn't. Early the next morning came the announcement. Mateo Villaflores had taken a turn for the worse during the night and had suddenly died. For Kitt, the tragedy brought back in barbed contours the memories of twelve years ago, when a drunken driver had reshaped his world.

  Mateo had been planning another year on the tour before settling down, having a couple more kids. His eyes had lit up when he'd talked about Marisa and the children they'd raise together, about the rolling meadows on his dream ranch with its horses and fruit trees. Kitt thought of Mateo's rock-solid faith, his friendship, and his simplicity, remembered Mateo going home from a tournament with the quarter-finalist's check in his pocket, supremely content with his achievement. Neither his happiness nor his self-esteem had been tied up in his racket. Over and over Kitt repeated the words to himself. Mateo was dead.

  There would be no ra
nch, no play with the kids. Nothing. How long did you go through the preparations for life before you started living? Is there a God? Mateo believed it with all his heart. Why did you let this happen?

  All the future you had was now.

  Jeff made awkward attempts at comforting Kitt, trying to conceal his concern over his brother's ability to play world-class tennis so soon after this blow. But Kitt was calm. To questions from reporters he made brief answers and he refused to be interviewed about his friend.

  He had a talk with Jeff the evening of the semis, after a brilliant three-setter in which he destroyed the French challenger. He stopped at his brother's hotel room before turning in.

  Over a can of juice, he once more stated his plans.

  “You're not serious!”

  Not an idle phrase, thought Kitt. Jeff never took him seriously. Neither did the others. Not Zack, when he talked to him the next day. Not Les, who was getting ready to enjoy the match. And not Rick, whose mind was toying with deals and dollars. Dave only half-listened, impatient to see the match. The assistant coach talked strategy and spoke soothingly to him. Les was loading up his bag with drinks and food, and nodded indulgently. Rick patted him on the shoulder and told him everything was going to be just fine.

  “You need some down time. Just wait till after this one. We'll cancel Germany. Take it easy for a while. Go to the champs dinner, do a couple of the shows. Then head for the mountains for a few days.”

  Zack came back in with Jeff in tow and his brother's conciliatory tone rankled Kitt. He never listens.

  “Schedule getting to you, Kitt?”

  He looked up from where he was rummaging through his bag and glared at his brother.

  “The way they screwed up the schedule again here—not even twenty-four hours between the semis and the final. Go hiking for a few weeks. You're still hurting over Mateo. It's a miracle you've been doing so well with all that. Just go out and get this one for Mateo, just one more match. Get out there now.”

  He walked out heavy-hearted, oblivious of the deafening ovation that greeted his arrival on Arthur Ashe Court. Playing Kurt in the finals gave him at least a partial outlet for his rage. The crowds thundered applause as he hit the ball harder than ever, his cross-court passing shots ripping across the net too fast for the eye to see, his backhand down the line carving a groove down the white paint. The ball was Kurt's face when he heard of Mateo's death; it was the delinquents who had so lightly taken Mateo's life; it was the drunk who had smashed into his parents’ car twelve years ago. He knew no fatigue, no limits as he dived for flat balls out of his reach, somehow getting his racket on them for another slice, some streaking around the side of the net, kissing the far corner for another impossible point. Hopelessly outplayed, Kurt could only stare incredulously at the projectiles whizzing by, without a prayer of getting them back. Kitt was in a frenzy as he ran down every ball, smoked every serve.

  There were moments when he wanted to drag it out, maybe give away a few games or a set, to savor a bit longer the safe feel of the court, of a Grand Slam final, the sound of thousands of spectators taking in a quick breath as he prepared to serve. Another ace tore by his opponent. A linesman picked up the ball and held it up in disbelief, then gave it to the referee. It was torn.

  Kitt was beginning to feel melancholy, relishing the brilliant winners that seemed to roll off his racket so effortlessly now, and it was no time at all before he arrived at triple championship point. He got ready to serve, then stepped back, staring at his feet, trying to regain his composure. Tears burned behind his eyelids. The stadium grew quiet as spectators watched him, puzzled. A low hum rumbled around the stands. Kitt clenched his teeth and took some deep breaths. Encouraging chants began to come from the stands.

  “Smoke ‘m, Kitt! You can do it!”

  He looked up, slowly scanning the crowds.

  “Go, Kitt, go Kitt!”

  The shouts grew louder as spectators got to their feet and began a rhythmic European-style clapping. Fists were shaken, and cheers whistled around the court. The referee spoke into the microphone, urging the crowd to be quiet. Gradually, people sat back down, and the roar died down to a low buzz.

  “Time, Mr. Buchanan,” warned the chair.

  He still couldn't move. He shivered, and for a few moments no one was there and he stood alone in perfect stillness, the crowds and his opponent and the match receding from his consciousness as he listened and listened. Finally he raised his head, as his body came back to life muscle by muscle.

  “Mr. Buchanan, time violation.”

  An eerie quiet descended on the crowd. A time violation on championship point, on Golden Slam point. People shrugged and raised their eyebrows. Kitt Buchanan breathed deeply and took up his stance at the serving line.

  A 164-mile-per-hour ace, his new record, carved the corner of the service box. Dazed, Kurt met him at the net. A triple bagel.

  His fury spent, he sank down in his chair, his face in a towel, and wept. He wept for Mateo, for Mom and Dad, for the lonely years and the many goodbyes, and more to come.

  Game, set, match, championship, Buchanan. U.S. Open champion. Winner of another Golden Slam, four of them now. No one near him in the rankings. It didn't get much better than that.

  “Way to go, Kitt! Number five next year?”

  He looked around the room full of reporters.

  “Uh, no,” he said, suddenly emotional and not at all like himself, he thought. Questions hummed around him as so much background, and he stood staring down, making no attempt to hear. A hush fell upon the room.

  Kitt raised his head. Reporters, camera crew, tour officials, coaches. Get it over with. The promise of a smile began to twitch at the corners of his mouth.

  “No number five,” he said. “This is it for me. I'm retiring from competition.”

  Chapter 2

  The Qualifier

  The stunned silence lasted only seconds, and the hailstorm of questions pelted his brain. Cameras flashed as he talked calmly into the microphone. A reporter in the back held up her hand. He nodded at her.

  “Are you burned out?”

  “No. Just ready to move on.”

  “Kitt, does this decision have anything to do with Villaflores?”

  “No.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yes.”

  After a few more minutes, he held up his hand, smiling.

  “That's it, okay? I have nothing more to say.”

  It was twenty minutes before he could manage his exit.

  Looking like a deposed triumvirate, Zack, Dave, and Rick waited for him outside the press room. Tired, Kitt parried some questions.

  “I did talk to you guys about it. Last year. Last month. Last week. This morning.”

  “All right, maybe you did. Still, you sort of hit us with this—“

  “I'll make it all right with you guys. Jeff will set up arrangements so everybody has plenty of time to get resituated.”

  “Kitt, this is stupid! What do you think—”

  “Can we talk tomorrow, guys? I'm really not up for it tonight.”

  ”Just give it a little more thought, Kitt. Let's meet again in a week. Two weeks maybe. Get some rest and see if you feel the same. I'll square things with everybody.”

  “Rick, I've told you before. This is not something that hit me in the middle of last night. At first I thought I'd just keep playing tennis till I'm too old to win the big ones. But the time is right now.”

  “Kitt, you're wiped out with all that's been going on. When you get rested, you'll realize you have commitments to sponsors, to fans, to tennis itself. A lot of people depend on you.”

  “Do I owe them my life?”

  “All right, all right. We're a little shell-shocked, you know. I'm sure we can work it out.”

  ‘I'll call you, okay?”

  Rick thumped him on the shoulder.

  “Sure, kid. Don't worry about a thing. We'll talk later.”

  He walked back to
his locker, rummaging around as he prepared to leave the building for the last time. In the far corner an agitated conversation was going on, and he felt suddenly a little sorry for Dave, although he had no further commitments to him, and even for Rick.

  He stepped into the mellow light of early evening, leaving behind him the angry voices, the pleading, the appeals, and the guilt trips. This was right.

  Grim-faced, Jeff sat at the wheel of the waiting white Ferrari. Kitt stopped by the rolled-down driver's window, waiting for his brother to say something.

  “Follow me to the hotel. We're going to have a chat about your little bombshell.”

  “You act as though this was a surprise.”

  “It wasn't?”

  “Not if you ever listened to me. Apart from all the other times I've brought it up in the past year, I told you after Wimbledon and again two days ago at the hotel. You couldn't have been that shocked.”

  “Shocked? Why should I be shocked? My brother just threw my life out the window, but hey, win a few, lose a few, right?”

  “Oh, of course. I'm leaving you broke.”

  “Stick with things you know about.”

  “Good, I will. I'm leaving for a few days. We can get together right after, if you want—”

  The veins on Jeff's forehead seemed about to pop and his voice shook with rage.

  “No, I don't want! I want to talk with you now, tonight. You owe me that much.”

  He shrugged.

  “I'll be at your hotel room tomorrow before I leave. Eight okay?”

  “You owe me some explanations now, tonight!”

  “I owe you?”

  “Yes, me! I'm the one who got you where you are! I mortgaged my house and sold my BMW so you could go to the academy. I sold you to the sponsors, I coached you for the commercials. I gave up my whole career for you.” He cursed. “I didn't ask to be your daddy. I made a lot of sacrifices so you could amount to something, and no way are you going to screw me now. Without me, you're nothing!”