Break Point Down Read online

  The unsecured ends of fencing wire snagged his jacket as he leaned against the broken-down partition. He wondered at these kids, seriously playing a sport they couldn't afford, in a neighborhood where walking down the street was a risk.

  On impulse, he walked up to the coach.

  “I'd like to help.”

  She surveyed him suspiciously.

  “You play tennis?”

  “Used to.”

  “I don't know. I'd have to know something about you. I can't just let you walk in here and—”

  “What do you want to know?”

  “Sort of a security check, I guess.”

  “Okay. So what is this program you're running?”

  “Strictly unofficial. We have sort of a silent noninterference agreement with the city. They pretend they don't know we're playing here, and we don't ask for maintenance or insurance or anything.”

  “Isn't the location a little risky?”

  “Yes and no. They used to have a lot of trouble here, so the warehouse owners got together and now they have armed security guards here every night. It keeps the druggies away, and they don't mind us.”

  “Ever tried to get a JTL program started here?”

  “What's JTL?”

  “Junior Tennis League. It's aimed at the inner cities. You can check it out on the Internet.”

  “How come you know so much?”

  “I just like tennis.”

  “You may be perfectly all right, but I can't take chances. You know how it is.”

  “Sure. Tell me what you want to know. How often do you do this, anyway?”

  “We practice three times a week, more during vacations. I encourage them to practice on their own every day.”

  “Cool.”

  “I'll let you help a little right now, but if you want to come back I'd have to do some checking.”

  “I can answer some questions after you're done today. How would you check on me?”

  “I don't know. I guess I'd have to find that out, too. For now, let me see what you can do for those two—they're working on their serve. We'll talk afterward.”

  He picked up a racket, and shook his head. Nobody could seriously expect to hit a ball with this abomination. Not because it was outmoded. Some magnificent tennis had been played with these rackets, though not by his generation. But the wood was warped and cracking and it hadn't been strung since Columbus. Whatever it might once have had—it was long gone. The young faces around him were expectant, suspicious, watchful. No backing out now. He grinned at the thought of the four-time Golden Slam champion with his state-of-the-art name-brand rackets—his very touch increasing their cash value many times over—trying to hit a tired old ball that had forgotten all it had ever known about bouncing with a racket that might not survive his serve. Better take it easy on this old critter. Frowning, he slapped it against his hand, then assumed his serving stance.

  He served the ball down the center line, turning to talk to the two boys. He showed them how to hold the racket, how to get ready for the serve motion and avoid wasting effort, and consider the stress on shoulder, elbow, and wrist of the different serving techniques.

  The blank faces told him enough, and he sighed. Ten years of pro tennis in a nutshell. And you expect these kids to pick it up like that. How long had he worked, hours a day, with pros, on every facet of his game? How many balls had he hit, on a proper court, with the right equipment, and expert instruction? For the next twenty minutes he talked with them about some of the things a ball will do when hit in a certain way. After he showed them, they tried it out, and nodded. He saw the lights coming on.

  It was a beginning. And he didn't want to admit it to himself, but as he swung the fractured, undersized racket, he had felt some of that old tingle.

  Around twelve thirty the coach blew a whistle.

  “All right, kids, that's it for today. Saturday at nine, okay? Everybody be here on time and bring a trash bag. And remember, I want to see those grade sheets from school by next week!”

  When they were gone, she shook her head.

  “I feel like an idiot. You looked familiar but I told myself you were a look-alike. You're Kitt Buchanan.”

  “Check.”

  “You should have told me. I'd have been less suspicious.”

  “I want you to check me out. You don't know anything about me except that I can hit a ball.”

  She nodded.

  “Don't think I won't.”

  Her name was Shay, and he watched her as she drove away. She cared. Looked athletic herself—not a pro, but lithe and fit. Hair sort of blown about, with sun-bleached streaks, and eyes of a shocking blue-green. She obviously wasn't wealthy, but she found time to work with these kids. Why hadn't he thought of that? He'd done clinics in the inner city programs before. Been too busy worrying about his own problems.

  These kids were playing tennis to match their equipment. Was there hope for this court? He looked skeptically at the rocky soil, makeshift nets strung across a couple of two-by-fours and some rusty, crooked metal posts. The kids had obviously been pulling weeds—probably a futile effort. But without some heavyduty graders you weren't going to get much of a surface. The net would do, even if it looked silly. But those rackets! Old-fashioned wooden ones warped by humidity and wrapped with some kind of electrical tape to hold them together. The strings wiggled with every swing. What these guys needed was rackets that could do more than push the ball across the court. Some of the kids had looked like tough customers, but Shay seemed to have them under control.

  He must have owned hundreds of rackets over the years. What had Jeff done with them? Maybe Danny would help. A few of the others. Get these kids outfitted properly. Wonder what it would take to level this lot. Somebody is going to break an ankle in these potholes—

  For the first time in months Kari was not uppermost in his thoughts as he walked to the truck.

  It was nearly a week later when she called.

  “Are you still interested in helping out?”

  “You bet. Did I pass inspection?”

  “So far,” she said, reserve in her voice. Protective, isn't she. Probably should be.

  “There's more to be checked?”

  “No, I think you're okay. Now what's your schedule like?”

  They agreed he would come the following Saturday, and he realized he was looking forward to it. Should he have told her about Jeff? My brother was a child molester, but don't worry. It's not genetic. Did he owe her that much information?

  On Saturday he brought a few of the rackets he'd kept in the storage locker, and a couple of tubes with new balls. Shay had organized the kids in a weed-and-play system. Only as many kids as she had rackets for could play at any given time. The others were to keep busy clearing the lot and tidying things up while they waited for their turn.

  “These rackets will feel different. They're too heavy for you, but I want to show you how the sizes and the weights make a lot of difference. And stringing, of course. I think I can get you guys some equipment, but it'll take a bit of time.”

  They stood around, gawking at the expensive rackets, gingerly touching the grip, running reverent fingers over the strings. He looked at their inexperienced hands. His rackets were strung with extra-thin gut. For tournaments, he had them restrung every day and he'd bring eight or ten to the court, because quite a few strings would pop. What am I thinking of? These are way too heavy for them. Good thing they haven't been strung lately.

  Soon he was absorbed in the teaching, and the memories. There were no budding top-tenners in this lot, he guessed, but a few reasonably capable players, with some training and practice. Just as well for him not to have prodigies. No back-door reconnections with the pro tour.

  After the kids were gone, he helped Shay carry the equipment to her car.

  “You enjoyed yourself?”

  He nodded.

  “Yes, I did. It was fun to work with these kids. They seemed eager to learn.”

&nbs
p; “They don't get a lot of perks, and basketball's about the only sport they get a shot at, some of them. There's no money for extras. Some kids don't have a home. Others have parents working two or three jobs just for basics. I told them gang members can't play, but of course, I have no way of checking that.”

  “Would you like me to try and recruit more rackets, or are you deliberately staggering the practice?”

  She laughed.

  “Yes and yes. I was planning to buy a couple of new rackets each month but my car ate up the cash this time. These are old ones my dad and my grandfather used to play with in a tennis club. A long time ago. It must look like junk to you.”

  “No, no. I'm sorry. I didn't mean—”

  “Don't apologize. It is junk.”

  “I don't know what I can get. But I know enough people in the business that I should be able to get them to cough up some rackets. Mine are going to be way too big and too heavy for most of these kids. It's worth a try.”

  “Go for it.”

  The following week he came twice, and after that he tried to make it to every practice. He learned that Shay had just graduated early from college and was working at the university as a graduate assistant teaching Russian. She also taught a few classes in a pilot program at an inner city junior high school, where she had met some of the kids she was now coaching. The school district had little funding for athletics, and those who weren't particularly gifted at sports fell through the cracks. He told her a little about himself, leaving out Jeff and Kari. His obviously impoverished condition he explained with vague references to bad investments. To his relief, she didn't ask why he hadn't returned to the tour to make some quick millions. Kitt began to realize how much he had missed real talks. After a few weeks, he ventured an invitation.

  “How about dinner tonight?”

  She hesitated, and he felt awkward.

  “Sorry, I didn't even ask if you had a boyfriend. I guess I—well, I'd never seen a guy here.”

  “There's no boyfriend, but—”

  “But what?”

  “I've seen you on TV. They showed your girlfriend in the stands, lots of times.”

  He shook his head.

  “She was not then, nor is she now my girlfriend. We went out here and there, but not anymore. Does that clear me?”

  “I didn't mean to pry. I'm sorry if I brought up something—well, painful.”

  “No, I'm sorry I snapped at you. So what about dinner?”

  “Sounds good.”

  The kids were coming along, and it was fun watching them improve, even in a short time. He threw himself into the program with his customary energy.

  “Someone's going to break an ankle in those potholes,” he told Shay. ”Will the city help improve this lot?”

  “The city,” she informed him, “feels very noble for ignoring us. They are worried that we may ask for money. Heaven forbid that we should want insurance. Officially, we do not exist, just in case we have an accident or so. Of course, if we should happen upon the next Kitt Buchanan here, and get him to a Grand Slam, then they'll want it known that this city cultivated the talent.”

  “The idea here isn't to train champions, is it?”

  “No such lofty ambitions. Keep them off the streets. Give'em a taste of something constructive.”

  “Okay. So we go from there. They're not kicking us out. That's something. Wonder what sort of equipment it would take to even out this surface. Know anyone with a rototiller?”

  “No. What's a rototiller?”

  “City people! It's a contraption to loosen and break up the soil. It may not be enough for this project, but we could try it. We may need a grader.”

  “Expensive, I suppose.”

  “You rent'em. Some of the bigger guys can help me.”

  “I can, too.”

  “Not to be sexist, but we need a heavyduty one, and it helps to have a heav-duty operator. You could hurt yourself. No offense.”

  “None taken. So I just stand and watch?”

  “You could organize a rock-picking team and scrounge up rakes.”

  “And after all that?”

  “We rake. We smooth out the surface with one of those rollers they use for lawns. Then we seed it. It would be better if we could put down some topsoil, or if we could pave the whole place, but for now just smoothing it out will help avoid accidents. They need to find out how a ball is supposed to bounce on a court.”

  Weeks later they stood looking with pride at the improved court. From a former neighbor Kitt had borrowed equipment to even and firm the soil. They had put down grass seed on half of the lot, and planned to seed the other half later. The owner of a warehouse that backed onto the lot agreed to let them use his water hose to keep the seeded part of the lot damp. Kitt and Shay had carefully measured and painted the lines, straightened up the improvised net, and assigned players to smooth out the surface after every practice. Kit was happier than he'd been in a long time.

  “Next year it's a grass court,” he told Shay as they watched their proud players test out the new court. “They need practice on a hard court, because that's what most people play on around here. But for now, this is a good place to practice.”

  “I can't believe this place would clean up so well.” She shook her head. “You're a lifesaver. You can teach them stuff I can't and some of the boys want a guy around.”

  “It's your program. It's you they trust.”

  “Give'em time. They need to be sure you're not some rich do-gooder. They want to know that you're not in this so you can put community service on your resume. It's a lot like you wanting to be something besides somebody's project or a business investment.”

  At dinner, Kitt's eyes lit up as they talked about their plans for the tennis kids, and Shay smiled.

  “You played at Wimbledon, Melbourne Park, Roland Garros, and Flushing Meadows, and you're all excited over this scruffy court. I love it.”

  His enthusiasm and determination were contagious. The kids were excited. Only Kitt knew that in every kid there he saw another Kari ground down by abuse, neglect, poverty, ignorance. A Kari he could work with, a Kari he could build up and motivate, a Kari he could watch over.

  “You're running away with it, Kitt,” Shay laughed.

  He was instantly repentant.

  “Am I taking over? I'm sorry—

  “Don't be silly,” she told him. “You're not taking anything from me. I'm glad you're into this program. The kids need you. But isn't it frustrating for you?”

  “Frustrating?”

  “You're used to such high standards of performance. You were head and shoulders above the best players in the world. You dominated the field for years, and you had reporters watch your every serve and volley and write articles about your technique. And now you're dinking around on an empty lot with kids who have no prayer of ever being in your class.”

  “This isn't about tennis. My tennis skills are just a means to an end here. We're not running a tennis academy. We're helping them become real people. That's exciting.”

  “Honestly—I didn't dare think you'd understand that. In the beginning I worried that maybe you'd put too much emphasis on competition and winning. But you haven't. You're doing them a lot of good.”

  “We're not getting the future pros. We're getting the kids they didn't want in their basketball programs. The kids who didn't cut it in football, baseball. Most of them wouldn't do well in a tennis academy. We're not training pros, just people.”

  “Maybe if they are successful here, they'll carry that skill into other areas.”

  Kitt nodded. “What you do, where you work—it doesn't matter. Pro sports, rocket science, a car wash—you're the same person. I had a friend who understood that. He was never a star, didn't need to be. He was happy.”

  Pensively, she shook her head.

  “It may be tough to sell them on the idea. What people think of them is right up there with breathing. They're posing a lot.”

  “They've g
ot time. I'm just starting to figure life out.”

  “You're a philosopher.”

  “I just need to make sense out of life. See what I am about, where that helps anybody. If it means anything.”

  She reached over and laid a hand on his arm. It means a lot.

  “I want to get going, Shay. So many things I need to be doing. I want to get on it.”

  “Seems to me you're on your way.”

  “When I first quit the tour, it all seemed so clear. What I wanted, what I was going to do.”

  “And now?”

  “I had all these questions, and I have even more now. I thought I'd find answers when I had some down time.”

  “And there wasn't any down time?”

  “Turned out time wasn't the issue. Thinking isn't enough. I guess it's doing. On the plus side, I'm learning things I hadn't thought of. These kids here. You.”

  “Me?”

  “Yes, you.”

  A table-hopper dropped by for his autograph, and they hurried out of the restaurant. After dropping Shay off he looked at his checkbook and shrugged. There was a certain morbid simplicity in being broke. No insurance policies or investment headaches or security systems. Nothing for anyone to steal. Still, one match, that's all it would take to put him back on his feet. One match. On the court he could do in an hour and a half, two hours, what he could not do out here with months and months of hard work and sleepless nights. If he'd been looking for a job as a college graduate, he'd have used his degree to get it. For now, his racket was his diploma. If Jeff hadn't messed up with the money, it would have financed his education. And exactly what was wrong with that? He'd worked hard, years and years, to perfect his skills, and he'd become a champion. A well-paid champion. Probably an overpaid champion.

  So quit whining. Play an exo.

  Aphone call from Delaney jarred the rhythm of Kitt's thoughts.

  “Remember when we told you we were investigating gambling?”

  “Sure. I guess you know what I told Jack about the stuff I got out of Wynne.”