World Class

By Burt Boyar

A book about winning. Not just in tennis, but in life. Get into the brains of world class athletes. You will understand why when two physically equal players meet, one can beat the other. Get into their brains, their backgrounds, into the locker rooms at Wimbledon, Davis Cup and the public courts on which they started. Authors’generous and invaluable sources were Rod Laver, Ken Rosewall, Pancho Gonzales,Tony Trabert, Lew Hoad, John Newcombe, Fred Stolle, Arthur Ashe, Roger Taylor, Andres Gimeno, Tony Roche, Barry MacKay, Butch Buchholz, Mike Davies and Jack Kramer. In this book the reader will see the majesty of morality and the human spirit, the love between friends yet the willingness to kill on court to win...then carry the loser out on his shoulders.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Burt Boyar
• Release date: Jan 8, 2013
• ISBN: 9781301492121

Book preview

World Class

Jane and Burt Boyar

.

Smashwords Edition

Copyright 2012 by: Jane and Burt Boyar

License Notes: This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this ebook with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Ebook formatting by www.ebooklaunch.com

All rights reserved.

ISBN: 0-9710-3926-7

ISBN-13: 9780971039261

eBook ISBN: 978-1-62111-779-7

Previously published by Random House Publishing

.

to Al G. Hill, Jr.

Lamar Hunt

Mike Davies

with admiration

Table of Contents

Acknowledgments

I Christopher

II Thug

III Billy

IV Pocholo

V

VI Katherine

VII

VIII

IX

X

XI Adam

XII

XIII

XIV

XV

XVI

XVII

XVIII

XIX

About the Authors

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

Malcolm Anderson

Luis Ayala

Pierre Barthes

Butch Buchholz

Mike Davies

Cliff Drysdale

Roy Emerson

Andres Gimeno

Pancho Gonzales

Lew Hoad

Rod Laver

Barry MacKay

Ray Moore

John Newcombe

Tom Okker

Alex Olmedo

Nikki Pilic

Dennis Ralston

Marty Riessen

Tony Roche

Ken Rosewall

Pancho Segura

Fred Stolle

Roger Taylor

We wanted to write a novel set in the world of professional tennis. In order to understand the dynamics of the world-class player, to learn what separated him from others, we joined the touring pros in 1967 and for more than two years lived closely with them, traveling their circuit throughout the United States, Europe and South Africa. We had hoped that they would speak to us openly, answering our questions candidly, but they were so deeply committed to their game that what resulted was a collaboration far exceeding what we had imagined. They entrusted us with the facts of their personal lives so that we might be able to portray authentically the world class tennis player, and they worked laboriously at instilling in us their extraordinary high level of tennis sophistication. When we ran out of questions they posed new and better ones for us—and then answered them. As we studied a match between two physical equals other players would sit with us and explain what was happening inside the men we were watching, and why one would beat the other.

These men knew each other intimately and in depth, they were all tough but empathetic in their opinions of each other, as well as of themselves, and they devoted hundreds of hours to explaining what it had taken them many years and many losses to learn before becoming the best tennis players in the world.

We wish to express special thanks to Earl Butch Buchholz, Jr., for his invaluable help and friendship, and for the honor of being godparents to Earl Buchholz III.

Also to Mike Davies who, aside from his help from the beginning, read each draft to the end and served as technical adviser, checking details for accuracy.

Also the players’ wives, especially Marilyn Buchholz and Mary Laver, who were equally generous with their knowledge and experiences.

While we were in South Africa, Abe Segal contributed valuably, and he has continued to impart the flavor of players past and new.

When we were in Los Angeles, Pancho Segura, who is a Ph.D. on the subject of tennis players, taught us all we could absorb.

When it was finally time for us to reluctantly leave the tour, the players advised us that our research would not be complete until we had met and spent time with Tony Trabert. In Los Angeles, where he was living, Trabert agreed to meet us for dinner; he was scouting us. When he was convinced of what we wanted to accomplish, he offered to come to our house every afternoon after work to talk for a few hours a day. He was superb. No one could have been more helpful or altruistic. If there was going to be a novel set in the world of pro tennis, then Trabe was going to give it every chance to win. Like the others, he understood that what we were doing could not possibly benefit him personally. His single motivation for giving us all that time and effort was … to put something back into the game that did so much for me. We are deeply indebted to him and to all of the others, and are proud to know them. They are great athletes and rare people, and we will always remember the happy years when we lived in their world.

We would also like to acknowledge help from Donald J. Kaiser, Donald L. Dell (former U.S.A. Davis Cup team captain), Jack Kramer, Vic Braden, John McDonald, George MacCall (former U.S.A. Davis Cup team captain), Walter E. Elcock (former president, United States Lawn Tennis Association; president, International Lawn Tennis Federation), Edward A. Turville (former president, United States Lawn Tennis Association), George L. Seewagen, Gladys M. Heldman, James N. Lotery, Major David Mills (secretary, All England Lawn Tennis and Croquet Club), Basil Reay (secretary, Lawn Tennis Association), Teddy Tinling, Philippe Chatrier (president, Fédération Française de Lawn-Tennis), Owen Williams and Gordon Forbes.

I

CHRISTOPHER

The boy sits on the jetty in the dark, waiting.

As though he is awake before the wind, there is only an indifferent breeze and no sound but the waves from an ocean still undiscernible except for white foam.

Now the sky is not still dark but not yet light; it is that moment when night is first being softened by the not yet visible sun. He steps to the sand and begins trotting carefully over ground he can hardly see. Ahead the sun appears at the horizon, a sharp red line swelling swiftly into a half round. Here comes today.

The golden-haired boy is loping now along the water’s edge, moving as though running is his natural state. Gulls pacing the solitary figure occasionally swoop to the ocean to pluck a fish, then rejoin him. They have freedom and elegance of motion in common and are companions every day.

Two miles out Christopher Hill reverses direction. His sweat suit is barely moist. He veers from the water to the softer dry sand that shifts beneath his feet, forcing the muscles of his legs to strain harder. Approaching his starting point he returns to the water’s edge, breaks into a wide-open sprint and vaults the jetty, facing the sky. I know it, gulls. I’m going to be the best tennis player in the world.

Out! Ward called.

Across the net the boy who’d hit the ball shouted, It was good by six inches!

Christopher wasn’t sure. It was a first-round match without linesmen or umpire. He asked his partner, Shall we play a let?

No, Ward said. It was out.

A few points later Ward served again and though the return struck the court clearly inside the white lines he didn’t play it. Out! he called.

Christopher had seen it. The opposing players had come to the net in protest. He told them, Your point.

Ward gaped. What’re you doing?

The ball was in.

Cool it, idiot! Let me call them. We’re winning the match.

Christopher looked at his partner anew. You want to win it like that? Do it alone. He went to the net and extended his hand to their opponents. You’re right. I’m sorry. We default.

In the locker room of the Palm Beach 12 and Under, standing in front of the bench on which Christopher was sitting, Ward Schlagg snarled, You did it with your little hatchet, eh, George? Or do I have it wrong? You’re not George Washington, you’re Honest Abe.

Christopher shrugged. They both got to be President.

How could you do that to me? We had it won.

You had it stolen.

Ward didn’t hear him. Suddenly nervous, he said, When the referee hears that we had it six-three, five-three with the other guys down love-thirty and that we defaulted, he’s gotta ask why. What’ll we tell him?

If he asks me, I’ll tell him that the guy I used to play doubles with admitted that he was making bad calls.

But they’d suspend me. I’d be out of tennis …

Christopher stood up. Even at twelve he was, by comparison to Ward, stately. Then you’d better walk past the referee’s stand with a big limp, because if he asks me I’ll bury you.

Ward stared. You really would …

The beautiful girl-child sitting at the end of the jetty, watching an approaching wave and wondering where it had traveled from, had hair of golden strands like Christopher’s except that the sun and salt had lightened hers to the shade of driftwood. Paloma Hill was fourteen, two years older than her brother. She wore a white sweat shirt and Levis sky-colored from washing, cut off above the knees. Her skin was tanned and her bare feet hung above the water.

Christopher walked along the jetty and sat down beside her.

What’s wrong? she asked.

I have to find a new doubles partner. He explained it on their way home.

At dinner he recounted the incident to his parents. Ward thought I was crazy. He said, ‘When the Rankings Committee looks at lists of results they won’t see anything about bad calls, just wins and losses. That’s all that counts.’

Christopher’s father’s mind flashed back eleven years, to New York City, 1945.

But it’s dishonest, Joe Hill said.

Steven Lowell, president of Chase Metals International, shifted his weight in his swivel chair and looked up at the tall, lean, blond man. Their eyes collided. Sit down, Joe. His forefinger stabbed the desk top with each word. This is an $800,000 sale. It’s not honest or dishonest.

Steve, it’s clear as black and white.

At this level things aren’t black and white any more. There’s a lot of gray. Only the color of money never changes.

I won’t do it. I gave my word.

Keeping your word is a luxury you can’t afford. It was a command. Then, a paternal smile. Overlook your principles, Joe. They’re getting in your way.

In the way of what?

Fifty thousand a year, stock options, retirement, expense account and all the little fringe benefits we enjoy so much. You’re only thirty-four and well on your way to retiring as a rich man.

Leaving his office on the eighty-first floor of the Empire State Building, Joe paused to look at the week-old lettering on the frosted glass: JOSEPH HILL, VICE-PRESIDENT, FINANCE. In eight years of hard work he had turned a Phi Beta Kappa key and a master’s in numerical science into those assets which Steve had listed, plus a $70,000 house in Tarrytown on which he’d already paid almost half. Taking the night elevator to the ground floor he signed the watchman’s register and wrote in the time, 8:20 P.M.

Snow had been falling since noon. Doormen’s whistles pleaded from Madison Avenue. Theater hour. A couple dressed in evening clothes beckoned futilely at passing taxis. Joe moved carefully, to avoid soaking his custom-made shoes in the gray slush. As he bent to enter his limousine a clump of snowflakes found the back of his neck. His chauffeur closed the door behind him. From a built-in bar, Joe took a nip of Scotch from a decanter, then pulled open a jump seat and stretched his legs onto it. The company car was certainly a pleasant fringe benefit.

On billboards, in electric lights atop office buildings, on factories across the Hudson River, Joe saw the names of several of the major corporations which had made attractive offers to him.

He estimated that he’d be at home by ten o’clock. Again Paloma and Christopher would be asleep. He rationalized, Boy Wonders who want fifty grand, a V.P. and the fringes had better expect to make sacrifices. You can’t have it all. Then, for the first time since he’d been working toward it, he wondered, But what do I actually have?

What could he give his children in exchange for all the time he wasn’t able to give them? A bundle of money alone didn’t seem enough of a legacy. His mind wandered to the day when he could retire, to a small house somewhere warm, near a beach, with a flagpole out front, a simple life, dinner every night with his family. Retirement at sixty-five was mandatory. He had thirty-one years to wait.

As the car turned into his driveway he looked at the windows of his children’s rooms and was not surprised to see them dark. Just disappointed. And apprehensive. What might they learn before he had the time to guide them?

The following morning in his office Joe dictated a letter of resignation, telephoned a real estate broker and put his house up for sale. He kept the station wagon in which he, his wife Mary, Paloma and Christopher, with a few suitcases of things they really cared about, would drive away from what had been a good life, but not the best; away from contentment toward happiness.

The lettering on the frosted glass door read: JOSEPH HILL, PROFESSOR OF MATHEMATICS.

He sat alone in his classroom at Pompano Beach High School, correcting papers. He made a point of never bringing his work home. By five o’clock he had finished and was walking toward his house, enjoying the quiet neighborhood through which he had strolled every weekday for the past three years.

Joe and Mary Hill had bought their new home outright. It was small, attractive but simply furnished, and they felt free of the encumbrances which had been absorbing their minds and time and had threatened their principles. They had honed life sharper and brighter by uncluttering it.

The young woman sitting on the steps of the house could have been Joe’s sister. Tall, blonde, almost wiry, Mary had a fine body, but it was her face which people loved to look at. It was a happy face. She had beers ready and they sat on the porch as the sun set. When she left to prepare dinner Joe untied the cord from its hook on the flagpole and lowered the flag. He unclipped it from the string, folded it and brought it inside.

Neither Joe nor Mary had played much tennis since they’d been married. Somehow there had never been time in Tarrytown. In restyling their lives they took it up as a sport they could enjoy together. Mary had been a very good college player and now she worked hard at it, practicing every day during the week in order to make it sport enough for Joe.

Every Saturday and Sunday Christopher and Paloma sat on a bench at the Pompano courts and watched their parents. Christopher never budged, never took his eyes off them, imagining himself playing both sides of the net. He loved the way they moved, he loved the strokes and the way they battled to the end.

After one especially grueling match Paloma stared at her parents draped limply on the bench. Daddy, why do you play so hard against Mom?

He lifted his face from a towel. She’s not ‘Mom’ when we’re playing; she’s my opponent.

Christopher and Paloma were allowed to use the rackets on weekdays. He was six and she eight when they began playing sets, and Paloma, being stronger and able to run faster, won easily. At four-thirty on a sunny August afternoon they’d finished three sets, and she said, Let’s go to the beach.

You go ahead. I’ll pick you up on the way home. Christopher stayed at the courts, hitting against a wall for an hour, then walked out on the jetty and sat down beside his sister.

What are you thinking? she asked.

Four months. I’ll be able to beat you in four months.

Hah.

And in six or eight you won’t win a game off me.

When he was seven, Christopher found a wallet containing $63. He gave it to his father. Now we can buy two more rackets, we can each have our own, we can play doubles …

With another man’s name and address in it, would you call it honest or dishonest of us to keep this money?

Well, it depends on how you look at it …

What does that mean?

Aw, come on, Dad …

Give me an answer.

Well, sure it would be dishonest. You know that.

I just wanted to be sure you do. His voice softened. Christopher, keep life simple. There’s right and there’s wrong, and they’re very distinct if you look straight at them. So when you know something is wrong, don’t waste your time doing it, because you won’t really enjoy it.

What if it was a million dollars? Paloma asked.

Were, Joe said. Bigger numbers don’t change the principle of right and wrong. If I kept it, I’d know it’s wrong, and I wouldn’t like myself. I don’t need a million dollars, but I do need to like myself. He looked at his son and daughter. If you can’t like yourself, then who or what can you like?

By the age of twelve Christopher envisioned himself as becoming an international tennis player one day, so to him geography books were like travel brochures, early glimpses of countries he would see during tournaments he would win in Kalamazoo, Wimbledon, White City, Brisbane, Barcelona … He read voraciously about the places he would visit, from New York to Cologne, from Geneva to Johannesburg. He was good at history, too; excited by its adventure and immensity, its romance. He relished stories of knights, of musketeers, friends risking their lives for each other. He idolized heroes, always imagining himself one of them, fighting for justice, for honor with a rapier, a pistol, his wit. The characters he could read about endlessly were noble, high-minded, uncompromising in their principles, unfailing in their support of the pledged word, the truth, their love of country.

———

Christopher was standing in the driveway rallying a tennis ball against the wall, forehand and backhand, rarely missing. It was a Saturday. Paloma was on the front porch reading Gone with the Wind. Joe was mowing the lawn, and stopped as he made a turn, observing his son’s speed of foot and eye, the strength of his arm, at twelve.

Some boys from Christopher’s class passed the house. Joe continued around the lawn with the mower, then stopped near Christopher. I saw your friends go by.

They’re going to the movies.

Aren’t you?

Yes. He continued hitting against the wall.

It was one o’clock. The theater was only a ten-minute walk and the double feature didn’t start until two. Are they going to town early to have lunch? Joe asked, thinking that perhaps Christopher didn’t have the money to join them.

Paloma had come down from the porch. No, Daddy, they’re going to Woolworth’s to steal things. And the reason they wouldn’t even say hello to Christopher is that he won’t go with them. She heard the telephone ringing in the family room and rushed inside.

Christopher caught the ball with his left hand and sat on the stoop of the front steps, his chin propped on the heel of his racket. Joe sat down beside him. Christopher? Have you ever stolen anything?

No, Dad.

Why is it you didn’t go along with them?

Like you said. If you do the right things you’re going to like yourself.

Do you like yourself, Son?

Yeah … He looked into his father’s eyes. But, Dad, nobody else likes me.

Joe put his arm around his shoulder. I like you. Very much! I think you’re great. In fact, I’d like to have you for a son.

Made happy by his father’s approval, their solidarity, Christopher was crying unshed tears. He grinned. I am your son.

You bet you are. Joe hugged him tighter, and they sat together in silence, father and son, teacher and pupil.

Knowing that Christopher got higher grades and was better at sport, Joe wasn’t surprised that his schoolmates might welcome an opportunity to ostracize him. Being the best at anything is lonely. Best is a superlative. It means number one. And there’s only one of them. Here, among these kids, that’s you. He tightened his hand on Christopher’s shoulder. Hang on, Son. You’re not alone. It just seems that way for now. But the world has other special people in it, too. And somehow, eventually, you number ones find each other.

There was so much more that Joe wanted to tell his son but he refrained, understanding that the child could absorb just so much at one time. That evening he began a notebook and titled it Notes to My Children. He decided to write down everything he thought they should know and give it to them when he felt they could handle it.

He began:

.

As you grow older you will hear people ridicule almost every virtue by which freedom and the greatest nation in history were born: honesty, sobriety, hard work, ruggedness, respect for your elders, your leaders, faith in the pledged word, love of your country.

Today, Christopher, you paid a price for the virtue of honesty. Stand your ground, my son. If, to spare yourself being ostracized, you were to have given up your principles you would have received, in exchange, six thieves for friends. That’s not a very good bargain.

Paloma looked up as she sensed her brother’s approach on the jetty. A late-afternoon breeze came from the ocean, and he tightened the hood of his sweat shirt closer around his neck as he walked.

You look beat.

He nodded. I played fifteen sets. I feel good.

She returned her attention to an airliner as small as a toy in the distance. At fourteen Paloma dreamed more by day than by night. Someone in that plane is going to Timbuktu. What’s it like there, I wonder?

Clay courts.

When I’m a stewardess I’ll let you know where all the best tennis courts are. Her brother was looking into the foam swirling around the jetty. Christopher? Anything wrong?

He held up his mother’s racket, which he’d used for two years. If I’m going to win the Florida 14 and Under I’ve got to have a better racket. I’ll be playing the best in the state. This is Sectional! I’ve got to win it and get a ranking or I won’t get into any of the important tournaments.

Ask Daddy.

They cost a fortune. He’d croak.

How much?

For the kind I need, a Wilson Fleet Scott, maybe thirty dollars, strung.

Wow. How about getting a paper route? You could use my bike.

He shook his head miserably. It’s a trap. I’ve only got three months before the championships. I’m better off practicing every day with a bad racket than if I buy a new one and don’t have time to practice.

You’re right. That’s rough. She stood up. We’ll be late for supper. Hamburgers.

You don’t need a new racket, Christopher, his father said, you’d like to have one. And I’d like to give you one. But I can only give you what you really need—food, a home, education, and a mother and father who have the time and the capacity to love you.

Paloma said, Billy Reed’s family is buying him a bike for a dollar a week at Clark’s. Can’t we buy a tennis racket like that, Daddy?

Joe looked at her. At times I have this feeling you’re your brother’s lawyer … Okay, let’s talk about it. Why would a store let you take thirty weeks to pay for something? The answer is that they charge interest on what you owe them. So you end up paying around forty dollars for a thirty-dollar racket. Does it make sense to you to pay more for something because you can’t afford it in the first place?

Are we poorer than the Reeds? Paloma asked.

We’re not discussing Mr. Reed. I can’t buy a new tennis racket at this time, and I ask you not to pursue it any further.

That night Joe wrote:

.

I wanted very much to buy a new racket for you, Christopher, but to do that I would have to take money from our savings, and that reserve is our peace of mind. Living within limited means, in order to have more time to spend with you, more mental freedom to guide you toward principles and philosophies which will make you happiest, was an idea your mother and I had, and we believe it’s working. To give us all the pleasure of that new racket would be a change in plan, and life has a way of one thing following another. Eventually our savings would be gone and, like Mr. Reed, I’d have to find extra work at night and on weekends instead of being with you both and with Mother.

Mary ran the iron along the freshly washed laces of Christopher’s sneakers, then folded them and placed them on top of the pile of tennis clothes. The coffee was starting to perk. As Paloma dropped the English muffins into the toaster, Christopher lifted his orange juice glass and it slipped from his hand.

Looking at the juice flowing in all directions, Paloma giggled. You’re nervous!

And how I am. I’m twelve, and most of the guys in the draw are thirteen and fourteen. Okay, I’ve beaten a lot of them in Delray Beach, Fort Lauderdale and Daytona … Maybe I beat them when they weren’t playing well, but having two years on me means they’ve played a lot more matches and have a lot more experience to help them over the nervousness of a sectional championship. And I’ve got to win it. He turned to his father. Winning’s important, isn’t it, Dad?

There’s no substitute for it. Besides, if you keep in the habit of being at the top, you’ll come to think of that as your place and always try for it. But if you get into the habit of being number five you’ll probably slow down when you get there and not make the effort to reach the top. Then, cautious of putting unnecessary pressure on a clearly conscientious boy, he added, On the other hand, nobody always wins, and losing a match isn’t the end of the world. What’s most important is that you try your hardest so that win or lose you know you did your best.

Did you ever win anything, Dad? Christopher asked.

Mary looked up. Are you kidding? What do you call valedictorian of his class, Phi Beta Kappa, a scholarship to M.I.T., captain of his college crew? And when he was made vice-president of Chase Metals at twenty-eight Time called your father ‘the boy wonder of big business.’ He was in all the newspapers—

Hey, Mom, I’m sorry. It was a dumb question. But this is the first I ever heard of Dad being a tycoon.

How come you never told us? Paloma asked.

Did you save the clippings, Dad?

No.

Why not? I’d love to read them.

Reading old clips about me isn’t important. What counts is what I am today, your father, the final result.

Mary began carefully packing the fresh laundry into a suitcase.

Christopher grinned. Uh, Mom, I’m not playing Wimbledon this week. It’s St. Petersburg. It’s big, but it’s just the Florida 14 and Under.

She made a face at him and snapped the bag closed. After the second round you’ll have to wash some shirts.

I’ll have my butler do them, same as always.

Christopher felt that he was having a horrible nightmare that would soon be over and he wouldn’t be walking to the locker room with tears in his eyes. But it’s not. I lost to Ward Schlagg in the first round. I’m out. I won’t be able to play in the National 14 and Under. I’ve lost a whole year.

Sitting in front of his locker he tried to understand what had happened. It certainly wasn’t his racket; he’d beaten Ward with it every time they’d ever played. Nor was it overconfidence; he’d been aware of that danger and he’d played hard.

Bad conditions, he realized, had been the equalizer. Heavy winds and a poor surface had made Ward’s weak serve unpredictable and therefore as difficult to return as Christopher’s good one. It applied to every stroke: a bad bounce or a sudden gust of wind could make a weak shot as effective as a strong one.

Ward slipped a pack of cigarettes from his pocket. What I love about playing tournaments is all the things you can do that you can’t do at home.

Christopher looked at him standing in front of a mirror blowing smoke through his nose. This guy is practicing smoking instead of his serve! But he won …

It was a fact that Christopher was the better player, but he understood now that he had to be better by an even greater margin in order to compensate for the unexpected: bad conditions; an injury; the unexplainable bad day when you just can’t hit the ball as well as normally. At least one of these was bound to occur during some match at every tournament. I have to get so good, so strong, so fast, so much better than the other player that I could almost break a leg and still win the match.

When Christopher could do a hundred sit-ups easily, he held a three-pound weight behind his neck. He did a hundred push-ups with increasingly heavier weights strapped to his back. He began running on the beach twice a day, increasing the distance until within six months he was running five miles with ease. When it rained he haunted the Pompano Public Library, studying every book on tennis. From an instruction manual written by Douglas Fleet Scott, captain of the American Davis Cup team, he learned: For the volley, to speed up your reflexes and to strengthen your wrist and forearm, keep your left hand behind your back when practising your net game. Without that arm for balance you will have to move faster, plus all the strain will be on your right arm. Christopher tried it. The difference was startling. He worked at it daily. When he’d exhausted the supply of tennis books, he read everything the library had on other sports, looking for methods of conditioning that he might apply to tennis. After reading Fleet Scott’s book he eliminated starches and sweets from his diet in favor of proteins, fruits, vegetables and salads.

The sun felt good on his shoulders, the grass spraying upwards from the blades of the mower scented the air with its clean freshness, and Christopher wondered if you smell the grass when you play on it at Wimbledon and Forest Hills. Judge Newhart had bought a power mower, but Christopher preferred pushing the old one; he enjoyed earning the five dollars a week for cutting the Newharts’ lawn and building his strength as well. He wasn’t satisfied that he was as strong as he would need to be. He’d seen movies of Nicholas Alisandro playing for the Davis Cup for America. Alisandro was a Hercules, lean and slender, but so is steel cable, Christopher thought, and if being extra strong was part of being number one in the world, then he was going to become extra strong.

From the back porch Judge Newhart looked up from reading to call out, Why don’t you use the new one?

Christopher smiled that he understood but continued on. You can’t tell people you’re training to win Wimbledon and Forest Hills or they’ll think you’re demented. He caught a scrap of grass that flew toward his face and chewed it. They know somebody is going to win those tournaments, so why not me? But he knew that with no malice involved—on the contrary, Judge Newhart liked him—there was no way he could imagine it could be the kid next-door who mows my lawn.

By the time he got home, his father had lowered the flag, folded it and was sitting on the steps waiting for Mary to bring the beers.

Dad? You think I could ever get to be a really good tennis player?

Of course.

I mean really good? He wavered, then plunged ahead. Like Alisandro? Like Fleet Scott was?

Why not? You have the talent and you’re willing to work hard. Those are two of the three major elements of success at anything. The third is wanting it badly enough. When you want something that rare, you have to outbid the rest of the world. You have to want it so much that there’s no work too hard, no pain too great, no loneliness you’re unwilling to suffer.

Christopher was nodding his head. That’s how I feel. I just wanted to be sure I’m not nuts.

Toweling his neck and arms, Christopher mopped his hair and buried his face in the towel to conceal the biggest smile he had ever smiled. He had just won the Florida 14 and Under, at the age of thirteen.

Well done, Chris. Olen Parks climbed down from the umpire’s chair. Let’s see what you’re playing with.

It was my mom’s.

Olen thumped the strings against the heel of his left hand. He didn’t really hope for the ping of good and tightly strung gut, but the oboe-like clunggg was humorous. Sighting down the shaft, he confirmed the warpage he had seen from a distance. Leading Christopher to his car, he unlocked the trunk and dazzled the boy with the spectacle of dozens of new Wilson rackets. Take the one you like, he said. I’m betting you’re a player.

It felt like the biggest day of all time. Olen Parks, known as The Bear in the tennis world, was a figure Christopher had read about in Fleet Scott’s book and heard about for as long as he could remember, but he’d been unaware that he had been umpiring the match, scouting him. Winning the 14 and Under now paled against being selected by The Bear.

The first racket he picked up was of light-colored wood. Printed on the handle was Endorsed for championship play by Nicholas Alisandro. He swung it a few times, then tried a darker one with the signature: Douglas Fleet Scott. Mr. Parks, I’m having fun, but frankly I don’t know what I’m doing. What should I be looking for?

The Fleet Scotts are stiffer; the Alisandros are a little whippy. With your net game I’d use the stiffer racket and one that’s balanced light in the head. The lighter the head the more quickly you can move the racket. If you were a base line player I’d suggest you use a heavier head. But your net game wants maneuverability. You also want it strung medium tight. The Bear explained, A ‘tight’ string job, sixty-five pounds, provides more control but also results in a smaller ‘sweet spot.’ ‘Loose’ strings, fifty-five pounds or less, provide a larger ‘sweet spot’ and more power but less control. You’re proficient enough to make contact in the center of your racket far more than the average player, so power is not a problem. For now, try your rackets strung snug, sixty pounds. You’ll find the ball comes off tight strings faster; just a fraction of a second, but it could be what your opponent needs to be ready. Don’t give it to him.

The sun was no longer generating heat. Olen got his jacket from the car, excited by this boy who was testing his sixteenth racket—intense, completely involved in what he was doing. Olen appraised him as he had throughout the match: he was lean, his legs were strong enough to sprint, yet not bulky. He’d moved around the court like the wind. His right forearm was larger than his left. He built that arm with an exerciser. Olen became aware of a sensation he’d experienced only a few times before: the coming of a champion.

He had been attracted to Christopher’s talent, concentration and speed of foot, and he’d been especially impressed by the style of his game. He was always attacking. While other boys waited for the ball to come to them, this one was always moving in on it. After the first set Olen had decided on him. You make a few bad guesses, but when you scout a winner who travels the world and your trademark is in the middle of all the Davis Cup, Forest Hills and Wimbledon publicity, it sells rackets. In fifteen years as the Wilson man Olen had found three champions: Scott, Rockingham and Alisandro. That’s just a few people, but it’s a whole lot of champions. Since Alisandro there’d been a dry period of five years, until the past summer when he’d found Chuck Campbell. And now Christopher Hill. Olen had a good feeling that American tennis was beginning a new and upward cycle.

Christopher had reduced his choice to two and was making his final selection.

Take them both, Olen said. If you break a string you’ll be in trouble without an extra. He gave him extra sets of gut to keep in reserve, blue canvas racket covers with the name Wilson spelled boldly in white, and to carry his gear a black vinyl tennis bag that also bore the company’s name.

That evening Christopher sat in his room in Pompano before dinner squeezing a wrist exerciser. The walls were covered with letters for football, baseball and track; medals and framed team photographs. He picked up a football and spiraled it in the air, expecting to enjoy the touch of it. He put it down. His baseball bats, with his glove hanging from them, were in a corner. The glove looked dry. He’d used to oil it every week and tie it closed around a baseball to maintain the pocket; now, impaled on one of the bats, it flopped loosely, face open, and Christopher thought it looked as if it were crying. He lifted it from the bat and folded it closed. He had a feeling of estrangement from all that memorabilia. As though they were old friends he had grown away from, he felt an urgency to end the association, to live only in the present and future.

Within half an hour the past had been packed away in cardboard boxes, and his bedroom contained no photograph, no award, no equipment to indicate that Christopher Hill had ever been interested in anything but tennis. On his dresser there was only his Florida 14 and Under Singles trophy and a few others from lesser tournaments. His Wilson bag was on a chair; on the bed were his two Fleet Scott rackets. He took one in his hand. How good it felt just to hold a tennis racket. There was something about tennis that caused him to drop without regret all the other sports he’d loved. There was something about being on a court by yourself, depending on no one but yourself, doing it alone.

The sun was his spotlight as Nicholas Alisandro, body extending toward the sky, raised his left arm high and straight, fingers opening, releasing the ball to float forward and upward. In his right hand the racket drew back, his spine continued arching further into a bow, the sinew and muscles of his back straining vividly against his shirt. Then with a colossal forward thrust the racket sped invisibly through the air and its impact against the ball reverberated in the stillness.

His black hair glistened and his arms and legs were sleekly moist with perspiration. Four thousand people were applauding, admiring, adoring him, but Alisandro’s face was blank and tight; he was aware of nothing except the next point.

He walked slowly, wasting nothing. His white shirt clung to his chest and abdomen, outlining the bone and muscle beneath. His hip bones pressed against the white shorts which fell easily from his waist. He was fatless. An Adonis? It would have been appropriate to call Adonis an Alisandro.

The ball boy bounced a ball to him. Without seeming to look, he caught it as though his fingers were magnets and wherever he placed them the ball would follow. He was a natural, a man whose maker had planned for him to be there, in those clothes, within those white lines, as though the picture had been designed for the frame. He did everything that had ever been done on a tennis court, and he did it better, with more grace, more ease, more power. Excalibur the press had called his racket at the beginning, until he had become too exciting for them to focus on anything but the whole of the man and he became Alisandro.

As he served again, Christopher was imagining the fingers of his own hand opening like the petals of a flower to release the ball, his right wrist snapping like a whip at the final second. He spoke quietly to Paloma, beside him in the grandstand. They timed it at Forest Hills last year with a Pitchometer. A hundred and twenty-eight miles an hour. The closest to him was a hundred and ten.

The match ended, and now across Alisandro’s face there spread a smile which was strong competition for the Florida sun. Scores of girls swarmed toward him.

The racing-green Lamborghini was surrounded by fans, waiting. On the dashboard a silver plaque was engraved: Designed and manufactured for Nicholas Alisandro. Nearby was the closed dressing room door through which he would appear.

Paloma said, Let’s wait and have a closer look at him.

The sky was losing its bright blue, and Christopher wanted to practice Alisandro’s serve before dark. I really don’t want to miss the early bus.

The palm trees were hardly visible as the bus rolled along, still thirty minutes from Pompano. Christopher leaned back in his seat memorizing everything he’d seen: catching the balls; putting one in his pocket; placing his foot exactly three inches behind the line; bouncing the ball, then once again, for rhythm. He never held the second ball in his hand when he was serving. He always put it in his pocket. Why do you think he does that?

Paloma turned her head toward Christopher, eyes blissful, somnambulant. Does what?

Oh, great! Some help you’ll be.

I’ve just seen the best-looking, most glamorous man in the world and you expect me to have noticed something about his pocket. You’re crazy.

Christopher tried to reason it out. Was it better psychologically to hold only one ball and feel that you must get it into play? Then he recalled that after serving, waiting for the return Alisandro cradled the racket by the throat with his left hand, as Christopher did. It was uncomfortable with a ball in his hand—he’d always wanted to flip it away, but there was never time. Also, on those occasions when he didn’t get his first serve in, Alisandro took plenty of time to gather himself together before serving the second ball. Having to take it from his pocket was a sure way to slow himself down and not rush the second serve.

Kissing his mother hello, Christopher rushed upstairs and returned with his reading lamp and a tennis racket. From the driveway he handed an extension cord through the kitchen window to Paloma.

Facing the garage, the lamp casting enough light for him to see a ball in the air, he set his left foot three inches behind a chalk-drawn line, bounced the ball, caught it, bounced it again, and catching it continued its ascent skyward, his body moving with it, stretching, reaching, racket arm cocked above his head, spine arched. Then a combination of his rhythm, muscle and energy exploded in a forward thrust, hurtling the ball into the garage.

A hundred times. The sound of a tennis ball being struck by a racket is not shocking when the sun is shining and there’s a tennis court nearby, but at night, in a driveway with a bedroom lamp to see by, it was at least unusual. At a window of the neighboring house, Judge and Mrs. Newhart had settled down comfortably. This boy bathed in sweat, exhausting himself trying to learn something, was a sight they wanted to see. He was America when it was young and hungry, when it was eager to work hard to be the best.

Strolling along the sidewalk, Joe Hill saw his son. He became aware of Mary and Paloma watching from the kitchen window and joined them. Together, the Hill family and the Newharts watched Christopher, a ball in his pocket, his toe three inches back, bounce and catch, bounce and catch, then up, up, up …

The first thing Christopher saw was her hair, which appeared to him to be a continuation of the sun’s rays shining solely on her. She was at the wheel of a yellow Mustang convertible in the parking lot of the Orlando bus terminal. The top was down and she lounged catty-corner, her back against the door on the driver’s side, her legs stretched across the seats.

From the height of the bus he could see she was wearing white shorts. Her tanned legs excited him more than he wanted at that moment. He was in Orlando to play tennis.

Stepping off the bus he scanned the parking lot for the tournament director, Bryan Jaybeck, who had said he would meet him. The girl in the Mustang was leaning on the horn, waving, and then she was striding toward the bus. He thought it would be ridiculous not to pause and enjoy the sight of that lovely body in motion. She was wearing a faded blue button-down-collar shirt, much too large, with the shirttails tied in front emphasizing her flat stomach and small waist which disappeared into her shorts only to emerge below, gorgeously transformed into a pair of legs that were strong and firm at the thigh, exactly bony enough at the knee, perfect at the calf and delicate at the ankle. She was wearing sneakers and no socks. She made sneakers look sexy.

You must be deaf! Didn’t you hear me honking?

As Christopher stepped aside to make room for the guy who no doubt owned the shirt, she poked him. I’m talking to you, dummy.

Christopher didn’t understand or bother to try. Sky-blue eyes, great skin, great tan. Clean as soap. He dropped his tennis bag, and bending down from his 6’3 he wrapped his right arm around her 5’7, drew her close and gave her a tremendous kiss.

When he let go of her she wobbled backwards. Wow! You must be wild when you hit Paris. His face reddened. She shrugged. My pleasure. Welcome to Orlando. When he tried to get around her, she blocked him. Where do you think you’re going? I’m Dallas Jaybeck. Dad couldn’t make it.

Walking to her car, the best he could think of was How’d you know it was me?

She glanced pointedly at the three tennis rackets under his arm. Wow, you’re a dumb ox. You can drive. She let herself in on the other side as he slid the bucket seat back as far as it would go. Left, she said, then left again at the light, and offered a box of Marlboros.

No thanks. He pushed the dashboard lighter for her.

It’ll stunt your growth, right?

Right.

Soon they were cruising along a small country road. Christopher was aware of Dallas shifting in her seat, leaning against the door staring at him. He reached over to press down the lock, and as he did so took another look at her legs. They were killing him. Do you play tennis?

No, I’m a brain surgeon. These shorts are Fred Perry’s new mini-operating gown.

How come your name is Dallas when you live in Orlando? He grimaced, knowing he’d bombed again on small talk.

That does it. Look, talk tennis, you’ll be safer. You’re second seed …

Second? Who in Florida could they seed over me?

You play Schlagg first round, to play the winner of O’Donnell and Cohen. That’s got to be Bobby Cohen, but you can beat him. I’d say you’re okay till the finals, but then I’m afraid your game develops a fatal illness.

It does?

Campbell-itis. Unless he breaks a leg, you play Chuck Campbell.

Is he here?

She implored the sky. Didn’t I just tell him that Chuck Campbell is alive and playing tennis in Orlando?

The Chuck Campbell? The national junior champion?

Have I lied to you so much through the years that by now you believe nothing I tell you?

It’s just surprising. Creighton, California, is a big jump. It’s not like this is a national tournament.

Nevertheless, the Big Shot is here. Imported by Bryan Jaybeck, who wants a star-studded tournament. Blame him.

Blame? It’s fantastic.

We’re talking about Superboy! Numero Uno! He’ll kill you.

We’ll see.

You can’t think you might win.

I never played a match I didn’t believe I could win.

But wouldn’t it be nice if someone gets lucky and knocks him off early?

No way! Dallas, I can’t look for soft draws, or other guys to knock off the competition. If I’m going to be the best, then I’d better be able to beat the best. Chuck Campbell being here is the greatest thing that could happen to me.

He felt her absorbing what he had said. Then she was thinking aloud. You’re a winner. You may not beat Chuck Campbell, but you’re a winner.

He grinned. How come you want me to win?

Get lost.

I’m serious.

Hospitality. We don’t like losers sleeping on our couch.

Couch?

Well, Mom and Dad certainly aren’t going to move out for you, and I come with my room. They wouldn’t buy that—it might ruin your amateur status.

Is there a hotel near the tournament?

Why? It’s a great couch.

I’ve got to give myself a chance to win, and sleeping on a living room couch means I can’t sleep when I want to. There’ll be people around late …

Take my room. I’ll use the couch. I couldn’t care less.

Okay. Thanks.

After a short silence she asked, Aren’t you going to protest? Just as a matter of form? A little ‘Oh, I couldn’t,’ or ‘It’s very kind, but I don’t want to inconvenience you’? Something?

You said you couldn’t care less. I assumed you meant it.

I did.

Then why should I protest?

Well … people do that sort of thing. He said nothing. Okay, fine. Yes. You’re absolutely right. That is a lot of baloney. Watching him driving she wanted to touch him. She thought his head looked like granite sculpture. Are you going to win Wimbledon someday?

Yes.

And Forest Hills?

Yes.

Will you bring the Davis Cup home to America? And win the French and the Australian the same year you win the others? A slam?

He parked the car by the side of the road. And I’m going to celebrate them right now.

Will you always take care of me?

Yes.

She fell into his arms. Their kiss was gentle, sweet, lingering. Nestled against his right shoulder, she said, That was pretty wild in the bus terminal. Is that your regular act?

No.

Why’d you kiss me, then?

I wanted to.

You always do everything you want to?

I hope so. If it doesn’t hurt anybody. I didn’t think you’d mind.

Beats hell out of shaking hands.

Have you kissed many guys?

Yes. His silence saddened her. Look, when you’re a girl, people are always trying to kiss you. I’d never have let them if I’d known there’d be you.

I won’t be around much. I’ll be playing tournaments. All over the world, I hope.

Me too. If I do well, Dad says I can play Europe.

Make sure you do well.

You know what would be romantic? We play Wimbledon. And when it’s over, we go to the Wimbledon Ball. The first waltz begins—the ladies’ and men’s champions. We walk onto the floor, you take me in your arms …

Are you good enough?

I could be. I have a lot of talent and I’ve got the game. But I’m lazy. Well, not lazy exactly; it’s just that I’ve never really cared all that much about winning. Are you good enough?

I will be.

When?

Soon. I’ve got to get to Europe—which means I’ve got to get noticed by the Association. His eyes were fixed on her with such intensity that she felt she couldn’t move. I’ve got to beat Chuck Campbell. For a relatively unknown player to knock off the red-hot national junior champion—that would be a win! That would get noticed.

Suddenly Dallas had no doubt that Christopher Hill could do anything. Can you imagine my father when he hears this? He’s got big aspirations in tennis—he’s going for president of the USLTA. But never did he dream his daughter would win Wimbledon and that her steady would bring back the Cup and win a Grand Slam.

They kissed again, longer this time, their bodies and senses at peak joy, experiencing first love.

Dallas leaned back against the seat, her face tilted toward the treetops and wailed, Am I really going steady with a big clod who pulls the car over and kisses me in broad daylight on the very road my father is due to come by on at any minute? Is this taking care of me?

The Orlando Tennis Club was dressed for a party, flying hundreds of triangular red-and-white flags, sporting red-and-white striped tents, and the members were there en masse, supporting their president, Bryan Jaybeck.

Christopher and Dallas walked from the tent marked Players Only, where lunch was served during the tournament, and took seats in the players’ section of the grandstand in time for the warm-up before the opening match: Charles Chuck Campbell vs. Harvey Kraft.

Yeah … Dallas sighed, appreciating Campbell’s flowing, precise and solidly grooved strokes. It’s scary to see a guy so good. At sixteen. She wished she could withdraw the words, but Christopher was studying the players so intently that he hadn’t heard. Soon he watched only Campbell.

Christopher thought that Chuck Campbell walked through the dressing room smiling, accepting congratulations, continuing toward his locker, as if he’d been winning matches for twenty years. He stripped out of his wet clothes, put a towel around his waist and sat down to cool off. Christopher observed that he did not appear tired, despite the hot May sun.

Well played. He offered his hand. I’m Christopher Hill. I’m hoping to play you in the finals.

Goodonya. I’d like that; I’ve heard about you. And I caught your action in the stands. Everything but instant-playback. You learn anything?

I’ll know better when I get to play you.

Keep it filed. There are lots of tournaments. He stood up. I’m going to shower and catch the third match.

That’s mine. Then he laughed at Campbell’s grin and walked toward his own locker.

Ward Schlagg was blocking his way. Over Ward’s shoulder Christopher saw his three rackets on the floor in front of his locker, their strings slashed into dozens of shriveled ends. He had spent a full day going to Miami, working with the stringer, having each racket strung exactly to the tension he wanted. He’d wrapped new leather grips on each handle and practiced with them just long enough to ease the stiffness out of the new gut.

Ward tried to dart past him, but a mitt of a hand caught him at the neck and slammed him against the locker.

Don’t hit me, Ward croaked. I didn’t mean you any harm. I couldn’t beat you, but if I got past you I might get to the quarters. And I’ve gotta have some wins or I can’t get a scholarship. I’ll get drafted.

Christopher had no intention of breaking a knuckle on Ward Schlagg. He released him. Suit up. We’re playing our match. I want the practice.

Using the razor blade Ward had dropped, Christopher slashed the uncut strings, relieving the uneven tension which would have warped the frames. He thought of Dallas’ rackets, but they’d be too light. Not that it mattered for this match—he could beat Ward with a copy of Life magazine—but he wanted the same rackets for the whole tournament.

Chuck Campbell had dressed and was combing his wet hair, when in the mirror he saw Christopher approaching. What’s wrong?

I need a favor. A big one. A guy just slashed my rackets—all three of them. Can you spare a couple?

Campbell took