Chapter 9

RECRUITING

I was a top recruit. Five of the top ten schools in the nation were offering full scholarships—tuition, housing, books, everything.

I wasn't excited about it.

My friends—Raffy, Carling, Terry, the girls I'd trained with at the Academy—they were on the circuit now. Playing professionally. Traveling to tournaments. Living the life I'd been training for since I was ten.

I kept in touch using my AT&T calling card. Long distance calls, trying to stay connected to the world I wanted to be part of while everyone around me was planning my college future.

My mother wanted me to look at Harvard. They couldn't give athletic scholarships, but they said they'd work something out. She also pushed William & Mary. It wasn't in the top ten, but it was prestigious. Safe.

I was looking at Trinity, Miami, University of Florida, Berkeley, Pepperdine, Clemson.

My only criteria: How was the coach? How was the team?

I chose Berkeley without visiting. I had older friends on the team. I figured if they were there, it would be fine.

Then I got a phone call from one of them. They were having problems with the coach. Serious problems. They wanted me to know before I committed.

I thought: if I could just train harder, have a really good summer, maybe my parents would let me play the circuit for a year. Maybe I could prove college could wait.

But my wrists weren't holding up. My ankles were starting to fail. I told myself if the tape could hold, so could I.

The Breaking

"Hop up here," Raymond said, patting the edge of the massage table. I slid onto the vinyl, its surface chilled from the overworked air-conditioning, and the familiar soundtrack of indoor tennis filled the room.

From the courts just beyond the thin wall came the rhythm of the game: the pop of a ball leaving the strings, a sharp grunt, quick shallow breaths, sneakers squeaking, a racquet clattering after a missed shot.

And beneath it all, faint but steady, the small radio on the counter—a crackling 1980s FM station. Synth-pop humming under the static. The DJ talking too fast. A commercial for a car dealership fading in and out with the court noise.

Raymond didn't seem to hear any of it. He was focused on my wrist, on the tools laid out on the cluttered metal tray—gauze, pre-wrap, rolls of white athletic tape stacked like poker chips, a jar of menthol cream, and scissors worn smooth from years of use.

"Flex your fingers," he said. "Good—keep 'em like that."

He tore the first strip of tape with that crisp trainer's snap, anchoring it around my wrist. Then came the figure-8, the tape threaded cleanly between my thumb and index finger, pulled snug, wrapped down, looped around the wrist, back up again.

He smoothed it with his thumb, checked my mobility, tugged gently, tested the tension. Perfect.

"You better learn how to do this yourself before your next tour-nament," he said, sealing the last strip across the back of my wrist. "Can't rely on me to follow you around the country."

I laughed. "Yeah, yeah. You've told me."

"And I'll tell you again." He stepped back with a satisfied nod. "Alright. You're good to go."

I hopped down, grabbed my racquet. "Hey—" he called after me.

I turned.

"Don't forget to ice later."

He said it like a threat, but with that half-smile that meant he cared more than he'd ever admit.

By April, I was taping both wrists and both ankles. Every morn-ing. Every practice. Every match. The pain was constant now—a dull throb that sharpened with every serve, every backhand. My ankles were worse. The figure-eight pattern didn't help anymore. Tendonitis had settled in deep, chronic.

Spring Invitational, 1985

April. Tropicana Spring Invitational. Bradenton, Florida.

I was the defending champion. Carmen was the top seed.

Stephanie was second. I was seeded lower than both of them.

The early rounds went fine. Straight-set wins. My serve was solid. My movement was decent despite the pain.

I made it to the semifinals.

The Day Before

Mary Carillo called the afternoon before my match.

"Just want to get some background," she said. "A few questions for the broadcast."

She asked about my training. About the Academy. About how I prepared.

Then she asked about injuries.

I didn't know Raymond had given her my folder. Both wrists.

Both ankles. The chronic tendonitis. "Why push that hard?" she asked.

I tried to explain. "I'm small. I'm short. The other girls are bigger, stronger. If I can be faster, quicker to every ball—"

"But at what cost?"

I didn't have an answer for that.

She was nice about it. Professional. We talked for maybe ten minutes, then hung up.

I didn't think much about it.

The Match

Carmen. Fluid, artistic, slicing and dropping, cutting up the court.

When I walked onto the court, I saw the cameras. ESPN. Live coverage. Cameras along the baseline, boom mics overhead, red recording lights blinking.

Mary Carillo and Cliff Drysdale were in the commentary booth.

The match started. Windy day.

Carmen served first. Heavy slice. I got my racquet on it but the return floated long.

Fifteen-love.

She hit a forehand down the line. I couldn't get there in time. Thirty-love.

Another forehand, crosscourt. I ran for it, stretched, barely got my racquet on it. The ball sailed wide.

Forty-love.

She served again. I returned it short. She stepped in and hit a winner.

Game to Carmen.

My serve now. I tossed the ball. My wrist protested as I came up to hit. The serve went in but sat up, no pace. She crushed it back at me.

Love-fifteen.

Second serve. She attacked it. I scrambled, hit a defensive slice.

She came to net, put away the volley.

Love-thirty.

She broke my serve. Then held hers. Then broke me again. Before I knew it, she was up 5-1. I won one game—held serve—

but it didn't matter.

She served out the set. 6-2.

The second set was just as bad. The wind picked up and Carmen was slicing and dicing, not giving me any pace to swing at. At 5-0 down, I tried to change my game and go to the net. Got it to 5-2.

Serving to stay in the match, the game went back and forth. I missed five overheads. Any one of them would have made it 4-3.

I lost the second set 6-2.

I shook hands at the net. Grabbed my bag. Walked off the court. I didn't look at the cameras.

What She Said

My mother was waiting near the gate. Her face was tight. Angry. Embarrassed.

"Pack your things," she said. I stared at her. "What?" "You're leaving. Now."

"I just—Mom, I just lost. It happens. I can still—"

"No." Her voice was low, controlled. Furious. "You're done. Pack your things."

I didn't understand. I'd lost before. "Why?" I asked.

She didn't answer. Just turned and walked toward the parking

lot.

Later, I found out.

During the match—while I was on the court, playing, focused

on trying to keep up with Carmen—Mary Carillo had been in the commentary booth with Cliff Drysdale.

Live on ESPN, she'd said: "Her poor mother had to grab her by

the ankles and say stop. She is the poster child for kids who overtrain."

My father was watching from Indiana. Live television. He heard it.

My Granny heard it.

My mother heard it at the tournament. Friends. Family. Everyone they knew. National television.

My father's phone started ringing.

I begged them. Implored them to let me go back to the Academy.

They let me go back after a week. But only after I swore on Grandda's grave that I would not overtrain.

I meant it.

But my body was already broken.

Irish Open, Summer 1985

I went back to Ireland. The Irish Open. Fitzwilliam Lawn Tennis Club in Dublin. The same tournament I'd won two years earlier when I was fourteen. The youngest player ever to win it.

My mother came with me. We stayed at the same B&B near the club.

The first match was fine. I won the first set 6-1. Then I couldn't hold the racquet.

I retired.

Federation Cup

There was supposed to be a Federation Cup opportunity that summer. I would have represented Ireland. Played for the national team.

But I couldn't play. I'd retired from the Irish Open. My body had given out.

The opportunity disappeared. Someone else got the spot. Another door closed.

The Plan

I was going to Belfast in June. Staying with family—the Hendersons on Earlscourt Street. My mother would come with me.

From there, we'd travel south to Dublin. Good grass courts at Fitzwilliam, the kind of preparation I needed for Wimbledon.

I'd been approved in 1984 to represent Ireland. My mother was from Belfast, so I could. For Wimbledon, I was entered as Lisa Pamintuan from Ireland.

If I did well—really well—there was a chance my parents would let me try the pro circuit instead of going to college.

Not a guarantee. A chance.

I needed Wimbledon. Not just to play it. To save everything.

WIMBLEDON

Belfast, 1985. I was sixteen years old, about to turn seventeen, staying with my mother's family on Earlscourt Street.

My mother was with me. My father was home in the United States.

We were planning to travel south to Dublin for grass court prac-tice in preparation for Wimbledon. I'd been approved in 1984 to represent Ireland—my mother was from Belfast, so I could. For Wimbledon, I was entered as Lisa Pamintuan from Ireland.

I hadn't made it to Dublin yet.

The Call

The bombing happened in London. I remember hearing about it on the news. The IRA claimed responsibility. People died.

Then my father called from the United States.

I was in the back living room when the phone rang. The TV was on—some game show, the volume low. The coal fire was burning, the room warm despite the damp outside. It had been drizzling all afternoon, that fine Belfast rain that soaked through everything.

My aunt answered. "It's your da," she said, handing me the phone.

His voice was matter-of-fact, careful. "Lisa. Wimbledon called."

I waited.

"They said you're a security risk. They're not going to let you play."

The room didn't change. The TV kept playing. The fire kept burning.

"Is there anything we can do?" "No. There's nothing we can do." "Can we appeal? Can we—" "There's nothing we can do, Lisa." I handed the phone to my mother.

She took it, her face already set. I watched her listen, watched her jaw tighten. When she spoke, her voice was quiet, controlled. Furious. But helpless.

"This is ridiculous. She's sixteen years old. She's representing Ireland. She's never been involved in anything—"

She stopped. Listened. "I see."

She hung up.

We sat there in the warm room with the fire burning and the TV playing and the smell of coal smoke and tea. The game show host's voice kept going. Someone won a car. The studio audience cheered.

After

I went with my cousins to get fish and chips a few days later—wrapped in greaseproof paper inside and newspaper outside, the Irish News, the bundle steaming in my hands. We tore it open outside the chippy, the smell of vinegar and grease mixing with the damp air.

I ate it. Chewed. Swallowed.

The Waste Ground

My cousin Patrick found me in the back living room one night. The fire was low, the room dim. Everyone else had gone to bed.

"You're leaving next week," he said. I nodded.

"Come on, then. Let's blow off some steam."

It was late—after ten, but still light out, the sky that strange pale gray it got in summer. We walked through the streets, the air cool and damp. A few people were out. A car passed. In the distance, I could hear a helicopter.

We ended up at a waste ground. About twenty people were gathered there, mostly young men—teenagers, early twenties—a few women. Standing in clusters, talking, smoking. Someone had a radio playing The Undertones. "Teenage Kicks."

Patrick led me to a group near the back. His friends already knew me.

"This is my cousin," Patrick said. "She's leaving next week." "Shame," one of them said. "Could use another arm."

They were making bottles as they stood there. Glass bottles, beer bottles mostly. Filled with petrol from a jerry can. Rags stuffed in the necks. The smell was overwhelming—sharp, chemical, burned my nose, made my eyes water.

"Petrol bombs," Patrick said. "Molotov cocktails. Whatever you want to call them." He grinned. "Don't worry. It's safe enough. They don't shoot unless you get too close."

"Patrick—"

"Come on. You're leaving next week. You should at least see what it's like."

He handed me one.

It was heavier than I expected. The glass warm from the petrol inside. The rag already damp, soaked through.

"You just light it and throw," he said. "Aim for the street. Not the soldiers. We're not trying to kill anyone. Just make a point."

"What point?"

He looked at me like I was stupid. "That we're still here. That they can't make us leave."

Someone shouted.

The soldiers came around the corner. Four of them, walking in formation, rifles across their chests. Helmets, flak jackets. Young faces, pale and tense.

The crowd shifted, moved forward.

Patrick lit his bottle. The rag caught immediately, flame licking toward his hand. He threw it.

The bottle arced through the air, spinning, trailing fire. It hit the pavement twenty feet in front of the soldiers and exploded. Glass shattering. Flames spreading across the wet street. Black smoke rising.

The soldiers stopped. Raised their rifles. Shouted.

Others threw. Then another. Then another. Bottles spinning through the gray air, flames blooming, the sound echoing—glass breaking, fire roaring, people shouting.

"Your turn."

Patrick held out the lighter.

I looked at the bottle. At the soldiers. At the flames. With tears in my eyes, I said, "What's the point?"

##### Back

I went back to the Academy eventually. Back to Florida, back to the courts, back to the routine that had defined my life for four years.

Everything was the same. The courts, the drills, Nick's voice calling out corrections.

Some of the students asked me, "How was your summer?" Some of them already knew because they'd played Wimbledon. I said it was fine.

One afternoon, running forehand drills, Nick was trying to make me hit up on the ball. I kept hitting into the net. Or flat.

"Focus," Nick said.

I nodded. Hit another one wrong. "Lisa."

I looked at him.

He didn't say anything. Just looked at me, then turned away. "Again," he said.

My body moved. My eyes were somewhere else.

US OPEN

It was a cloudy and humid day for my first-round match at the US Open.

I was seventeen. Seven weeks after Belfast, after the phone call, after everything fell apart.

I was scheduled fourth on—three matches before mine. Raffy let me stay with her at the Essex House on Central Park South. My parents stayed in the Park Central Hotel.

Being fourth on, I had time to eat breakfast at the hotel and time to kill.

The first match ended in an injury retirement. Less than an hour.

The second match: same thing. Another injury.

The call came through—I don't remember who called me, but the message was clear: get here now.

The Subway

Suddenly I was second on. Now I had no time.

I immediately left by taking a courtesy car from the hotel to Flushing Meadows. But I was stuck in traffic. Forty-five minutes passed. I was trying to remember who was playing before me. It's going to be straight sets.

I asked the cab driver how to get to Flushing Meadows using the subway. I paid him and ran down the steps.

The train rocked through the tunnel, fluorescent lights flickering overhead. A man across from me was reading the Daily News. A woman with shopping bags sat near the door. The car smelled like wet clothes and metal and something fried from someone's break-

fast. I watched the stations slide past. 74th Street. 82nd Street. Junc-tion Boulevard.

My hands were tight on the straps. I counted the seconds between stops.

The train couldn't go faster. I just sat there, watching the dark-ness, my racquet bag across my lap, my hands gripping the straps.

When we finally pulled into Mets-Willets Point, I ran.

Through the turnstile, up the stairs. I ran through the grounds, my bag banging against my hip, my racquets in their case, every-thing feeling too heavy and too slow.

Security stopped me.

I fumbled for my player badge, my hands shaking, trying to explain that I was playing, that I was late, that I needed to get to the court right now.

They checked my credentials. They took their time. Finally, they let me through.

Fifteen-Love

I ran to the court. The umpire was in the chair. People were waiting.

The match had started without me.

Point penalty. Fifteen-love down before I'd hit a single ball. No time for a warmup.

I walked onto the court sweating, my heart still pounding, my mind still catching up. The girl I was playing was American—ready, warmed up, waiting. She looked at me like I'd already lost.

Maybe I had.

I served the first point and my shoulder felt wrong. Not injured exactly, but tight. Unresponsive. Like there was a delay between what I wanted and what my body would do.

I'd been overtraining for years. I knew that now.

She broke me in the first game. I bounced the ball six times before serving the next game. Then seven. Then eight.

I tried to break back. Got to deuce twice. But my legs felt heavy, my timing off. The ball I used to read so easily—the spin, the speed,

where it would land—now seemed to arrive too fast or too slow, never quite right.

She held. I held. She broke again. First set gone.

Between points, I could hear the crowd in Armstrong, could hear someone's radio playing.

Second Set

Second set was worse.

My backhand, the shot I'd hit ten thousand times, started spray-ing. Long, then wide, then into the net. My body was doing some-thing I couldn't control, something that had been building for months, maybe years.

She won 6-3, 6-2. First round. Out.

The locker room afterward was fluorescent-bright and too warm. It smelled like liniment and shampoo and wet towels. A few other players were there—one getting taped, another on her phone. No one looked at me.

I sat on the bench and stared at my racquet bag.

Doubles went better. Second round before we lost. But it didn't matter.

The end didn't come with some dramatic final moment. A late start, a point penalty, and a body that wouldn't do what I asked anymore. An unforced error.

And I couldn't argue. Not after this. Not after Belfast. Not after everything that was supposed to happen this summer didn't.

Fifteen-love down before I'd hit a single ball. And no way back.

HE BEGINNING OF THE END

May. Tournament season.

The Academy was loud in the mornings now. Players packing for tournaments, racquet bags lined up in the hallways, coaches checking travel schedules, calling out court assignments for those staying behind.

I was packing too.

But not for a tournament.

Packing

My duffel bag sat open on my bed. I folded my practice clothes, stacked them inside. T-shirts. Shorts.

Across the hall, I could hear two girls talking. They were going to a challenger in North Carolina. One of them was laughing about something her coach had said. The other was worried about her draw.

I kept folding.

My racquets were already in their case. I'd restrung them two days ago, even though I didn't need to. Habit. The strings were fresh, tension perfect. I zipped the case shut.

Raymond

Raymond found me in the training room that afternoon. "You leaving?" he asked.

"Yeah."

He nodded. Didn't ask where I was going. Didn't need to. "Your wrists feeling any better?"

"Not really."

He looked at the tape on the counter—the rolls of white athletic tape I'd gone through hundreds of, thousands of times.

"You ever learn to do it yourself?" I almost smiled. "No."

"Figures." He picked up one of the rolls, turned it over in his hands. "You know where to find me if you need anything."

"Thanks, Raymond."

He put the tape down and walked out. That was it. No speech. No goodbye.

Last Practice

The last practice was on a Thursday. I wasn't scheduled to play, but I went to the courts anyway. Sat in the bleachers and watched the drills.

Nick was running a group through volleys. "Move your feet. Get there early. Set up." His voice carried across the courts, familiar, relentless.

A girl missed a volley. Nick shook his head. "Again." She hit it again. Better this time.

"Good. Now do it fifty more times."

I watched for an hour. The rhythm of it. The ball machine feeding balls. The players running, hitting, resetting. The squeak of shoes. The pop of strings.

It looked the same as it always had. Except I wasn't on the court.

Pizza

That night, some of the players were going out for pizza. Someone knocked on my door.

"You coming?" "No. I'm good." "You sure?" "Yeah."

They left. I heard them laughing down the hallway, car doors slamming, engine starting.

I sat on my bed and looked at my packed duffel bag.

Six weeks until college. SMU. Full scholarship. Coach seemed fine. Team seemed solid.

It wasn't the circuit. But it was something.

Chip

The next morning, I was carrying my duffel bag down the hallway when I saw Chip Brooks coming out of the coaches' office.

He stopped. Looked at the bag, at my racquet case leaning against the wall.

"Heading out?" he asked. "Yeah."

He nodded. Shifted his weight.

"PARMintwan," he said, Kentucky twang thick as ever. Got my name wrong like he always had. "You'll be fine. Good luck."

"Thanks, Chip."

He put his hand on my shoulder. Heavy, warm. Then pulled me in for a hug.

It wasn't like Chip to hug anyone.

I stood there for a second, surprised, then hugged him back.

He let go, nodded once more, and walked past me toward the courts.

That was it.

Leaving

My mother picked me up an hour later.

She helped me load my bags into the car. The duffel. The racquet case. A box of books.

"Ready?" she asked.

I looked back at the Academy. The courts were already full. Players warming up, coaches watching, the machine humming along.

"Yeah."

We drove out through the gates. I didn't look back again.

In the car, my mother turned on the radio. Some pop song from the summer. She hummed along.

I watched the palm trees slide past. The flat Florida landscape. The billboards advertising hotels and theme parks and orange juice.

Everything looked the same as it always had. But something had ended.

Not with some final match. Not with a ceremony or a trophy or a speech.

Just with a Thursday practice I didn't play in, a duffel bag packed, a car pulling out through the gates.

The Academy would keep going. The players would keep train-ing. The tournaments would keep happening.

Just without me.

The Death of a Dream

The circuit was full now—Raffy, Terry, the girls I'd trained with. They were playing challengers, qualifying for bigger tournaments, climbing the rankings.

I'd be at SMU in August. Dorm room. College tennis. Classes. My mother glanced over at me. "You okay?"

"Yeah."

She didn't push it.

We drove in silence for a while. The radio played. The air condi-tioning hummed.

Somewhere behind us, the Academy was still running drills.

Players were still chasing balls, still taping ankles, still dreaming.

I'd had that dream since I was ten years old.

And now it was May. I was seventeen. And I was driving away.

‍