Chapter 5

In September, Mom, Anna, and I moved to the condo on Longboat Key.

Dad and Sean stayed in Indiana. Dad had his practice. Sean had school.

I would train at the Colony. Not with Nick—he'd left when he opened the Academy—but with the pros who worked there. The ones who gave lessons to resort guests.

I enrolled in correspondence courses through the University of Nebraska. I'd study in the mornings, practice in the afternoons.

It wasn't the Academy. But it would work.

Don Leary

The Colony's new tennis director was Don Leary.

Stiff. Formal. Always wore long bermuda shorts and high socks pulled up to his knees.

He had a book out that tried to teach tennis through visual cues. "Clear the shelf." "Comb your hair." If he wanted you to put weight on your front foot before serving, he'd say "Mash the potato."

One day he looked down at me, wearing his white crisp blazer and matching shorts.

"Do you know what the word-picture technique is?" he asked.

I shook my head no.

"I will paint a picture for you to see. Like Michelangelo. Lisa, do you know who Michelangelo is?"

I nodded yes.

"Well, I want you to picture yourself at the net, and you make a motion like a karate chop. Can you do that?"

"Yes," I nodded. And I did it.

"Good girl. Now do the same when you hit your forehand volley."

It was the same every lesson.

Move like an inchworm. Trace the watermelon. Sweep the Coke bottles.

I took lessons from him once or twice a week. When I got home one day, my mom was upset. "Mr. Leary asked if you speak English," she said. "What?"

"He wanted to know if you speak English." "Why would he ask that?"

"I don't know."

"I had to tell him of course you speak English," Mom said. "And then Don Leary told me, 'Well, it's very strange. When I ask her to do something, she does the opposite. Maybe she does not under-stand my pictures.'"

I started laughing.

"Why are you laughing?"

"Mom, I knew what he was saying. I just can't stand tracing the watermelon... or spanking that blanket..."

More laughter.

"Well, Lisa, he is allowing you to play there for free." "Okay, Mom."

"Mom, if Brian or Kathy said it to me, I would listen. But then again, they wouldn't. Never. Never."

More laughter. Then I pretended to work on my forehand back-swing and mimicked Leary. "Go around the watermelon."

But I showed up.

The Pros

What I did like were the other pros.

Brian was tall, good-looking, athletic. He liked to serve and volley—would charge the net on every point. He'd try to help me with my serve, showing me how to use more leg drive.

Kathy was from Ft. Lauderdale. Pretty, smart and a permanent smile on her face.

She was great with the guests. Fun to be around. She could handle the irate ones—the ones who complained about court times or wanted refunds—and somehow leave them happy.

Mom trusted Kathy. Which meant Mom would let me go places with her.

Kathy even took me to the movies once.

Brian, Kathy, Becky, Del and the rest of the pros were great. They'd call me when they needed someone to play with a guest.

Singles. Doubles. Whatever.

I hit with anyone.

The Daily Routine

Every day I was there, I'd take my sandwich at noon.

Climb the steps to the balcony that overlooked courts one, two, three, and four.

Sit and eat. Thirty minutes.

Watch the players below. The guests taking lessons. The members playing doubles.

Then I'd go down and practice serves.

The guests were always nice. Sometimes I had to hit softer so we could have longer rallies. They'd smile when they won a point. Thank me after.

It wasn't serious competition.

But it was court time. And that's what I needed.

Running with Carling

Carling Bassett was training at the NBTA, but she lived with her parents on Longboat Key.

We started running together in the mornings.

I'd run down the beach to her house. About half a mile. Then we'd turn around and run up the beach for two miles. Turn back.

I'd go home. She'd finish the last half mile to her house. We'd talk while we ran. About boys, mostly.

Who was cute. Who wasn't. Who said what to who. Normal twelve-year-old stuff.

It felt good to have a friend who understood. Who trained as hard as I did. Who knew what it meant to choose tennis over every-thing else.

Halloween

Halloween came.

I found a costume at a vintage store—a saloon showgirl outfit from some theater company. The costume had a lace overlay on the chest with tassels. I couldn't believe my mom let me wear it, but she did.

Carling went as a ghost. She took a sheet and put holes in it for her eyes.

We went trick-or-treating together on Longboat Key.

Carried plastic pumpkin buckets. Knocked on doors and said "Trick or treat!" like normal kids.

For one night, we weren't tennis players. We were just kids.

The Gap

The arrangement worked.

I was getting court time. I was training with good players—not elite players, but good enough to keep me sharp.

Mom was happy because I wasn't at Nick's Academy. I was still living with her. Still under her watch.

The correspondence courses from Nebraska were easy. I'd finish the work, mail it in, wait for the next packet.

For a science project I had to look at bacteria under a micro-scope and write a report. I swabbed the inside of the toilet and my tennis grip.

Yuck. The toilet was cleaner. But something was missing. I knew it even then.

The Colony pros were good. But they could only hit with me on their downtime. When they weren't giving lessons to paying guests.

The guests were nice. But they were intermediate players. The players back in Indiana were better.

Carling was training at the Academy. With Nick's other players.

With the best.

I was training at a resort. It wasn't the same.

I told myself it was fine. That this was enough. But I knew better.

The Tournaments

I played the National Indoor Championships that fall. Got to the quarters. Lost to my doubles partner, who went on to win the tournament.

Then came September.

Longboat Key

An international tournament at the Longboat Key Tennis Club. The 18-and-under division.

I was twelve years old.

The air on Longboat Key was thick with summer. Salt from the bay and the Gulf hung in everything. The courts were Hard-Tru—dark green crushed stone that left pale prints when you moved and dusted your socks gray-green by the second game.

The courts ran east to west. The sun came straight into your eyes from one direction, burning into your back from the other. I squinted beneath my white visor, my wristbands already dark with sweat.

Between the courts sat white player chairs. A narrow strip of shade. My red Igloo cooler sat beside one, packed with ice water that clinked when I lifted it. A white towel draped over the chair back, already damp.

The tournament draw had thirty-two players. Most of them were Nick's.

Steve was there. The same coach from the Colony. He was coaching Nick's Academy players now—the ones I was about to play.

Round of 16. Quarters. Semis. One by one, I beat them.

Nick's own players. The ones who'd been training at his Acad-emy. The ones who were supposed to be untouchable.

The Third Set

The semifinals went to three sets.

I won the first. She won the second.

During the break before the third set, I sat in my chair. Drank from the Igloo. Pressed the cold towel to my face.

Across the net, Steve was talking to her. Coaching her. Telling her how to beat me.

He could do that. I wasn't one of Nick's players.

I could hear his voice but not the words. Her nodding. Taking it in.

When we walked back onto the court for the third set, she'd adjusted. Changed her game plan.

It didn't matter.

I won the third set. I won the match.

The Invitation

I don't know exactly when Steve called Nick.

Maybe right after the semifinals. Maybe that night. But Nick heard.

The next day, before the finals, the invitation came. Not through a letter. Through Steve.

Nick wanted me to come back to the Academy.

Not as a visitor. Not to train on the back courts like I had at the Colony.

He wanted me to train with his best players. The ones I'd just beaten. The ones who competed at the highest level.

Stadium Court level.

I played the finals that afternoon. Won in straight sets.

Took home the trophy.

But the trophy wasn't what mattered.

What mattered was that Nick had seen—through Steve, through the results, through the proof on those Hard-Tru courts—that I belonged at the elite level.

I'd beaten his best. And he wanted me. My parents said no.

The Flag Ceremony

Granny and Grandda flew down from Michigan in January. For the tournament. The Subaru Bollettieri International Tennis Tourna-

ment at Nick's new Academy. One hundred and eighty players from forty different countries. An international invitation-only event.

Grandda was retired from Cadillac. He'd put windows on cars for thirty years. Before that, back in Ireland, he'd been a glassmaker by hand. He immigrated because of the Troubles. Brought his trade with him. Brought his accent. Brought his two-pack-a-day habit.

He was always coughing. Always had been, my whole life.

He was going to see me play for the first time. The first time ever.

The Ceremony

The Academy required a flag ceremony the day before the tourna-ment started. All the players and their families. So Mom, Dad, and I went. Granny and Grandda and stayed at the condo with Anna and Sean. They took them to the swimming pool and the beach while we were gone.

Mom drove. Dad in the passenger seat. Me in the back, watching the palm trees blur past the window.

The new Academy wasn't like the resort where I'd done the clinic. This was different. We pulled through the gates and I saw it: enormous. Clay courts at the front and hardcourts stretching every-where else. Sponsor banners everywhere—Prince, Ellesse, Nike. Two-story apartment buildings. Everything clean. Everything new. Everything with a purpose.

There was a cafeteria. A study hall with rows of desks. A weight room—Nautilus machines and free weights.

This wasn't a resort anymore. This was a machine.

The Tour

Julio spotted us in the parking lot. He waved, walking over with that same easy smile.

"Hello," he said. "Nice to see you again, Lisa." "Hi, Julio."

"It's been too long."

He shook my dad's hand, then my mom's.

"We have been busy since you left." He gestured at the buildings, the courts, everything. "Would you like a tour before the ceremony?"

He showed us the pool deck first. A bunch of kids were sitting on some of the lounge chairs. Then the TV room—couches, a big screen. And Atari arcade machines: Centipede, Ms. Pac-Man, Asteroids, Missile Command, and a pinball machine!

The cafeteria with its long tables and industrial kitchen. Then the dorms.

"Two bedrooms per condo," Julio explained, opening a door to show us. "Four kids to a room. Two bunk beds in each."

The rooms were small but clean. Windows that looked out onto the courts.

"The schedule is simple," Julio said. "Wake-up at six. Drills until eleven. Lunch. More drills. Dinner at six. Study hall at seven. In the room at ten, lights out at ten-thirty."

He looked at me.

"If you come back, Lisa, you'll be in school until noon, then lunch, and on the courts by one-oh-five."

I smiled. "But I'm already taking correspondence courses." Mom shot me a look.

My parents asked questions. About supervision. About acade-mics. About how often kids went home. I wasn't really listening. I was imagining myself in one of those rooms. Imagining waking up at six. Imagining belonging here.

The Porch

We got back to the condo around seven. The Florida night was warm. Humid. But Grandda was still on the porch, smoking.

I slid the sliding glass door open. "Hi! We're back!"

He said, "I was wondering when you were getting back." "What time are you playing tomorrow?" he asked. "Morning. Nine, I think."

He nodded, took a drag. "Good. Good."

Granny came out through the sliding glass door, her Irish lilt unchanged by decades in Michigan.

"We're very excited to see your match, Lisa."

There wouldn't be a crowd. Just them. Just Grandda, finally watching.

He stubbed out his cigarette in the ashtray on the patio table. Lit another.

I stood there for a moment.

"Can we play gin before I go to bed?" He took a drag.

"Yeah," he said. "Let's get some bark."

I turned to go back through the sliding glass door. To get the cards and the roll of pennies.

Behind me, I heard him get up. Then a thud.

I turned back.

He was grabbing onto the sliding glass door. He took a few steps into the living room.

Grandda was on his knees in the living room. He'd made it through the sliding glass door but couldn't go any further. His eyes were wide—looking at Granny on the couch. He reached out with one hand. Handed her his wallet.

That's when she started crying.

With the other hand, he grabbed the back of her neck. Pulled her to him. Kissed her.

That was it.

Dad rushed over from the kitchen. Dropped to the floor. Started CPR. Pushing on his chest. Breathing into his mouth. Counting.

One. Two. Three. Four.

Someone called 911. I don't know who. Mom was there. Granny was crying. Sean was frozen. Anna was babbling, not understanding, reaching for Granny, for Mom, for anyone.

I just stood there, frozen. Watching my father try to bring my grandfather back.

Fifteen. Sixteen. Seventeen. Breathe. One. Two. Three.

The Wait

Mom said, "Go outside and wait for the ambulance so they know where to go when they get here."

I flung the door open and sprinted down the long brick corridor, then leaped over the entry steps to the building. I stopped at the curb.

No sounds. Just crickets.

I started praying. Oh God, Oh God. Then I was saying the Our Father as fast as I could. Then Hail Mary. Over and over again.

Still no sounds.

I ran over to the guard house to let them know that an ambu-lance was coming and to send them directly to where I was on the curb.

Our Father. Hail Mary. Where are they? Did they get caught by the bridge?

Time stood still. The Florida night was warm. Humid.

I ran back to let Mom know I was still waiting. She just looked at me. I could hear Dad still pushing. Still trying.

I sprinted down the corridor again. Another leap. Why? Why?

I heard a faint siren. And then louder and louder. I was waving my arms frantically for them to see me as they went through the gate.

The ambulance arrived. The paramedics moved fast. Equip-ment. Voices. Urgency.

They loaded Grandda onto a stretcher. Granny went with him.

Mom and Dad followed the ambulance to the hospital.

The Night

I stayed at the condo with Sean. Anna was still awake. Confused. Fussy. I picked her up. Walked her around the living room until she settled. Until her eyes finally closed. Until her breathing went soft and even.

Sean sat on the couch. Silent.

We waited.

The cards were still on the table. The pennies still stacked. We never got to play.

Grandda never came back from the hospital.

The Morning

The next morning, I was supposed to play my first round at nine a.m.

The tournament withdrew me. Not a default—those count as losses, hurt your ranking. A withdrawal. Medical. Family emergency.

I was devastated.

Not because of my ranking. Not because of the match. Because Grandda died. Because he'd flown all the way from Michigan to see me play, and now he never would. Because we never got to play gin. Because the cards were still on the table, waiting.

Because maybe he shouldn't have flown at all. Maybe the trip was too much. The excitement. The travel. The heat. Maybe if he'd stayed home in Michigan, in the cold, in his chair, he'd still be alive.

Maybe it was my fault.

Later, Dad said he felt guilty. He'd made Grandda smoke on the porch. Outside. Away from the family. If he'd seen his face, he would have known. Would have seen it was ashen. Would have called 911 sooner.

I don't know if it would have mattered.

What I do know is this: Grandda knew I loved him. And I know he still loves me. And I him.

Two Weeks Later

Two weeks later, my parents sat me down. "We've been thinking," Dad said.

Mom's hands were folded on the table. Her expression calm, measured.

"About the Academy," she continued.

I didn't say anything. Just waited.

"You can go to the Academy," Dad said. His voice steady, final. "Mom and Anna are going to spend some time with Granny. Sean and I will head back to Indiana."

I blinked. I stared at them. Dad nodded. "You can stay." I nodded.

"Okay," I said. "Okay."

That night, I packed. Clothes. Racquets. My correspondence course books.

I lay in bed that night, staring at the ceiling, and thought about Grandda falling to his knees. About Dad's hands on his chest. About the ambulance. About the cards still on the table.

Everyone was leaving. Mom and Anna to Granny. Sean and Dad back to Indiana.

And I was going to the Academy.

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