Sudden Death (7 page)

K
ansas City rose out of the plains like an act of human imagination. The tournament was on the Missouri side of town. Straight as the crow flies, 277 miles to the east lay St. Louis, perched on the banks of the Mississippi. No two cities could be more different and yet belong to the same state. A remembrance of the East Coast still lingered in St. Louis. Kansas City belonged to the West, to the legend of cattle drives and cowboys and perhaps to the future. No one would accuse K.C. of being a beautiful city, but it possessed an energy which was infectious.

This was Harriet’s third go-round on the Tomahawk Circuit, so she could untangle the labyrinth under the downtown arena with ease. Just knowing one’s way around made any tournament that much more pleasant. She looked forward to visiting the small but excellent art museum. If Carmen had a full day off, they’d go together. If not, Harriet would hop a cab and go by herself. The travel of tennis is dislocating enough, but often players didn’t know their schedules until the day they arrived or the morning of the first day of play. Dinner plans, movies, and a quiet walk were all subject to the tyranny of scheduling. Scheduling was done with an eye to the gate, so Carmen was pressed hard by promoters and Lavinia to do this little appearance and that
little clinic, just this once. Just this once stretched into eternity. If she said no, she was called an ungrateful bitch. If she said yes, she exhausted herself, to say nothing of Harriet, and risked blowing a win as well. Carmen’s compromise was to let Harriet deliver the no’s. In exchange she did the cooking whenever they landed in efficiency rooms, plus she did most of the cooking at home. On the road, however, the scheduling and lack of time made any kind of equality wishful thinking. If one went into tennis as a player’s lover, any illusions on the subject of equality would be quickly dispelled.

Miguel rose early every morning. Carmen slept late. After a few bickering scenes with a sleepy Carmen at the door of her room, he let her sleep in peace. The minute she was awake, however, he crowded into the room. Miguel would review Carmen’s game and wink at Harriet.

This late morning, it was too much. Harriet excused herself to Carmen’s dismay. She put on her fur coat and headed for the art gallery. Harriet bumped into Jane Fulton at the front desk.

“Jane, I didn’t think you were coming in until later in the week.”

“Me neither, but the paper wants a story on the Infant Prodigy. So I get to tail Trixie Wescott for the rest of the week.”

“These kids are on the assembly line. Backcourt stance, two-fisted backhand, and appalling patience. Ribbons in the hair helps.”

“Where are you off to?” Jane asked.

“The art museum. Come along.”

Jane readily agreed.

Walking through the museum halls, they admired the sculpture and painting.

“What’s up?”

Harriet sat on a little bench in the middle of a brightly lit room. The floor was highly polished and the paintings well mounted. No one was around this morning hour except a guard.

“Jane, I miss teaching.”

“Thought you might.”

“I try to go out on the road with Carmen as much as possible. The only teaching I do anymore is a short summer seminar. She wants me to go with her on a European exhibition tour which conflicts with my seminar. Her career is short and I can always teach when she retires.”

“The tennis circuit is a short circuit.” Jane rolled her eyes at her obvious humor.

“The times we’re apart are wrenching.”

Jane said, “What happens to Carmen when the cheers are over, I mean, when real life sets in with a vengeance and all of its aches and pains. Christ, Lavinia Sibley Archer is two years older than God, and she still can’t give it up. Think about it.”

“I do, a lot. I feel disloyal bringing it up with Carmen.”

“I hope she can back you up when you need her. Right now, Harriet, she needs you.”

“What the hell. Love is a risk. I’ve loved her for three years. She’s grown so much in that time. So have I. I know I have to take the chance and hope she’s as good as her word.”

“Susan’s going strong. Maybe Carmen won’t retire.”

“I hope she will. Carmen greatly admires Greta Garbo who knew when to exit.”

“You’re putting all your eggs in one basket.”

“What do you mean?” Harriet looked at her sideways.

“You have nothing for yourself. You’re cut off from your work and old friends. I doubt if Carmen ever thinks of it. She doesn’t have the time to think about anything but tennis. It’s all she knows.”

“Yeah.”

“And did you ever think that you’re an invisible wife?”

“Come on.”

“Really. If Ricky does a good job, I get spillover credit. Who will ever give you credit for backing up Carmen?”

“I’m not with her for credit.”

“No, of course not, but social and emotional support
helps us all in hard times, and you’re not going to get either.”

“You sound downright antilesbian.”

“No, I’m just reporting what I observe. No one, including other lesbians, is rushing forward to help two women love one another.”

Harriet fidgeted. “Since when is life fair?” She paused, then looked thoughtfully at Jane. “Where were you in the sixties?”

“What brought that on?”

“I don’t know. Feeling old, maybe, or feeling very different from the people around me right now.”

“I organized busloads of concerned Smithies bound for Washington and the peace marches.”

“No shit.”

“Where were you?”

“William and Mary. It wasn’t a very radical school, but I was. I trekked to the marches, too. Funny, the other night I thought of the candlelight vigil in New York City. Remember that?”

“Sure.”

“We must have stretched for miles and miles. I still remember my soldier’s name—Vincent Masconi. There I stood with his placard around my neck, my candle burning in the night.”

“My soldier’s name was Roosevelt Cogger.”

“Odd what we remember. I wish I’d known you then.” Harriet picked up Jane’s hand.

“You know me now. Haven’t you suffered enough?”

Harriet laughed. “Let’s eat. I’m starved.”

As they retraced their steps to the hotel, Jane said, “Back in the sixties, I don’t remember anyone being paid for their work. We were all volunteers. How did we expect to pay for the revolution?”

“MasterCard,” Harriet said matter-of-factly.

The week progressed like most weeks on the Tomahawk Circuit with Carmen dispatching her opponents. Page Bartlett didn’t play the Tomahawk Circuit. She saved herself for the major tournaments plus a few other tournaments important to her or important for the money. She also saved herself for her husband.

Page Bartlett, a lovely woman, danced into America’s heart at age fifteen when she made the quarterfinals of the U.S. Open. That was twelve years ago. She stayed in people’s hearts ever since. She was feminine, well-spoken, bright, and well-mannered. Mothers thought Page was the perfect idol for their little girls, and in that, they weren’t far wrong. Of course, no one bothered to ask Page Bartlett what price she paid, and Page Bartlett knew better than to offer any glimpses into her soul.

Jeffrey Campbell was a handsome, virile quarterback for the San Francisco Forty-Niners. They met, fell in love, treated the country to a storybook wedding two years ago, and rode into the sunset. Page played about half the year; the other half was devoted to Jeffrey’s football schedule.

She was an opponent any player feared because she rarely suffered a bad day. Her patience and razor-sharp skills usually overcame her more dazzling foes.

Page was living proof that one could be married and maintain an athletic career. However, as she was one of the few married players, she was the exception that proved the rule. For most women, marriage and sports don’t mix.

Most of the players were too young for permanent attachments. If they weren’t too young, where could they find a date brave enough to ask them out? After one week in Kansas City, the tour moved to Cincinnati, then on to Chicago and on and on. Even airline pilots had more stability than tennis players. So for the most part, the women had fantasy lovers back home. There was often an actual person there, but the intimacy of the relationship was manufactured to fend off loneliness.

The lesbian threat cowed the women. Each player over the age of twenty knew what it was like to be regarded as a freak because she liked sports. Lesbianism insinuated itself into the consciousness of women and frightened them. It frightened the lesbians most of all. It was an open secret that Carmen was gay, but as long as she didn’t say so, everyone pretended not to know. She lived in a zone, a DMZ between lies and truth. They didn’t want to lose their lucrative product endorsements.

Women would be a long time in overcoming their sexual conditioning, but it took them no time at all to overcome their noncompetitive conditioning. On the courts, they fought like tigers. It was good for the gate and good for Tomahawk. Whether it was good for the players wouldn’t be clear for some years. The first generation of true professionals was entering their late thirties. Attrition was setting in, and so far it looked as though it would be similar to the attrition pattern for male athletes—a slow slide from glory, the death of a dream, a retreat either into the past, the bottle, cocaine, or Valium. But then many a secretary beat the same retreat around age forty. Who was better off than whom seemed a profitless discussion. In pro tennis, there are no profitless discussions. There are no discussions at all. There’s just the game. Age, injury, the grief that accompanies this life, and inevitably death are unknown on this side of the service court. That’s another world.

In this land of health, prizes, and simplicity, one wins or one loses. Carmen Semana was a winner, a queen. Queen for a day, a month, a year, maybe a few years, but she was queen and she liked it. She also discovered winning was one thing; defending, another.

With Page out of the Tomahawk Circuit, the real threat was the ever-present Rainey Rogers. Rainey and Carmen divided the Tomahawk Circuit between them and only played head to head at two of the season’s tournaments. This suited
everyone fine. Each promoter got at least one highly publicized player plus enough other players to make it a contest, and the people paid their money to see it all. When Carmen was on a hot streak, they watched her with the same fascination that draws people to hurricanes, earthquakes, and car accidents. At her peak, she was so awesome as to be slightly terrifying.

Amalgamated Interstate Banks kicked in $50,000 toward the prize money for the tournament, although Tomahawk, as parent sponsor, got the lion’s share of the publicity. In each city local sponsors would contribute to the pot. Tomahawk would supply a base for each city, usually $25,000. The local promoter had to come up with the remaining money, usually between $75,000 and $125,000.

Amalgamated joined in because they wished to attract female customers. Women were doing their own banking these days so Amalgamated wanted a young, modern image. Short of film stars, there were few women with visibility. Dennis Parry, a vice-president of Amalgamated, figured the $50,000 was worth a new level of visibility. Within Amalgamated, the Tomahawk Circuit afforded Dennis a new visibility. Dennis harbored ambitions.