The Players (11 page)

Only Ron’s doctor and his wife Esther knew the details of his injury. Some of the other Australian players suspected something was wrong when Ron withdrew from the Italian and French championships, but they never mentioned the subject. At Wimbledon the rumor had circulated that Ron was hurting, but no one really knew if it was true, and if true, how serious the injury was.

Ron Hopper knew. He knew that the first time he had to run all out to retrieve a ball the muscle tear would open up again and get larger. It would be all over then. He had no illusions about winning a second Wimbledon this year, but he would go as far as he could in the tournament. It was a matter of pride. He was the champion.

Ron wondered who among this year’s entrants would succeed him as Wimbledon champion. Of the 128 men entered for the singles, there were only a handful who had a chance to win. Every year there would be some unknown who would make headlines for a day or two by knocking off a couple of seeded players in the early rounds, but when it came down to the finals on the last Saturday the two men facing each other in Centre Court would be among the very best in the world.

Ron’s attention was drawn to a knot of people moving along one of the paths. At the center of the group was Yuri Zenger. The Hungarian was getting more attention from the press and public than any other player this year. Colorful, they called him. It was not the word Ron Hopper would have used.

The thought that Yuri Zenger might be the one to replace him brought a frown to Ron’s face. Zenger’s antics on and off the court offended the Australian’s strong sense of tradition and dignity. It might be all right for some American prize fighter to try to build up the gate by bad-mouthing his opponent and generally behaving like a jackass, but such a thing should not happen in tennis. Ron sighed and turned to smile at his wife. He knew he would have little to say about who would be the next champion.

• • •

Yuri Zenger was thoroughly enjoying his position as the center of attention. He delighted in saying outrageous things, knowing that the reporters would use them tomorrow as leads on their stories. He loved the attention of the public too, especially the women. Yuri was far from handsome in the popular concept, but he had an animal attraction for many women. He was well aware of this attraction, and used it to his advantage often.

Walking at his side with her hand resting possessively on his arm was Mrs. Dorothy Keith. Yuri endured the woman’s proprietary attitude for a number of reasons. One of them was the slim platinum wristwatch he wore today, a present from the generous Mrs. Keith.

Actually, she was not half bad in bed for a woman her age, but then Yuri was not awfully particular. He would go to bed with anything female, the oftener the better. When the time came he would dump Mrs. Keith as he had many before her, but not until he had collected a few more of the presents she so enjoyed giving him.

Yuri changed his direction when he spotted Tim Barrett. The young American was standing over by one of the tents with a slim blonde girl and an older couple who had the unmistakable look of proud parents. Yuri had been one of nine children, his father a perpetually tired factory worker, his mother a household drudge with no color and no personality. Yuri had only contempt for parents.

“Hey, Barrett,” he called when he and his entourage were within earshot, “sorry to hear about your bad luck.”

Tim Barrett turned away from his conversation with the girl and his parents. “Hello, Yuri,” he said carefully. “What bad luck is that?”

“You’re in the same half of the draw with me. Too bad.”

“That’s right, darn it,” Tim said. “I don’t know whether to default or just kill myself.”

Yuri was thrown a bit off stride by the American’s glib answer. Most of these pampered players from the so-called “free world” were so used to trading insincere compliments that they became all flustered when you told them straight out you were going to beat them.

“Here’s a tip that might help you, Barrett,” he said. “In Paris I noticed you were dropping the racket head on your backhand. That is probably why you hit so many off the wood.” Yuri knew, as did all good tennis players, that if he could get an opponent thinking about his actions it could cause him to commit errors on shots that should have been automatic.

“Thanks, Yuri,” Tim said, “I’ll keep that in mind. By the way, did you know you’ve been hurrying your serve? Take it a little slower and I’ll bet you cut down on the double faults.”

Damn him, Yuri thought. The boy was starting to play the game. Well, it would be a different matter if they met on the court. For that to happen they would both have to reach the semi-finals, and Yuri wasn’t sure the Barrett boy could go that far. If he did it would be no problem. At Melbourne Yuri’s constant complaining about calls and other calculated distractions had destroyed Barrett’s concentration and allowed Yuri to win a fairly easy match. The same tactics had not worked with Ron Hopper, how ever. The Australian had many more years experience than Barrett, and Yuri had gone down in the finals in five sets. This time, though, if what he heard was true, Ron Hopper would not be around long.

“I’d like you to meet my parents, Yuri,” Tim said.

“Some other time,” Yuri answered coldly. “We’re in a hurry.” He steered Mrs. Keith and the rest of his entourage away, hoping that this bit of rudeness would have its effect on the play of Tim Barrett.

It was Mrs. Keith who called his attention to the approach of J. J. Kaiser and Geneva Sundstrum.

“Oh, God,” she said, “here comes that hideous little man with his glandular freak of a girlfriend who were in Caesar’s last night. Let’s hurry inside and maybe we can lose them.”

Yuri turned to look and his eyes focused on the undulating breasts as Geneva strode easily at the side of J. J. Kaiser. He felt a stirring in his crotch. Mrs. Keith, though her body was in fairly good shape for an older lady, was no match for the firm golden flesh of the big blonde girl.

He said, “No, wait a minute. I want to talk to them.” Ignoring the impatient hitch of Mrs. Keith’s shoulders, Yuri stood and waited for J. J. and Geneva to reach them.

“Whadaya say, Yuri,” bubbled J. J., overflowing with good fellowship. “Good to see you again. You too, Mrs., uh …”

“Keith,” said Mrs. Keith icily.

“Right. Say, Yuri, have you given any thought to the little proposition I made you last night?”

“Yes, I think I might be interested.” Although Yuri’s answer was directed to J. J., his eyes looked challengingly into those of Geneva Sundstrum.

“That’s great, Yuri, just great,” said J. J. “When can we get together on it?”

“When can I see the equipment?”

“Any time. I’ve got samples at the hotel.”

“In this lady’s room?”

“Uh, yes, that’s where I’ve been keeping the stuff. Geneva’s room is bigger than mine, you see, and I—”

“I’ll come up Wednesday after my second-round match and see what you’ve got.” Yuri made it plain this time that he was speaking to Geneva.

“Oh, Yuri,” said Mrs. Keith, “couldn’t you postpone it? I was planning to have several friends in to dinner Wednesday.”

“Go ahead and have them, you don’t need me there,” Yuri said, not taking his eyes from Geneva.

“It doesn’t have to be Wednesday,” J. J. put in quickly. “Any other day this week would be just as good.”

“Wednesday,” Yuri said with finality. To Geneva he said, “You will be there?”

“I’ll be there,” she said.

“Good. I’ll see you.” Without waiting for J. J.’s goodbye, he turned his group again and walked away.

As Mike Wilder walked with Paula Teal among the lawns of Hurlingham a little of last night’s tension was still there. However, Mike thought he could sense a new warmth between them, a growing rapport that had not been there before. By unspoken agreement, neither mentioned the unfortunate bedroom scene. They could talk about that later.

Mike had touched only briefly on his adventure on the road that morning, turning it into a joke about his un-familiarity with English roads and English drivers. Paula showed a concern for the bump on his head that pleased him and also embarrassed him a little.

Now as he looked around at the well-groomed, well-mannered people who wandered over the lush grounds of the old sporting club, Mike decided it was about time he went to work.

As though she had read his mind, Paula said, “You go ahead and be a reporter. I’m perfectly happy just tagging along and looking at the people.”

“I suppose I should start taking a few notes,” Mike said, “to justify my salary if nothing else.”

“Look, there’s Christy,” Paula said. “And her young tennis player.”

Following Paula’s gaze, Mike saw Christy Noone and Tim Barrett across an expanse of emerald lawn. They were standing with a handsome older couple. Just then Christy looked in their direction and recognized Paula and Mike. She waved enthusiastically, then tugged at Tim’s arm, pointing with her free hand. Tim saw them, said a few more words to the older couple, and started across the lawn with Christy.

Mike assumed the man and woman were Tim’s parents. From their heads-together attitude as the young couple walked away from them, he guessed the jury was still out on Christy Noone.

“Hello there, you two,” Christy called when they were within hearing range. “Did you just get here? We’ve been having a simply marvelous time, haven’t we, Timmy.”

Tim grinned at the petite blonde girl and said hello to Mike and Paula.

“Kind of the lull before the storm, isn’t it,” Mike said.

“I guess so,” Tim said. “It’s pleasant enough out here, but I’ll be glad when play starts.”

“What court will you be on tomorrow?” Mike asked.

“Number twelve,” Tim said. “That’s somewhere out near the parking lot.”

“I see you’re playing Jan Oesterhouse in the first round,” Mike said. He had looked up the Dutch player and found his record definitely mediocre.

“That’s right.”

“Any prediction?”

Tim hesitated before speaking. “Jan’s a good player when he’s at the top of his game. His problem is staying in shape. I’ve only played him once before.”

“How did you do?”

“I won, two and love.”

Mike knew this was the players’ verbal shorthand for a victory of 6–2, 6–0. “Pretty decisive,” he said.

Tim shrugged. “You can’t tell a lot from just one match.”

“Timmy’s just being modest,” Christy said, clinging to his arm. “He’s going to win the championship.”

Tim said, “There’s a hundred and twenty-odd other guys who are going to have something to say about that.”

“But isn’t it true,” Mike said, “that about a hundred of them have about as much chance of winning the championship as I would?”

“Maybe,” Tim conceded, “but I was taught to play every match as though it were the finals.”

Christy’s attention began to wander. “Look, Timmy, at those old people rolling balls across the grass. What are they doing?”

“It’s lawn bowling, I think.”

“I’ve never seen it before. Can we go watch?”

“Sure.” Tim turned to go with the girl. “See you later,” he said to Mike and Paula.

“Good luck,” Mike said. “I’ll try to find court number twelve and watch you for a while tomorrow.”

Paula and Mike stood together and watched the younger couple cross the lawn toward the bowlers.

“What are his chances, Mike?” Paula asked.

“Fair, as near as I’ve been able to dope it out. Tim’s probably the best of the younger crop of players, but most people who should know think he’s a year or two away from championship level.”

“He seems quite nice.”

“It takes more than nice to make a winner.”

“Pity.”

Mike slipped his glasses into his breast pocket, and they strolled idly toward the clubhouse.

“Mike, do you know those people over by that small tent? They’ve been looking over toward us as though they recognized you.”

Mike squinted in the direction Paula indicated. “Is that booze those jokers in the white jackets are serving?”

“I believe it is.”

“Then it’s a good bet those are fellow sportswriters.” He put his glasses back on for a moment and nodded. “Just as I thought. Come along and meet some other members of the trade.”

Mike walked Paula over to the small tent where the others were helping themselves to the free liquor and sandwiches. Mike’s position as a nationally syndicated columnist and featured writer for
Sportsweek
put him in a higher income bracket than most of the others, and the kidding around took on a noticeably hard edge.

“Gosh, this is quite an event,” said the UPI man, “having the world famous Mike Wilder show up in person. This might even put Wimbledon on the map.”

“He can’t be here for the tennis,” said the
New York Times
. “Probably has a golfing date with the prime minister.”

“Aw, I’ll bet he’s an expert on tennis just like every other game,” said the AP. “How about it, Mike?”

“What’s so tough about tennis?” Mike said. “Once you’ve learned that on the line is in and love stands for nothing, you’ve got it knocked.”

A rawboned woman writer from one of the tennis magazines pushed her way forward. “I wonder if you know how to
play
the game,” she said with heavy-handed sarcasm.

“Play? Are you kidding? I was practically born with a tennis paddle in my hand.”

The other men laughed good-naturedly at this, but the woman from the tennis magazine snorted contemptuously and moved away.

“You’d better not get Bobbie Jo riled up, Mike,” said the UPI. “She can probably take you two falls out of three in freestyle wrestling.”

“I’ll try to stay out of her way,” Mike said.

“You don’t have to worry,” the
Times
said with a smirk. “Bobbie Jo will spend the next two weeks hanging around the locker room. The ladies’ locker room, naturally. Or maybe I mean unnaturally.”

“I notice you guys wait until Bobbie Jo is out of earshot before you get off your zingers,” Mike observed.

“We’re not idiots,” said the UPI. “There isn’t a man here she couldn’t whip.”

There was a stir among the reporters as they caught sight of Yuri Zenger and his company strolling along a nearby path. Mike got the impression that Yuri had timed his passing to catch the attention of as many of the press as possible. The reporters took the bait and hurried over to head him off. The volatile Hungarian was, by unanimous vote, the hottest story at this year’s Wimbledon.

Mike and Paula wandered along behind the others.

“I’m not sure I understood all that byplay,” Paula said.

“The boys are great kidders,” Mike told her.

“Were they implying that the woman reporter is a lesbian?”

“That’s the rumor,” Mike said. “I personally don’t know of any facts that would confirm it. Sportswriters have a pathological dislike of women invading their field, and the whole business could be jealousy. Or maybe it’s just that Bobbie Jo does look an awful lot like a man.”

“And what was that about the locker room? Do the women tennis players tend to be a little, well, that way?”

“It’s a similar situation. Women athletes, unless they’re in some super-graceful sport like gymnastics or figure skating, are always suspect. Especially to the kind of man who is not quite sure of his own masculinity. Tennis is especially vulnerable to that kind of talk since there have been several well-publicized examples. Involving both men and women, I ought to add. If you ask me, I don’t think the sport is any more faggy than a lot of others. There was a good middleweight a few years ago who fought only for the clinches.”

“Now you’re pulling my leg.”

“Only a little bit.”

They caught up with the group who had formed a ragged semi-circle facing Yuri Zenger. Mrs. Keith was poised a step behind her tennis player, keeping a wary eye on the reporters as though ready to scold if any of them got too close.

“Who’s your first opponent, Yuri?” somebody asked.

“What does it matter?” said the Hungarian. “Whoever it is I will crush him like a cockroach. These early rounds are a bore.”

“What player do you fear most?” asked the AP.

“Fear? I fear no one. Right now I am the best tennis player in the world. The people who make the rankings and the men who run the tournaments do not like me because I break their silly rules. To me it does not matter whether they like me or not. When I am Wimbledon champion the whole world will have to admit that I am the best.”

“What about Ron Hopper?” asked
Sports Illustrated
. “He’s the number one seed, and he beat you out in Melbourne.”

Yuri dismissed the number one seed with a wave of his hand. “Hopper is a has-been. The only reason he is top seeded is because he won here last year. He was lucky in Melbourne. The umpire was against me and I was playing with a fever of 102 or Hopper would not have beat me. He will never do it again.”

While the other reporters scribbled in their notebooks Mike took Paula’s arm and steered her away toward the tennis courts. “I can take just so much of Yuri Zenger,” he said.

“Is he really as nasty as all that,” Paula asked, “or is he putting on an act?”

“I’d say he’s about two-thirds nasty and one-third act.”

“I hope he loses.”

“Then if he’s done nothing else, Yuri’s given you a rooting interest in the tournament.”

“I suppose so.”

They started down the grassy slope to the courts.

“Isn’t that Alan Doughty?” Paula said. “Over there signing autographs?”

“Looks like him, from his pictures,” Mike said. “I wonder who the lady is, standing off to one side and watching him.”

“His wife, I’ll bet. She has the look of an English housewife.”

“What look is that?”

“A bit pale from not enough sun, a bit overweight from too many starchy foods, and a slightly pinched expression from worrying about her old man.”

“Let’s find out if you’re right.”

Mike introduced himself and Paula, and learned that the lady was indeed Hazel Doughty.

“I’m pleased to meet you,” she said, and her smile brought a sudden beauty to her plain features. “I’m sure Alan will be glad to talk to you as soon as he’s finished with the kids. He’s always loved kids.”

“Have you any children of your own, Mrs. Doughty?” Paula asked.

A brief shadow crossed her face. “No, we have not. What with Alan traveling so much with his tennis we thought it’d be best to wait on building a family.”

“How do you think Alan will do at Wimbledon?” Mike asked.

“Oh, I always feel Alan can win,” she said loyally. “He’s an awfully good player, you know.” A little of the worried look came back. “Only, this time I wish …”

“You wish what, Mrs. Doughty?” Mike said. The woman was deeply concerned about something, he saw, and Mike had no hesitation about asking questions. A reporter could not afford the luxury of tact.

Hazel Doughty’s smile came back, looking a little forced this time. “It’s nothing,” she said. “Here comes Alan. He’ll be happy to answer your questions.”

When introductions had been made Mike asked the player about his feelings on the eve of Wimbledon.

“I plan to do my best,” he said. “That’s all I can promise. If I do well I hope the world will see it as a victory for England.” He grinned at his words, and the sun wrinkles creased his tanned face. “That sounds a bit starchy, doesn’t it. Still, England could use a victory or two these days.”

“Good luck to you,” Mike said. “I’ll probably be seeing you around over the next two weeks.”

“I only hope I’m around myself that long.” Doughty shook Mike’s hand and said goodbye to Paula.

Mike wondered about something dark he had glimpsed deep in the eyes of this friendly, homely Englishman. Maybe he was seeing a mystery where none existed.

To Paula he said, “I think I’ve seen enough here. Every body’s wearing his own personal meet-the-press mask. How about you?”

“You mean am I wearing a mask?”

“No, smarty, I mean is there anything else you’d like to do here?”

“I’m ready to leave when you are.”

“Let’s go then. Uh, Paula …”

“What is it, Mike?”

“I know this is kind of late, and I intended to ask you before but, well, will you go to the Savoy with me tonight? I hate formal dinners, especially when there are going to be speeches, but this one would be a lot more bearable if you’d come along.”

Paula frowned and chewed her lip as though thinking it over. “Actually, I had several other invitations I was considering. Have you any special inducement to offer?”

“There’s the sight of me in a dinner jacket. Curiosity-seekers have lined up around the block to see that.”

Paula laughed gaily. “That did it, it’s a date. By happy coincidence I have a new long dress waiting at home.”

They laughed together then and walked out to the parking area. Mike felt a fleeting chill as they reached the rented Ford and he saw the pushed-in rear bumper. The memory of the pursuing Jaguar and the face behind the wheel came back to him.

He saw Paula looking at him curiously, and pushed the thought out of his mind.