Vanishing Act (3 page)

Kelleher had spent several years covering politics and then, after leaving the
Washington Herald
briefly, had returned there as a sports columnist not long after breaking a major story involving a recruiting scandal. Stevie remembered some of the grim details: an assistant coach who had been a friend of Kelleher's had been murdered and Kelleher had helped solve the crime while revealing that Brickley Shoes and the University of Louisiana were trying to buy the services of a star high school player from Lithuania. That had been a couple of years back. Stevie couldn't remember the player's name.

Kelleher snapped his phone shut. “Perfect timing. I just called the garage to bring over the car,” he said. He gave Susan Carol a hug and shook hands with Stevie.

“So, how are my two favorite media stars?” he asked.

“Let's put it this way,” Susan Carol answered. “We're not expecting the Open to be anything like the Final Four.”

Kelleher laughed. “We can only hope,” he said. He held up the phone. “Sorry about this. That was my wife. You'll meet her this afternoon. She's on her way up from Washington.” Stevie hadn't been aware that Kelleher was married. In fact, he hadn't given it any thought one way or the other.

“Is she coming to watch?” Susan Carol asked.

“Coming to work,” Kelleher said. “She's a sportswriter too. Writes a column for the
Washington Post.
”

That surprised Stevie. He often read the
Post
online so he could read Tony Kornheiser and Michael Wilbon, his heroes—mostly because they had their own TV show. He didn't remember seeing anyone named Kelleher among the bylines.

“Wait a minute,” Susan Carol said. “Are you married to Tamara Mearns?” Stevie knew Susan Carol read the
Post
too because they frequently discussed things they read there in their IMs. If Kelleher was Stevie's role model, Tamara Mearns was Susan Carol's. In fact, he had seen her on Wilbon and Kornheiser's show on numerous occasions. She was smart and
very
good-looking.

“Yes, I am,” Kelleher said. “Tough being the second-best writer in your own family.”

“She
is
very good,” Susan Carol said, awestruck, then rushed to add, “not that you aren't, Bobby.”

Kelleher laughed. “Nice catch, Susan Carol. Don't worry, I'm like Stevie—I enjoy hanging around smart women. Oh, look, here's the car.”

Stevie looked outside to see a black Jeep Grand Cherokee pulling up. “Is that a rental car?” he asked as they walked out the door.

“Nope, it's mine,” Kelleher said. “I have a five-hour rule when it comes to airports: if I can drive someplace in under five hours and avoid an airport, I do it. It's less than four hours from our house to here, and now I've got the car for the whole tournament.”

“Isn't it expensive to park in New York?” Susan Carol said.

“It's ridiculous to park in New York,” Kelleher said.

“That's why God invented expense accounts. Plus, I always stay in this apartment during the Open, which saves the paper a lot of money. It belongs to a buddy of mine, Jeff Roddin, but he's always out in the Hamptons until the end of the Open.”

Susan Carol gave Stevie the front seat for the ride out to Queens. Traffic was relatively light leaving the city at the end of morning rush hour. Kelleher took the Midtown Tunnel, whisked through the toll thanks to E-ZPass—“greatest invention since the wheel,” he said—and a few minutes later a security guard was waving them into a lot right across the street from the main stadium of the National Tennis Center. “What did you have to do to get to park
here
?” Stevie asked. He knew how hard it was to find parking at big sporting events. Once, he and his dad had made the mistake of driving to a Philadelphia Eagles game. For twenty-five dollars they had parked a good fifteen-minute walk—in frigid weather—from the gate where they entered the stadium.

“Actually, Stevie, it's that Philadelphia connection I told you about,” Kelleher said as they climbed out of the car. Each of them had computer bags. Susan Carol was supposed to write a story for the Fayetteville paper every day. Stevie had no idea what—if anything—he would be writing, but he had brought his computer to be safe. “Ed Fabricius, the USTA's public relations boss. When he was at Penn, UVA played them my junior year and I met him. When I became a reporter, he was in tennis, but he remembered me. I think he feels like we're bonded because we're both old basketball guys.”

“Nice bond to have,” Susan Carol said.

“Yeah, especially these two weeks,” Kelleher said. “Without Fab, I would either have to pay twelve bucks to park on the other side of the boardwalk near Shea Stadium—
if
there was space—or ride the shuttle bus every day.”

“Is the shuttle that bad?” Stevie said.

“It isn't bad
if
it shows up and
if
the Fifty-ninth Street Bridge isn't packed,” Kelleher said. “But those two things both happen almost as often as leap year.”

While they were talking, they had walked around the stadium to a small office with a sign that said
CREDENTIALS
.

Kelleher pointed them inside a small room that was teeming with people. There were signs over the various desks:
MEDIA
,
OFFICIALS
,
PLAYERS
. They were starting to turn left to the side of the room that had the sign for media when Stevie heard someone on the far side of the room say, “Well, this must be a big event. Bobby Kelleher's here.”

In the next instant, Stevie thought he heard a tiny little shriek come out of Susan Carol's mouth. He looked in the direction of the voice and saw Andy Roddick walking toward them with a big smile on his face. “And don't ever forget it,” Kelleher said in response to Roddick's jibe. Roddick was putting a credential around his neck that had his picture on it and a large “A,” which was apparently the designation given to players. He and Kelleher shook hands and Kelleher turned toward Susan Carol and Stevie.

“Andy, I want you to meet a couple of future stars in my business,” he said. “This is Susan Carol Anderson and Stevie Thomas.”

Stevie looked at Susan Carol. He had never seen her quite so pale. The number four tennis player in the world smiled at both of them. “Aspiring reporters, huh?” He shook both their hands. “Is it too late to convince you guys to go straight and pursue real work when you get older?”

Stevie liked him right away. This was a big star, a past U.S. Open champion, a Wimbledon finalist, and there were no airs about him—or so it seemed. Susan Carol was on the verge, he thought, of hyperventilating. “Andy, it is
so
nice to m-meet you again,” she stammered. “I mean, to meet you. I just feel…as if…well, as if I know you. I've watched you play so many times and…”

“I hope not against Federer,” Roddick said, clearly sensing her distress. Roger Federer was the world's number one player and Roddick's on-court nemesis.

“Well, yes, I mean, well, I still remember the Ferrero match like it was yesterday.”

Stevie couldn't help but notice that her full Southern accent was working. The “I's” were all “aah's” and “Ferrero” had about fourteen R's in it. Juan Carlos Ferrero was the player Roddick had beaten in the Open final in 2003.

Roddick laughed. “That was years ago. Back when I was young.” He turned to Kelleher. “So, you giving the kids some kind of tour?”

“Actually, they're working,” Kelleher said. “Susan Carol is filing for her paper back in North Carolina, and Stevie is going to help me out with news and notes the first week. You might remember them, Andy, since you're a hoops fan. They're the kids who saved Chip Graber at the Final Four.”

Roddick's eyes went wide. “That's why the names rang a bell. Of course. Wow. I should be asking
you
guys for an autograph. That was great work.”

Stevie was just about convinced Susan Carol was going to faint. “Oh, Andy, we were
so
lucky,” she said. “In fact, if not for Bobby, it might have turned out a lot different.”

“All I remember,” Roddick said, “is that a bunch of sleazoids from Minnesota State were trying to blackmail their best player to throw the title game and you guys stopped it.”

“With help from a lot of people,” Stevie said, thinking if he heard one more breathless answer from Susan Carol,
he
would become faint.

“Well, anyway, it is great to meet a couple of true heroes,” Roddick said. “You guys aren't exactly your run-of-the-mill Bobby Kellehers, that's for sure.”

“You got that right,” Kelleher said. “You play Wednesday night, right?”

Roddick nodded. “Yeah, long time to wait for round one. But the USTA always has to get the names on at night, right? Forget the daytime fans—this is about what TV wants.”

“Tell me about it,” Kelleher said.

“Well,” Roddick said, “I'm going to go hit for a while, get the feel of the place.” He shook hands with them all again, waved, and headed through the door.

“What you just saw,” Kelleher said, “was an aberration. Most tennis players would sooner cut off their serving arm than talk to reporters. Andy's different. He hasn't lost all sense of reality. He's still a pretty good guy.”

“Not to mention being gorgeous,” Susan Carol sighed.

“Oh God,” Stevie said. “Does this mean you're never going to wash that hand again? I thought you might pass out for a minute there.”

Her response was to whack him on the shoulder with that hand. “I wasn't
that
breathless. Come on.”

“Oh, Andeeee, aah am
so
glad to meet you….”

Kelleher cut him off. “Cool it, Stevie,” he said. “Or we'll head straight for the players' lounge and I'll introduce you to Symanova.”

Stevie cooled it. He knew when he was overmatched.

3:
CELEBRITIES

IT DIDN'T
take them long to get their credentials. There were only a couple of people in line ahead of them and, even though Stevie and Susan Carol had to have photos taken, that only delayed them a couple of minutes.

“Ten o'clock,” Kelleher said, looking at his watch as they walked out the door, each of them now wearing a credential with a giant “B” and the small word “Media” below it around their necks. “We've got an hour until they actually start playing tennis. If we'd gotten here fifteen minutes later, we would have had to wait awhile.” Stevie could see he was right. Since they had arrived, the line to pick up media credentials had grown to about twenty-five people.

They had to pause at the entrance gate so the guards could look through their computer bags and wand them, much the way they had done at the Final Four. Once they were inside, Stevie could see that the vast grounds of the tennis center were still virtually empty. “Public can't come in until ten-thirty,” Kelleher said, as if reading Stevie's mind. “This is my favorite time of day to walk around out here. In fact, let's put our stuff down and then walk over to the practice courts. We might run into some people. Once the crowds come in, you can't get close to anything over there if one of the names is practicing.”

“You mean like Andy Roddick?” Susan Carol asked.

“You got it.”

They were walking with the main stadium, which Stevie could see was huge, to their left. To their right were the practice courts Kelleher had been referring to. In front of them, Stevie could see what looked like a large open plaza, with a fountain bubbling up in the middle.

“Where are all the other courts?” Stevie said.

“You can't see them from here,” Kelleher said. “I'll show you once we drop our stuff off in the media room. The smaller stadium and the Grandstand court are around to the left. The outside courts are over on the right, beyond the plaza. They're the best place to watch the first week, because you can practically walk right up to the court since the area around each of them is so small. The players hate playing there because they feel like the fans are right on top of them.”

They didn't have to walk far to get to the glass doors with a sign that said
MEDIA CENTER
. There were two guards on the door, neither of whom had an answer for Kelleher's “Good morning.” They eyed everyone's badge, then stepped out of the way. Walking inside, Stevie could see a cafeteria on the left. To the right was the entrance to the media work area. Even an hour before the matches began, it was humming with life. As they walked by the front desk, Stevie could hear shouting in what sounded like at least three different languages.

“Annual battle,” Kelleher said, again seeming to know what Stevie was wondering. “Foreign media get upset when one of their stars gets put on an outside court—which the USTA always does. Today, they'll be angry because Nadal's out on court twelve. There will be a riot out there with people trying to find a place to sit.”

“Rafael Nadal is the number two player in the world,” Susan Carol said. “He won the French Open. Why in the world would they put him on an outside court?”

Kelleher, who was leading them through a maze of desks, nodding hello to people as he went, smiled. “Because of tennis politics. You go to the French Open or Wimbledon, they'll take Roddick or the Williams sisters and stick them on an outside court. The French are notorious for it. They'll put French qualifiers on center court and stick an American star way outside. Pete Sampras's last match at Wimbledon was on court two.”

“I remember that,” Stevie said. “He lost in the second round, didn't he?”

“Yeah,” Kelleher said. “Then he had to fight through the crowds to get back to the locker room because only center court and court one are accessible from the locker room without going out among the masses.”

“Guess that's what they mean by ‘going outside,' huh?” Susan Carol said. “Court two's the one they call the graveyard of champions, right?”

“Very good, Susan Carol,” Kelleher said with a smile. “Lot of big upsets have taken place out there. And, to be fair, the Brits always stick players outside. But Pete Sampras? He won the event seven times!”

“So the Americans get even at the Open,” Stevie said.

“Yup,” Kelleher said. “Nadal is really a tough one because it isn't just the Spanish media that has to cover him, it's everyone from Europe. Take a look at the schedule on the Armstrong Court. They've got Nick Nocera there. I mean, who wants to watch Nick Nocera besides friends, family, and his agent?”

Stevie didn't even know the name. Naturally, Susan Carol did. “Didn't he make the semis here last year?” she said. “And he beat Roddick in Indianapolis.”

“Jeez, Susan Carol, what
don't
you know?” Kelleher said.

“Yes, he had a great tournament last year here because the draw opened up. And he did beat Roddick in Indy. That jumped him to about twenty-fifth in the world. You and I and Bud Collins know who he is and that's about it. That may change, but as of this moment—”

He was interrupted by someone shouting, “Robertino! Robertino!”

A huge smile came across Kelleher's face as the shouter approached, arms open wide. Stevie did a double take. It was the man Kelleher had just been talking about—Bud Collins.

“Colleeny!” Kelleher shouted with as much enthusiasm as Collins had shown.
“Ciao, caro!”

The two men hugged. “And?” Collins asked. “Where is the fair Tamara?”

“Be here this afternoon,” Kelleher said. “Hey, I want you to meet a couple of people.”

He put an arm around Collins's shoulders. “Stevie, Susan Carol, I want you to meet the one and only Bud Collins. Bud, this is Stevie Thomas and Susan Carol Anderson.”

“
Wonderful
to meet you both,” Collins said. He gave Stevie a warm handshake, then kissed Susan Carol on both cheeks, the way it was done in Europe.

“So these are the two young saviors you told me about from New Orleans, eh, Robertino?” Collins said. “My goodness, you two were heroic. I read all about you. Read your stuff too. You two have accomplished more at thirteen than most of us will in a lifetime.”

Stevie felt himself flush. He couldn't believe Bud Collins had read anything he had written. When he had first watched Wimbledon on TV with his father, he had immediately noticed Collins, the man with the warm smile, the white beard, and the pants that were almost blinding to look at. Collins reminded him in many ways of Dick Vitale, the college basketball announcer whose enthusiasm was legendary. Stevie had met him in New Orleans and his ears were still ringing. Collins wasn't as loud as Vitale but he was similarly enthusiastic about his sport. Stevie's dad had told him that Collins had been the first man
ever
to broadcast tennis on television, back in the 1960s, when the PBS station in Boston decided to telecast the local tournament played there. He had gone on to become “the voice of tennis” on NBC. Stevie hadn't realized that he was friends with Kelleher.

“Mr. Collins, I've watched you since I was a baby,” Susan Carol was saying. “And I really loved reading your book.”

She had him there. Stevie didn't know Collins had written a book.

“My book!” Collins screamed. “You read my book! I wrote it before you were born! Wait one second.”

He scurried to a desk a few yards away from Kelleher's that was marked
BOSTON GLOBE
and began burrowing through a gigantic bag. “Aha, knew I had one.” He pulled a book out of the bag, opened it, and quickly scribbled something inside. He walked back and handed it to Susan Carol. Stevie could see a picture of Collins on the cover and could see the title,
My Life with the Pros.

“Stevie, I'm sorry, I only have one,” Collins said. “I will track one down for you too.”

Before Stevie could say anything, Susan Carol was hugging Collins to say thank you. Stevie was embarrassed he hadn't known about the book. “Thank you so much,” she said.

“No, no, thank
you,
” Collins said. “It's been years since anyone mentioned it. Always thought the book would have done better if they'd stayed with my title.”

“What was that?” Stevie asked.

“What a Sweet Racquet,”
Collins said.

“Oh, that's a
much
better title,” Susan Carol said. Stevie would have thought she was sucking up, but this was Bud Collins, so it was not only okay, it was appropriate.

“So, Robertino, who are these two young mavens going to write about today?” Collins said.

“Haven't asked yet,” Kelleher said. “Guys?”

Stevie had figured he'd be going wherever Kelleher needed him, so he hadn't studied the schedule that closely. He
did
know that he wanted to see Symanova play, if possible, and that her first-round match was later in the day. She was one of the few stars playing on the afternoon program the first day. He had read a story in the Sunday paper about the U.S. Tennis Association dragging the first round out over three days so that the men's semifinals wouldn't be played until the second Saturday—to accommodate TV. Every other Grand Slam event played the men's semis on Friday.

Susan Carol—naturally—knew the schedule by heart. “Well, I was hoping to go see Evelyn Rubin play at eleven o'clock,” she said. “She's on an outside court, I forget which number. And then I saw that Symanova is playing over on Louis Armstrong late this afternoon and I
know
Stevie wants to see that.”

“Stevie and every red-blooded American or non-American male on the grounds,” Collins said, laughing. “Why do you want to see Rubin play, my dear? I hear she's quite good, but what's your interest?”

“My uncle is her agent.”

Collins did a double take. “Your uncle is an agent? But you seem like such a nice girl.”

Kelleher laughed. “Now, Bud, you can't choose your relatives.”

“You can't?” Collins said. “I've chosen three wives—and here comes one of them now.”

Stevie saw a tall, elegant-looking woman walking up to them. It turned out she
was
his wife, Anita Klaussen. “Bud, don't go agent bashing again,” she said, walking up.

“What's not to bash?” Kelleher said.

“Are they that bad?” Susan Carol asked.

“Well, I don't know your uncle, so I'll presume he's a fine fellow,” Collins said. “But agents are responsible for most of the ills of tennis, and the ills of tennis are endless.”

“But you love tennis,” Stevie said.

“I do. I just don't love the people running it,” Collins said. “Look, you all
must
have dinner with us one night. We'll talk more. Right now, I have to go figure out who to write about today. Stevie, Susan Carol, you keep an eye on Robertino for me.”

He trundled off with Anita right behind.

“Why ‘Robertino'?” Stevie asked Kelleher.

Kelleher smiled. “Bud loves all things Italian. Spends a month in Italy every year. He would rather speak Italian than English. So he Italianizes everyone's name. Guaranteed, the next time you see him he'll call you Stefano.”

“What about me?” Susan Carol asked.

“He'll probably stick to
cara,
” Kelleher said. “That's Italian for ‘darling.'”

Susan Carol looked at her watch. “The matches will be starting soon,” she said.

“You're right,” Kelleher said. “I have to go to the Grandstand and watch Paul Goldstein play. He's a D.C. kid, and if I don't write about him today, he might be gone by tomorrow. Are you serious about going to see your uncle's client?”

Susan Carol nodded. “Yes. I think she might be a good story for me the first day. No one knows her and she's playing someone who is seeded. I think it's Maggie Maleeva.”

“Maggie Maleeva?” Kelleher said. “I swear she played against Billie Jean King. She must be a hundred years old.”

He picked up a schedule and scanned it. “You've got it—Maggie Maleeva, court 18—it's way out on the far end of the grounds. Shows you what they think of Maggie Maleeva. She's the number twenty-two seed, playing a young American, and they have her playing halfway to New Jersey. Do you think you can find it?”

“I can find it,” Susan Carol said. “Stevie, you gonna go with me?”

Stevie looked at Kelleher. “What do you need me to do?” he asked.

“For right now, you can go with Susan Carol,” he said.

“Keep that cell phone of yours on. If something's happening and I need you to get to a match, I'll call you. With so few seeded players playing this afternoon, we need to wait and see what develops.”

“Can I watch Symanova later?” he asked.

Kelleher smiled. “Unless something crazy happens, sure,” he said. “I wouldn't deny you that. In fact, I have no plans to deny myself that either.”

Susan Carol sighed. “
Why
are boys so predictable?” she said.

For once, she had thrown Stevie a hanging curveball. “Oh, Andy, aah am
so
thrilled to meet you….”

She turned bright red, which pleased him to no end. “Okay, okay, I give. Come on, let's go. Apparently we've got a long way to walk.”