I was winning again. Cruising. Having made the decision to commit helped me focus. I was seeing the ball so well, hitting it so cleanly, putting it anywhere I wanted. I could design a point in my head then make it happen exactly that way, like a playwright. On the court my will became reality and I could see my opponents knew it. They could feel they were just a piece on my game board. I didn’t lose even a set the entire summer. Only Ben Archer pushed me to a tie break once which I won, then I won the second set 6–0.
Life off the court was robotic, single-threaded. I was worshipping at Dad’s altar. I kept that from bothering me by remembering that I had made a deal with myself and I was getting the results I had bargained for in the deal so everything seemed fine. My time with Liz was now in a sealed vault buried fifty feet underground like an ancient city now forgotten beneath a present-day tennis center.
Dad’s whole being was dominated by the one-to-one correlation between his happiness and my winning so he was very happy.
Gabe also was feeling great. In a matter of only weeks he had unlocked my potential and got me winning again.
Mom was happy because there was peace in the house. We had lots of hugs. Hugs and knowing looks like people living carefully under a mad king. Not Anne-Frank-living-in-the-attic type stuff. Just people who don’t believe in fascism.
I started reading more, at least two hours every night. I discovered Milan Kundera and Philip Roth. Roth had written a lot of books and for a period of three months I considered him my best friend. I wanted to meet him. I related to him and I wanted to meet him more than I wanted to meet my tennis hero, John McEnroe. McEnroe was an adult, independent with plenty of money, and he still surrounded himself with tennis. I couldn’t relate to that at all.
I told this to Dr. Ford. I said it exactly that way. “I think Philip Roth is my best friend.”
“Who is Philip Roth?”
“The writer.”
“Oh, of course. The Ghost Writer; My Life as a Man.”
“Right,” I said.
“When did you meet Philip Roth?”
“I haven’t.”
Dr. Ford never showed confusion. He just took longer to say something, a trait I thought was pretty good and wanted to test. “I see. But you love his writing?”
“Very much.”
“And you relate to him in some way?”
“I do,” I said.
“More than people?”
“What people?” I said.
“The people in your life.”
“I repeat,” I said.
Dr. Ford smiled. “Well, that’s not entirely fair, Anton.”
If I knew then what I know now I’d have told him to shut the fuck up right there. But instead I said, “There are props in my life, not people. Except Panos but he’s at college now with a girlfriend and I’m playing all the time. I hardly see him anymore.”
“Aren’t things with your mother improved? With your father?”
“Everyone has self-awareness of the plan we’re on and the plan is like a balm for a cold sore. So, yes, the plan is working as much as a balm can work for a cold sore.” I learned more from my novelist friends than from Dr. Ford.
“So, that’s very good.”
“It’s one dimensional. I’m one dimensional.”
Ford watched me.
“If I win a match, a tournament, I don’t have anyone to share it with. Not really. Gabe and I will high-five and talk about tactical points. Same with Dad. Mom will say congratulations and Panos is away. The best I can do is go up to my room and talk about it with the dust jacket of a Philip Roth novel.”
Ford smiled and looked at me. The piece of shit didn’t know where to go with this. I suppose it was possible he wanted to talk with me about developing a fuller self and some friendships but knew that’s not what Dad wanted. Or maybe he really believed his approach. In any event, it clicked for me that he wasn’t helping me, he was helping me play more tennis. He was just as invested in my winning as Gabe and Dad.
He never once engaged me, challenged me in a way that would lead to discovery. All he ever tried to do was calm me down.
I began to resent Dr. Ford. He was another connection to nothing and our meetings became just an obligation for me. Maybe it was doomed with Ford from the start. I had always been suspicious of his being just an emissary from Dad so I was cautious, and you get out of these things only what you put in. I held on to my consciousness of the deal I had willingly struck and on to my books.