Ana didn’t get back to me. I had made the stakes pretty high so I shouldn’t have expected her to. They didn’t break off the engagement but there was still not a wedding announcement, so the length of the engagement was becoming newsworthy.
The next twelve months I played hurt a lot. Nothing major, nothing for the newspapers, just nagging stuff. Sore knees, sore shoulder, sore wrist, temperamental lower back. Sometimes my lower back would seize and cripple me, then Bobby would get some cortisone shots in me to knock back the pain and inflammation and get me back on the court. I was into the second half of my twenties and I noticed recovery was taking a little longer, even with the help from drugs.
I’d skip a tournament to get two weeks off here and there, enough time to rest but not enough to heal. By the third or fourth match back after a two-week break, I’d have the same pains, same cortisone shots. Like a car that’s overheating and needs to fully reset before it can run right again, but I didn’t have the time to reset my body. I had to play. I needed tournament points to keep my ranking. If a player doesn’t enter enough tournaments in the year, skipping has the same effect as a first-round loss.
I wondered how many of my injuries were the result of the regular wear and tear of an eleven-month season on a 6'3" frame, and how many were the result of my steroid program commanding an unnatural level of performance from my body.
I remembered deaths of old NFL players like Lyle Alzado, some of the Pittsburgh Steelers from the 70s, all the WWF professional wrestlers from the 80s dying off. I had to believe the medicine was a little better now, a little cleaner.
Most of the American guys a few years older than me who played when I was first coming up were all long gone. Rufus Parker hadn’t played a professional tournament in two years and was running a tennis camp for teens in San Diego. In tennis, a player can go from kid to veteran in the span of what might be an internship for most industries. And a player can go from a veteran to gone and forgotten in the same span of time.
Bobby made small adjustments to my steroid program. Always tweaking, optimizing, keeping me at the maximum. We’d committed to that for a few more years, as long as I could stay at the top of the game. Money was coming to me from places I’d never imagined before.
Of course the prize money was good and the sports apparel endorsements were great, and that I expected. But my agent also got money deals for me on fragrances, watches, private airlines, clothing labels, cars. I never did much for any of these deals. I just allowed my agent to tell people they could use my name, and they paid me. What my agent called “passive income.” It was more than my prize money.
There was a lot invested in staying on top of the game. My body was reminding me all the time that my run at number one would be finite and that my run in the game at all wouldn’t be much longer than the time at number one. I didn’t feel a slow decline coming on. I felt a collapse, like the snapping of a rope bridge over a canyon.
I also increased the amount of alcohol I drank during my two-week mini-breaks. I dated no one seriously. Tennis was a sentence and I needed to serve my time first and until then I’d make do with the company I could find.
I was in my New York apartment drinking beer with Adam on a mini-break when Gabe called my phone. I muted the TV and tried to sound sober. “Hey, Gabe.”
“Anton, we have a problem.”
Gabe was never dramatic. He didn’t talk that way so I stood up as a reflex, which reminded me how drunk I was. “What’s up?”
Adam looked over since the TV was muted.
Gabe said, “You got flagged. BB&T Atlanta Open. The test came back positive.”
“Bullshit. That’s not possible.” I sounded drunk since I was starting to panic and forgetting to try to sound sober. “Gabe, I don’t flag these, ever.” My brain was scrambling. In calm moments, I’ve wanted out of tennis plenty of times, but now this felt like a death sentence. First humiliation, then death, and I was having a physical reaction to the news. My heart was pounding more blood into my skull than the veins there could handle and I was out of breath. “Could there be a mix-up? Did they make a mistake?”
“No, it’s no mistake, it’s too far down the path. I spoke to the lawyer for the ITF. They’ve checked and rechecked.”
“How the fuck did this happen?” I was still standing, walking now, and Adam stood too.
“I don’t know. Maybe they started using a different agent in the test, maybe Bobby tried something new he shouldn’t have.”
“Fucking Bobby.”
“Let’s pick this up when we get together in person.”
That was code for shut-the-hell-up-about-your-steroid-program while talking on the phone, just in case, and I was sober enough to get it. “Fine.”
“There’s a bit of good news,” he said.
It took me a moment but I circled the room back to the sofa, sat, and said, “What?”
“Well, the thing is, you’re the number one player in the world.”
“So what?”
“That gives you some leverage, even in a situation like this.”
“What do I do?”
“You won’t have to do anything, other than say yes to what I expect will be a pretty sweet deal. Under the circumstances.”
“What’s the deal?”
“He wouldn’t say, but we have a meeting. Tomorrow. In New York.”
* * *
We met at Keens Steakhouse in Midtown at 11:30am the next day. The lunch crowd hadn’t come yet so there were only a few waiters getting ready and a hostess in front. The restaurant was dark with low ceilings and stretched far back like a cave.
The hostess was expecting us and took us in a different direction, up a flight of stairs then turned right and opened a set of heavy double doors.
“Your party is here. Welcome to the Theodore Roosevelt Room.”
Two men stood at the far side of a huge, round table that could seat twenty-five. One was tanned with black hair and a trim tailored, bright-blue suit with a purple tie. He said, “Anton, Gabe, thank you for coming. Come in, come in.” He had a Spanish accent. He came around the table to shake our hands and lead us to two seats at the table, leaving one seat of space between us and them.
“Of course,” said Gabe.
“My apologies,” said the man. “I didn’t know this table would be so absurd for our purposes today, but I wanted a private room and this surely will be private.”
There were old tobacco pipes and animal heads hung around the walls. I stayed standing and speechless. I was nervous. I was a convict waiting for my sentencing to be read.
“My name is Chi Chi Ruiz. I serve as the Executive Vice President of the International Tennis Federation. My office is in the London headquarters.” He had a smile full of very white teeth, he was happy, relaxed, like we were all here for a social lunch. He put a hand on the shoulder of the man in a charcoal suit next to him. “This is Alan Eberhart with Couchman Harrington Associates, the law firm that we keep on retainer. It’s necessary that Alan be here today,” he said by way of apology.
“Hello,” said Alan. He was so curt it was hard for an accent to work its way into the syllables but I detected British.
He shook hands with two pumps for each me and Gabe, then sat, so then we all sat too. I still hadn’t said a word.
Chi Chi said, “Thanks again for coming,” which was a silly thing to say. It wasn’t a favor. I had to come. “We all know the unfortunate reason we’re here and Alan and I have come all the way to New York so we can handle this situation in a way that is best for the ITF, best for you, best for the game of tennis, best for the fans of the game of tennis. Now, I have to tell you, this is a highly political issue within the ITF leadership, but over the last week we’ve worked out some ideas for moving forward. Alan will take us through the basics.” Gabe and I were scared, Alan seemed angry. Chi Chi turned to Alan with a lunatic smile.
Alan started, “By way of background,” he had the tone of reading text he hated, “in 1993 the ITF and ATP began the Joint Anti-Doping Programme. In 2006 the ITF took control of the programme for the men’s tour and in 2007 for the women’s tour as well. The ITF handles all drug testing at ITF-sponsored events, including the Grand Slam events, as well as all ATP-sanctioned events.” He paused. “The ITF is the governing body for drug testing.” This sounded very much like a threat.
“So you just deal with us,” said Chi Chi, putting on a positive spin.
Alan ignored him and continued in official speak, “On July thirty-first of this year, at the BB&T Atlanta Open, the ITF conducted a routine post-match drug test of Anton Stratis. The testing detected banned substances.” He paused and shuffled a new paper to the top of his stack. “Mr. Stratis, the test detected three banned substances. First, diuretics, a banned substance commonly used to help the body lose fluids and mask the presence of other drugs. Second, beta-2 agonists, a banned substance commonly used to relax smooth muscle around the lungs, enabling greater lung capacity and higher performance. Third, anabolic steroids, a banned substance commonly used to build muscle and speed physical recovery.”
I wished Bobby was there so he could also receive the failing grade personally. Our enormous room and enormous table were all quiet for a moment, then Chi Chi laughed. Through his laughter he said, “It really was a spectacular failure, Anton. I mean big-time.” He shook his head. “So here we are. Our head clinician, Dr. Miller, ventured a guess that the diuretic in your program failed. It showed up present in your test but didn’t mask anything.”
I nearly thanked him for the gratuitous analysis.
Gabe said, “If we appeal?”
“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves,” said Chi Chi, keeping the floor from Alan. “I’ve looked at this from a lot of angles. I pushed for a Therapeutic Use Exemption but there was no support for me on that. Back-dating an application for a TUE from you would be tricky, and there has been no apparent injury or media coverage of an injury to support the claim. Plus if it ever got out which substances came up in the test, that wouldn’t line up either.” He raised his hands. “The point is, I’m trying to help you.”
“That doesn’t answer my question,” said Gabe.
“Gabe, you’re dead to rights,” said Chi Chi. “There’s no appeal. That would be just a big media circus, and nobody wants that.”
Gabe nodded.
Chi Chi said, “But there’s good news in all of that, if you listen to exactly what I just said. Nobody wants a big media circus!” He looked from Gabe, now to me. “You’re the number one fucking player in the world!” He sounded like Raul Julia. “That’s the point of leverage I’ve been working on your behalf.”
Alan looked frustrated and I realized Chi Chi was a rogue operator trying to handle this in a way that made lawyers squirm. He wanted my test gone as much as I did. Not because he liked me personally. He liked that I sold tickets and TV rights and tennis needed a clean image to keep growing revenue.
I still hadn’t heard my sentence issued and I didn’t feel ready to speak. Gabe said, “Where did that leverage get us?”
“Well, again, this is highly political,” said Chi Chi. “We don’t want our number one player out on a drug ban. But we can’t just do nothing either. That won’t fly. The ITF leadership is clear that they won’t hand out a pass on this. So where does that leave us? How do we satisfy both?”
Gabe and I looked at each other. I had the feeling he was right that we might get a sweet deal.
“A six-month suspension,” said Chi Chi. He looked back and forth at us both trying to gauge a reaction. Gabe and I stayed stone faced. “But we won’t call it a suspension. There’s no need to label it. As a practical matter, you will not play for six months. Release a statement about some injury, make something up that takes six months to heal. Take some time off.” He smiled his biggest yet. “So you do six months. Call it a vacation, call it a suspension. What’s in a name?”
Gabe and I looked at each other. I was thrilled. I knew Gabe was too. This was the best outcome he had hoped for but he was savvy enough not to look thrilled in front of them. “Six months is a long time,” he said.
Chi Chi looked annoyed for the first time. “Gabe, this is a gift and you know it.” His comments were all directed to Gabe. “You know we have to come down with some punishment. I’m saving your athlete’s neck here. It’s six months, and that overlaps December which is a month out anyway, so you’re really looking at five. You can keep training, quietly, off the radar. Anton keeps his reputation, all that nice money coming in on the side. And tennis avoids a black eye.”
“Well,” said Gabe.
Chi Chi pointed a finger at Gabe. I could see he had plenty of fire behind the smile. He had been sent here to sew this up, make sure we cooperated. “You need to work with me on this, Gabe. It’s the best deal you’ll get. Take it now, as is, or I promise your life and Anton’s life will turn to shit.”
Gabe looked at me and nodded. I nodded back then said to Chi Chi, “Alright.” My one and only word of the meeting.
The group’s focus returned to Alan who said, “This is a verbal understanding between the parties. For a period of six months, commencing today, Anton Stratis agrees that he will not enter any ITF- or ATP-sanctioned event, nor will he play tennis in public in any way that demonstrates he is at full physical health during the six-month period. Should you apply for entry to any event your application will be rejected. The ITF reserves the right to publish the drug test results in the future if it feels in its own judgment that Anton Stratis has not fulfilled this agreement in good faith.”
Chi Chi was smiling again. “Call it a wrist injury. Show up to play again in six months, wear a brace, put a little mascara on it. Enjoy some vacation, then boom, boom, boom, you’re back in.”