Free The Job by Douglas Kennedy Page B

the middle of the box. I moved forward, racket way back, ostensibly poised to hit a deep shot. But as Dan hovered behind the baseline, I switched tactics and chipped a little drop shot right over the net. Dan scrambled to reach it, but it was into its second bounce by the time he was within its vicinity.
    “SONOFABITCH!” he screamed as ran straight into the net-but then he raised his hand in instant apology. Tennis is a gentleman’s game, after all. Until you start having doubts and begin to make mistakes. Then it suddenly becomes a do-or-die battle. With yourself.
    Dan Sugarman was always having this sort of battle with himself. From all accounts, he was an attack dog of a metals trader, a guy who gave nervous breakdowns to all his underlings and stalked the futures pits of the commodities exchange like a psychotic general. Or, at least that’s what I’d heard around the locker room at the New York Health and Racquet Club, where Sugarman and I played at 6:00 A.M. twice a week. Having faced the guy over a net for the past three months (we were put together by the club’s resident pro after I mentioned I was in the market for a regular early-morning game), I still knew nothing much about Sugarman’s background-except that he was in his early forties, was worth big bucks, lived on Sutton Place, was married to a shopaholic named Mitzi whom he worked hard at rarely seeing … and had this habit of slamming his 375-dollar Wilson graphite racket into the court whenever he blew a point.
    Yeah, Sugarman was a real type-A, I-gut-the-competition specimen-for whom life was an ongoing combat zone. And, of course, being five foot four, he also had his Napoleonic thing on constant auto-drive-a real little man’s need to assert himself at all costs. That s the thing about tennis-after you’ve played against a guy a few times, you get to see all his limitations, his fears and self-doubt. Because winning on the court is only partially dependent upon your skill and your physical stamina. What ultimately determines the outcome of a match (especially when you and your opponent a^e evenly matched) is whether you can maintain the advantage when it comes your way. Can you convert it into success? Do you really want to win that badly? Or is there some nagging, latent uncertainty regarding your ability to pull it off?
    This was Sugarman’s problem. Every time we played, he’d grab an early advantage-and then inevitably screw it up by becoming agitated. Maybe that’s because, on the court, he’s so nakedly determined. I’m the sort of competitive player who simply worries about winning the next point-and, as such, looks upon a match as a string of little victories. Sugarman, on the other hand, is a maniacally ambitious player-for whom every match is a war in which he simply has to triumph. But whenever the guy has victory in his sights-wham-a couple of aggressive bad shots and he starts to fall apart.
    Serving at four-five, I quickly won the game, thanks to his series of unforced errors. But at five-all, his first serve came back to life. He aced me twice, then placed a brilliantly executed lob that totally wrong-footed me. Suddenly he was up forty-love, serving for the game, smiling smugly at me. A smile that said, And you think you’re a winner.
    That’s when I went on the offensive, punishing his tentative first serve by dropping it right at his feet. Then, on the next point, I hit a clean forehand straight down the line.
    Thirty-forty.
    His next serve arrived with plenty of tops ping but I managed a cross-court backhand that was unreachable.
    Deuce.
    He had an attack of nerves and double-faulted. And then, having delivered a shallow volley at the net, I was suddenly up six-five and serving for the set.
    Sugarman was no longer smiling-because he knew I was determined to end this thing fast.
    Two aces, followed by a vengeful overhead smash, and it was set point. I tossed the ball up and slammed a clean winner down the center line.