Page 110 of Off Court Fix

“Ladies and gentleman, Maxine Draper.”

I nearly trip on the balls I mustered up a few minutes ago as they drop to the floor when Susan says my name, but I manage to make it to the podium without stumbling.

Clearing my throat, I touch the microphone and tip it down. “Thank you, Susan and the First Step Group, for giving me the opportunity to have a little time this evening with all of you. I’d like to thank the board members of Hampton Racket and Beach Club and the entire community here for welcoming me this summer. And thank you for directing my attention to the cause the annual gala would support this year. Many don’t know that the work the First Step Group does is close to home.”

I take a deep breath, looking down at the speech I had printed, very black-and-white, very to the point, and I flip the paper over so the words are buried into the podium.

“I don’t ever talk about the way addiction has impacted me. I think that’s because up until my brother’s overdose on this very same day four years ago...” I pause when the silence becomes so strong in the ballroom you wouldn’t just hear a pin drop, you would hear the echo it leaves behind.

“I’ve looked at addiction as something that should be kept in the dark, something anonymous, something not spoken about between even the closest of people—family. Recently, I’ve asked myselfwhy. Why, even as an adult, I chose to do that. I think, early on, my decision to do so was because I wanted to protect my brother, not to hurt or embarrass him more by bringing up his struggles. But as my brother’s addiction grew deeper, so did my frustration. And embarrassment.

“It’s a special kind of torture to watch someone you love suffer, and worse, to watch them repeatedly refuse help. Mason had an infinite amount of chances to turn his life around. He had access to the best rehabs, the best therapists—anything he wanted. My anger came into play when he declined the help repeatedly. Because I felt like he should’ve jumped at the opportunity, that these chances were really giving him access to heaven’s gates, and he had to be an idiot not to step into them.

“It took me witnessing his death to understand the depth of his pain, to understand how he was constantly in a state of survival mode. Rehab and recovery weren’t heaven handed to him on a silver platter. It was merely breaking openhell’s gates, but my brother was too weak to make the journey. And I’ve struggled over the fact that by keeping so quiet about his addiction, I weakened his spirit while feeding the disease that eventually would take his life. And that disease, it infected me too, though differently. We aren’t numb to it, and I consider myself lucky and privileged I was able to turn my suffering into something productive.”

As the words leave my mouth, the pressure in my chest loosens and lightens.

“The first time I picked up a racket, it was because Mason got arrested and charged with possession and endangering a minor. That minor? It was me. He woke me up at midnight and shuffled me into his bright blue Ford Bronco because he needed to meet a friend at the train station and was watching me while my grandmother was out of town. I didn’t know that friend was a dealer. I didn’t even know what a dealer was that night. By the morning, I had an entirely new vocabulary, but these were words I wasn’t supposed to speak out loud, and they became ones I would know but never truly understand. I remember finding an old racket far too big for me in the garage and a canister of flat balls. I began to hit against the side of the house, and I haven’t stopped hitting since.

“I often get asked,Maxine, if you could go back and tell your younger self one thing about today, what would it be?I’d like to think I’d tell myself many things, like don’t ever think you can feed Serena Williams a volley right at the net and get off so easily.” I pause when the audience chuckles. “But when I sit with the question, I realize my answer probably won’t satisfy whoever is asking. What would I say? I’d tell little Maxine that suffering isn’t shameful, no matter the cause, and it’s okay to talk about the hard stuff. I’d tell her that her voice matters, just as much as her brother’s. And so do the voices of those suffering from substance abuse. They deserve listening ears and open hearts and minds. That’s what I want to say tonight. We do no one any favors keeping quiet about substance abuse. Our silence breeds shame. Shame breeds isolation. And isolation for an addict of any kind—drugs, alcohol, gambling—is the perfect breeding ground for this disease.

“If I had a moment with Mason, I’d apologize. I’d tell him I’m sorry I sidelined him so much. I’d let him know he is more than the disease that lives in his DNA, that he’s my brother and I love him, and I always have. I know the battle addicts face is a long, solo one, something I or anyone else could never fight for him. But if I could go back, I would’ve loved him loudly and proudly. I would’ve cheered for him as he always did for me, even when I was down several points and the future looked bleak on the court.

“And now, all I can do is honor his memory. In tennis, like any other sport, talk is cheap. I’m happy to speak about my brother, I’m honored to share my story. But someone dear to my heart recently reminded me words without action are like a win with no effort—meaningless.”

I lift my eyes, finding Crosby, and though I can’t hear the small laugh he lets out, I swear, I feel it.

“It might seem strange that I found tennis through addiction, but I consider myself lucky and fortunate to have done so at such a pivotal time in my life. I was privileged to have the support to encourage me to explore my passion and develop my craft. I know not everyone is as fortunate, and I like to think it’s never too late to do the right thing, even when it seems like it’s the wrong time.”

I press my lips together, wondering why it’s now I think about my father, that I’m getting emotional. I wish I had another moment with him too. I wish I could tell him I want him to celebrate the highs and accept my lows and let me live this life I’m so desperate to make for myself with his support and not his direction.

Taking a deep breath, I carry on.

“In addition to donating one million dollars to the First Step Group, I’m pledging an additional five hundred thousand dollars to support the families, and particularly children, of those battling addiction. They deserve to be seen, to be heard, and taken care of.”

The applause overwhelms me so much I step back from the podium. I want to look at Crosby, hoping that seeing him will bring me a little calm, but I can’t stop looking over all the faces, smiling and cheering.

Including Hunter.

I step back to the podium. “Again, I thank the First Step Group for the enormously important work they do, the staff here at the club, and the incredible generosity of you all. And if I may just call out one in particular, who I’m certain is too humble to ever stand for a round of applause, Mr. Hunter Wembly. Not only has Hunter bid very generously on the silent auction tonight but he’s also agreed to match my donation.” I watch as Hunter’s hands pause mid-clap before continuing, “In full.”

Retreating from the podium again, I smile widely. It will never be enough—for the integrity of tennis, for the vulnerability of addicts, of players taken advantage of.

But it’s a start.

“Crosby!”

I cock my tongue against my cheek and keep walking, winding through spinning and dancing bodies, trying to pretend I don’t hear Hunter screaming my name over the band that has now taken the stage Maxine cleared.

I don’t have time for this.

He puts a hand on my shoulder, which is a big mistake.

I spin around, twisting his arm down. “Not now,” I seethe before relaxing my face and flashing a smile at a concerned, questioning woman.

Hunter is quick to follow me across the dance floor, and all I want to do is toss chairs and tables behind me.

“Oh,now,” he says, catching up to me, and there are too many people around for me to shove him away, so we walk quickly shoulder to shoulder. “Now you’re going to get that bitch in check—”

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