Page 11 of Risky Match
“Have you forgotten that you won the Wimbledon Junior’s title at seventeen.”
“That’s not the same thing.”
“It’s still impressive. More importantly, you’ve won each of the other three Grand Slams multiple times in the last fifteen years. Very few players can say that.”
“That may be true, but winning the men’s singles title at Wimbledon would mean everything to me. For some reason, since my junior’s win, grass court tennis has been my nemesis. That’s changing now. We need to solidify a bulletproof plan and implement it. I’m not going to let the press or my past losses distract me this time.”
“Your game is perfectly suited to grass, but you don’t have much time to transition from clay at the French Open to grass here. Hell, you only play on grass about five weeks a year, and two of those are at Wimbledon. It’s a tough adjustment for everyone.”
“I know. There’s not enough time to get comfortable on this surface. But someone wins each year. This time it will be me.”
“The transition is as much mental as physical. You know what to do. You psych yourself out. That’s one reason I recommended the sports psychologist. She’s helping you mentally prepare, which I believe will make the difference.”
“And it’s why I insisted we arrive here much earlier than usual. I’m not taking anything for granted, particularly given my recent panic attacks. When the matches start, I’ll play everypoint as well as I can. In the end, I plan to hold up the trophy,” I say, slamming my fist on the desk.
“I know. Calm down. We’ve got this.”
Clenching my fists, it takes everything in me not to scream. Calm down, my arse. I’m not having a panic attack now. I’m merely focused on winning. Even if I were having an attack, doesn’t he know I wouldn’t be able to control it by merelycalming down?
I know he wants to help, but he’s never experienced what I’m dealing with. It’s futile to try to explain. Instead, I simply say, “Good. What’s on the agenda for today?”
“I’ve mapped out a strategy for your workouts and court time that should have you peak at the right moment. Give me a second to pull up the spreadsheet.”
While I wait for his computer to boot, I try to push away my negative thoughts. The problem is that I almost dread this tournament each year for fear that I’ll fail again. I’m sick of answering the same questions year after year and seeing the headlines that suggest I’m not as good as the players who have won all four Grand Slams. Or even worse, they imply that I always choke at this tournament.
This year I’m determined to overcome the obstacles one way or another.
Pointing to the screen, Josh says, “Here we go. Look at this. I’ve divided each day into four parts.”
As I’m about to ask a question, Josh’s mobile phone rings.
“Hello. It’s Josh.”
He listens and then responds, “I’m not going to tell him. That’s your job. I’m putting you on speakerphone.”
“Who is it?” I ask, frustrated by the interruption.
“It’s Noah. He has an update for you.”
I can’t imagine what my manager wants that can’t wait.
“Hey, Noah. We’re in a meeting. Let’s talk when you arrive for the tournament.”
“No, this can’t wait. It’ll impact your schedule.”
Scheduling hassles are the last thing I need now. Rubbing my neck to relieve the building tightness, I ask, “What do you mean?” I ask.
“Your clothing sponsor insists that you play mixed doubles as well as singles this year.”
“No!” I bark.
“No isn’t an option. Youwillplay mixed doubles,” Noah commands.
Who the hell does he think he is? He works for me.
At this point, I’m pacing the room, attempting to control my response. Josh doesn’t need to hear what I really want to say to Noah. That will happen after Wimbledon and in private.
For now, I count to ten—twice, and finally bite out, “They can’t make me do that.”
