Chilean, the Mozambi.quan, the Mo-
roccan, the Thai, and the Brazilian ver-
sions of this story, the proportions of
joy and desperation and grit different
in each. These tennis hopefuls have to
rely on the largesse of people like To-
by's father, and often the plane tickets
to the events cost more than they can
hope to win. PlU8 there are the meals.
Plus the expense of maintaining their
equipment, their bodies. An injury?
Forget about it-learn. to play hobbled
or go back home and sell insurance,
daydreaming about a life of sturdier
luck and televised glory. Because these
events at the Challenger level-you
rarely get many spectaton, much less
a broadcast camera.
You ready for more? Pavel asks.
They do new drills. The goal is to not
hit the ball the same way twice in a row:
vary the spin, the speed, the strength.
First, both men stand at the baseline,
going back and forth, playing the plush
metronome of the game. Good, Pavel
judges. And then it's Toby's turn to
move up to the service box, to get used
to taking control at the net. Good,
Pavel says again. Not bad. Toby asks
if Pavel's routine allows for drinks.
He leads the Czech to the bar cart in
the billiards room. Puts two tumblers
down on the cart top and drops in ice
from a mini-fridge by the sink. For
Pavel, it's whiskey. Toby makes him-
self a gin-and-tonic. Cheers, they say,
clinking glasses.
Your dad, he makes his money from
gambling? Pavel says, while staring at
a limited-edition Damien Hirst print
on the wall.
What? Toby's shoulders go up.
He has casino, no?
Oh. Yes. Yes.
What do you think I mean?
I forget about the casinos some-
times, Toby says.
Shall we play? Pavd indicates the
billiards table.
Pavel gets to break.
Who is your favorite player? he asks.
Toby turns the question back on
Pavel. Who is yours?
Of course, Federer, Pavel replies.
Don't tell me yours. I can guess.
Djokovic.
No! It's Nadal. Why do you say, Fed-
erer, of course?
Are you shitting me? Federer is the
"I've got a bullet-pointed list of the ways I'd like you to surprise me. "
greatest. Of all time. If you say Nadal
is greatest, I beat you with this stick.
It's not clear whether or not Pavel is
joking. He chases balls around the table
until he misses.
But Nadal owns Federer! How can
you be the greatest if someone has so
many wins over you? And, besides,
Nadal is the best competitor.
Pavd's tone gets nasal; his words,
though gibberish, are just clear enough
for Toby to understand that his last
mtement is being mimicked satirically.
Federer is once-in-lifetime event, Pavel
says. Like Mozart. Like Beethoven.
When he plays, there is music. Well,
of course, there is big silence. Because
no one wants to miss anything. But the
ball-it waits for his racket. I wish I
could play like that! And your body-
your body is just an illusion. You are
here on this part of the court, but is
that really true, because how can you
be in that other part of the court in the
wink of the eye? All the time, antici-pating, anticipating-what is going to
be the next ball? Radar, sonar-so pre-
cise, so beautiful.
Toby won't say so, but this Czech
guy is paying back his free room and
board in spades. Conversation like this
raises Toby's temperature. Even if Pavel
is a bully. For the first time since Toby
picked him up from the airport, he is
evincing passion: Mozart, Beethoven,
radar, beautiful Not even winning ear-
lier in the day hastened his pace to the
net to shake hands with his opponent.
The requested hamburger and milk-
shah: did not produce a smile. But now?
Through talk of Federer, he's revealing
his heart: he loves tennis; it's the only
ww;y of life for him. It is not enough to
tire your body with play; away from the
court, the discipline has to be kept alive
through ardent discussion. But most of
the time Pavel won't cop to it. Com-
plaint comes easier, is more sporting.
By listing his grievances, he is partici-
pating in the gcu:ral. fdlowship of those