a living from the thing he loves most.
Did I tell you I had to sell my gui-
tar to be able to buy a new racket? Mar-
tin asks. When I was sixteen, seventeen?
Yes.
I can tell from your voice-you are
tired of my stories. You think they are
bullshit.
That's not true. I'm here, aren't I?
Just as I promised. Have I ever not
shown up?
It's O.K. I deserve it. I exaggerate
many things, but this I do not exagger-
ate: my life here is poor. Do you know
how much they are paying me at the
club to teach the rich people tennis?
Only a little more than the waiters. I
can pay for my apartment and food, and
that's it. At least when I'm competing
I am travelling-I am outside my life
and outside my head. They say that my
life-my farmer 1ife-.-is like being a ma-
chine: you just keep hitting the ball, over
and over. I lll.eailt I used to agree. But
now I realize: yes, it is like being a ma-
chine, but a machine with soul. You are
always fighting to keep the ball alive.
To never let the ball die on your side--
that is the spirit. Always this fighting,
sweating, the breathing of your mouth,
like you are singing a song of air. And
the two, three people watching--1n my
imagination. it is two thousand, one half
of them cheering my name: Mahr-am!
Mahr-teen!Mahr--teen!So that my name
isn't even my name anymore, but like
the title on a poster. Like "Evita." Or
"Paddington." And evcryone--the peo-
ple watching and myself-we all want
the same result: not just that I win but
that I deserve to win because if I play so
beautiful how is it possible that I don't
win? Every day I wait for the decision
of those motherfucker officers. That
they will say, You make a mistake, but
we give you another chance. Everyone
deserves a second chance. That is all I
am asking. And then it doesn't matter
ifI am poot. I can stand to be poor then,
so long as I am doing the thing I love.
.& usual, Martin is saying all the
right things. Either he has his act down
or he is genuine. Most likely both.
I can promise you this, Martin says.
If I was in La Jolla, it would be the
summer of your life!
Toby's face and shoulders suddenly
start to itch. His nails find the spot,
only for the spot to move.
64- THE NEY ~MARCH 30, 2020What is wrong with you? Martin
moves closer to the camera, all eyeball.
Nothing.
I can put lotion on it if I was there!
Toby has dreams that he won't con-
fess to Martin. Because to talk about
dn:ams is to pour dousing sunlight on
them.He and Martin go to the zoo and
kidnap the swans: that is one dream.
Although he understands that, in this
instance, Martin is a proxy for Apichat
and for Albert from Canada, although
Toby and Albert never fooled around,
just flirted. At least, Toby thinks they
flirted. Also, and most wincingly, Mar-
tin could never be more than a pale
stand-in for Romiro, the only boy Toby
got close to at Bollettieri. He and Romiro
would often wander off the trails in one
of the local parks. Amid trees and na-
ture, they would take turns going down
on each other, hesitantly at first, and
then with studious lasciviousness.
I have to go, Toby says.
So soon? What you have to do?
I have to let you go.
You are my only friend, Martin says.
Thank.you.
Maybe tomorrow we can talk again?
Maybe. What he doesn't say: Let
me go.
Wait. Don't say goodbye yet. I have
one request.
What.
Don't think I am taking advantage,
Martin says. Because you are the only
one I can ask. Can you PayPal me five
hundred?
O.K. Toby do~n't even ask about
his father's check. The lawyer gobbling
it all up. He feels his resolve to be done
with Martin growing smaller-a dot
on the horizon.
You'll do it? You're the best.
This is the last time. My dad is cut-
ting me off.
Wait. One thousand, then.
I don't have that much! What he'd
really like to say: How much for you
never to contact me again? He pictures
the check that Pavel rejected, which his
father ripped up in disgust.
You have everything! Martin says.
0.K. Seven hundred. And fifty. Sev-
en-fifty. Please. Please?
0.1(. But that's it. Yet again, he un-
derstands that this will not be the last
of Martin. And not just because of the
Chilean's persistence but also, andmostly, because ofl'oby, who is girding
himself for a slate of future houseguests
who skew more Pavel than otherwise:
Pavcls Two through Ten. Not so much
in their wealth but in their diffidence.
AD. irritating self-sufficiency. Martin is
all Toby has. Martin is the proverbial
bird in the hand.
The money-it is all for the dream,
Martin says. To play again. To be on
the court. Befitting the subject, his voice
is dreamy, far away. A 4 A.M. tone. Do
you know what they are telling me? If
I come back? I will have to start at the
very bottom. That's right-Futures.
Tashkent-do you know where that
is? Do you know they have an event in
Tashkent? Camels and yaks watching
you sweat fur pointli. It's like a joke to
call it Futures when you are going into
the past. My previous ranking I will
give up and I have to start at zero. I
will do it, too. Happy fur me that day.
I lie alone, and I can't wait for the next
day to come, and the next. Time will
move. And soon my problem will be
fixed. Everyone in Santiago-my fa-
ther, my brothers and sisters, the peo-
ple at the club--they tell me to give
up. Martin, you are twenty-five, it is
time to grow up. Maybe this cheating
is actually a blessing. It is right at the
center of the "X" that is your life: in
one direction, growing up; in the other,
staying the same. What will you choose?
That is my father. Also my older
brother. Sometimes I get so lonely I
talk to people waiting for the bus. I tell
them my situation---not everything but
close to it. They are quiet, but I can see
in their eyes: this is all a dream, and it
is time to grow up. Everywhere I turn,
there are the same words: grow up. I
never answer them, because I am hum-
bled. It is my own fault that I cannot
defend myself, because after what I
have done who will listen to me? But
ifl could answer them I would say, Not
yet to gmwup. I need more time. Please.
More time. The dream is not dead.
There is still hope. Only after hope
dies, then I will agree: yes, I can grow
up. But not before. Only till then. Please.
And, once more, he plays the word for
the most forlom--and to Toby--heart-
sore beat: Please. •MEWYORKER.COM
Han Ong on the language of tennis.