Chapter 4
CHAPTER FOUR
On Monday at six forty-five PM, Leo is leisurely pedaling on a stationary bike in the players’ workout room, staying in motion to keep his muscles warm.
In fifteen minutes, he’ll walk onto the court inside Louis Armstrong Stadium to play Gabe Montoya in the first round of the Open.
They’re the headlining match on night one of the year’s final Grand Slam, which will unfold over the next two weeks.
Though he’s not playing on Ashe—the largest and most revered stadium is set aside for the number one seed—he’s honored to be playing on the second largest, Armstrong, no matter how many times he’s done so before.
He knows that all fourteen thousand seats will be filled on opening night, especially for an all-American battle.
Even now, inside the workout room, he can hear a faint rumbling out in the stadium starting to grow louder as fans make their way inside.
He spent the day compartmentalizing his anxiety about playing Gabe—after tennis, his greatest talent is compartmentalizing his emotions—and practicing, of course, which today included many sets of short sprints from the baseline to the service box so he could prepare his body to react swiftly to Gabe’s inevitable drop shots throughout the match.
If he wants to get up to a drop shot in time, his first step out of the gate is crucial—exploding his body into motion toward the ball before it can bounce twice.
He has to be ready for anything with Gabe, who can certainly hit with power, but will mostly be throwing in plenty of variety to trip Leo up, as usual.
When faced with a tricky opponent like Gabe, Leo’s plan has always been to focus on the basics: pick his targets, hit through the ball with pace, and make as many first serves as possible.
And maybe don’t look directly into Gabe’s dreamy eyes or at the way his butt bounces while he jogs in place before his service motion.
Not that those things are what have kept Leo from beating Gabe before. Of course not. Promise.
Leo and his dad are now standing facing each other, Leo shifting his weight from one leg to the other, his dad holding a ball and suddenly dropping it either to Leo’s left or right, having him grab it as quickly as he can, practicing his reaction time some more.
“All right, Johnny, we need to get to the box,” Brian says, and turns to Leo. It’s five minutes until showtime. “You got this, LC. Play without fear.”
Leo nods at him and they bump fists.
Then Johnny puts a hand on Leo’s right shoulder. “Hold your own.”
“Thanks, Dad.”
They go to take their reserved seats in Leo’s player box.
Each player has a designated area, front row, at one end of the court where their team sits and, after a change of rules in the last couple years, they’re allowed to give bits of advice to their player between points if they want.
Alongside his dad, his physio, his agent, and Brian, Leo’s mom, Sheryl, will be in the box too, having just flown up from Delray Beach, where she still lives with Johnny and works as a real estate agent.
A former sports journalist (she met Johnny at a press conference—a real-life meet-cute), Sheryl only comes up to Leo’s chest and has thick, wavy, shoulder-length hair that frames her round face and is a bit darker than his.
She’s too anxious to watch Leo play—even after all these years—but she still shows up in his box at the Open and a few other tournaments throughout the year anyway, her face buried in her hands for about 80 percent of the match.
Alone in the hallway that leads onto the court, alone with his thoughts, alone until the end of the match, Leo is now staring straight ahead—his enormous red Wilson bag on his back and his equally enormous headphones on, which are playing his favorite pre-match song: “Don’t Stop Me Now” by Queen.
For what it’s worth, he knows he looks good in his all-Nike outfit, his sponsor since he first went pro.
His polo is white with navy-blue and mustard-yellow piping on the collar and sleeves, his midthigh shorts are also navy-blue, and his sneakers are white with just the heel in mustard-yellow. His racket is still cherry-red, Wilson.
Looking good can certainly help a player feel good, and it’s not exactly a secret when Leo looks good out there, eliciting whistles from fans in whatever stadium he’s playing in—and eliciting posts from Serving Looks.
The account has surely been posting Instagram stories all day leading up to tonight’s Chambers–Montoya showdown: video highlights from their best matches this season, video highlights from their matches against each other over the last decade, polls on whether Leo or Gabe will win and in how many sets, and, obviously, shirtless pics galore.
Leo never goes on Instagram the day of a match, though; more “DADDY” comments aren’t going to help him win this match.
Besides, he doesn’t need to see more photos of Gabe’s tall, lean frame when he has the real thing, right in front of him now.
Gabe has just taken his spot at the mouth of the hallway, just out of sight of the fans, as the lower-ranked player is always announced to the crowd first. He’s in an all-maroon Adidas outfit, which, naturally, hugs him in all the right places, with white sneakers and his signature backward hat, also white.
For once, here, just like in the locker room a half hour ago, they say nothing to each other.
The two of them stay focused, simply waiting for their names to be called.
And that wait is now over.
“ALLLLL RIGHT, TENNIS FANS,” the announcer growls over the microphone, “it’s time for tonight’s first-round match-up on Louis Armstrong Stadium.”
Even with Freddie Mercury belting in his ears, Leo can hear the crowd erupt in cheers and whistles and applause.
“Please welcome to the US Open, from the United States: GAAAAAbrIEL MONTOYAAAAA.”
Leo can hear the crowd explode again as Gabe gives a wave and walks across the court to take the bench to the right of the umpire, who sits in an elevated chair like a lifeguard beside the court, calling the score and issuing warnings if necessary.
“And his opponent, also from the United States, your ninth seed and a semifinalist here last year: LEOOOOO CHAMBERRRRRS.”
He can’t help it. This first walk-on at the Open is the peak of Leo’s entire season, every season.
There’s nothing like the electric atmosphere here, a testament to the constant, radiant buzz of New York.
He makes his way into Louis Armstrong Stadium and looks around at the raucous crowd as he holds up a hand and flashes a smile.
As he suspected, just about every seat is already full, fans jumping up and down as their cups of beer slosh from side to side, while others are clutching a Honey Deuce in one hand—the Open’s signature pink drink with Grey Goose, lemonade, Chambord, and three honeydew melon balls sticking out to look like tennis balls—and pointing to Leo with the other.
He sees a few fans around the stadium waving American flags, and there are a few Peruvian flags, too, for Gabe.
The roof is wide open on this clear August night, and while it’s still muggy, the temperature is beginning to drop with the sun.
The subway rattles and clunks down the aboveground track nearby, adding another layer to the stadium’s swelling music: “Back in the New York Groove” by Ace Frehley.
Once their bags and towels are settled on their benches and their various bottles of water and protein concoctions are lined up beside them, Leo and Gabe each grab their rackets and meet the ump at the net for an explanation of what towel box to use, where the serve clocks are located (the serving player has twenty-five seconds to towel off and serve), and that they cannot challenge line calls, as the Open now uses an electronic system that instantly and loudly calls “out” for shots that miss and “fault” for serves that miss.
All the while, Leo and Gabe, on opposite sides of the net, are jogging in place, squatting, lunging, practicing their swings, and rotating their necks.
This is so they stay warm and loose, sure, but it’s also a form of peacocking, their attempt to psych out their opponent by showing them how amped up and focused and limber they are ahead of their match.
They pose for a photo, smiling ear to ear, and the moment the photo is taken, their smiles disappear—and so do they, bolting back to the baseline on their sides of the court so they can begin warming up together, hitting groundstrokes, volleys, and serves.
Leo ensures his face doesn’t betray the nervous energy coursing through his body.
A few minutes later, it’s finally match time. The crowd explodes with more applause and whistles as Leo steps up to the line to serve.
“First set. Leo Chambers to serve. Ready?” the ump says into his mic. The stadium falls into silence. “Play.”
In that moment, the world fades away. Under the blazing fluorescent lights, Leo sees nothing but Gabe at the other end of the court, knees bent, swaying his body from side to side, waiting for the first serve like a jungle cat.
He hears nothing but his own heartbeat pounding on his eardrums. He holds up the ball to signal to Gabe that he’s ready.
Then: Bounce. Bounce. Bounce. Bounce. Bounce.
He tosses the ball into the air and the fluorescent lights surround the ball like a halo.
He pushes his body upward and smacks the ball as hard as he can, sending it speeding over the net into the far corner of the service box.
Gabe lunges to his right to try and get his racket on it—but misses. It’s an ace. 133 mph. A perfect start.
Leo clenches a fist as the stadium erupts in cheers.
“15–love,” the ump says.