Apples Never Fall

“He was all about the show reel,” said Stan. “He’d go for shots that Federer wouldn’t go for. Show-off shots, and sometimes he’d get those shots, but I’d say to him—”

“Spectacular doesn’t win the match,” filled in Troy. He picked up his glass. “Could someone pass me the wine?”

“Exactly.” Stan twitched as the Father’s Day balloon brushed against his face. “Spectacular doesn’t win the match. You have to have substance.” He pushed the balloon gently away as if it were a small child trying to look over his shoulder.

If Joy and Stan were having this conversation alone she would have told him it was nothing to do with bloody substance. It was focus. Troy could keep his concentration for only so long and then it was gone. That was the kid’s fatal flaw. He’d be a set and a half up, and Joy would see him staring dreamily at the sky or checking out some attractive young girl in the stands. He did the show-off shots to keep himself interested.

“Behold, a man without substance.” Troy made jazz hands.

“And then there was the altercation with Harry,” said Stan.

Shut up, thought Joy. Shut up, shut up, shut up, you stupid man.

“Isn’t it my turn yet?” asked Brooke quickly.

“You never really came back from that,” said Stan to Troy.

“I did get a tennis scholarship to Stanford,” Troy told Savannah. “But that meant nothing to my parents.”

“It certainly did not mean nothing!” said Joy. It meant you went to the other side of the world and returned an entirely dif

ferent person. After America, it was like he’d been shellacked. You could tap your fingertip against that shiny, hard, cheerful surface.

“Troy couldn’t control his temper,” said Stan. “Inherited his hot temper from his mother.” He chuckled, as if he could turn one of the most distressing events of their family history into a funny anecdote suitable for sharing with new friends. “He was a racquet thrower. We had to tie his racquet to his wrist.”

“Not we,” said Joy. “You. I thought it would ruin his grip.”

“But it didn’t, did it?” said Stan. “His grip wasn’t the problem.”

“I know it’s your day, Dad,” said Amy. “But could we change the subject?”

“Don’t worry about it, Amy,” said Troy as Brooke silently passed him the wine. “I don’t care.”

“Anyhow, I thought we had the temper under control. He was thirteen when it happened,” said Stan to Savannah. “He got banned for six months. Fair enough too.”

He was fourteen, thought Joy. He’d turned fourteen the day before.

“Playing against a Delaneys student. Harry Haddad.” Stan paused, allowing space for Savannah to give a little gasp of recognition, but Savannah just looked blankly back at him.

“Famous Australian player. Former number one? Won Wimbledon twice? Won the US Open a few years back?” It was beyond Stan’s comprehension that she wouldn’t recognize the name.

“Oh! Yes! Of course. I’ve heard of him,” said Savannah, clearly pretending. Joy thought how refreshing it was to have someone in the house with so little interest in tennis she hadn’t even heard of Harry Haddad.

“He was a former student of mine,” said Stan. He glanced at Joy, corrected himself. “Former student of ours. He’s been in the news because he’s in training now to make a comeback. Anyhow, so back to the story. Troy was playing against him and not doing so well—”

“Dad,” said Amy. “Please. Let’s not talk about Harry Haddad. It’s not good for my mental health. I feel like it’s not good for your mental health.”

“Another thing to mention is that Harry Haddad was a sniveling little cheat.” Troy studied his wineglass.

“Never saw it happen,” said Stan, calmly, but with that edge: the edge still sharp enough to make his children bleed.

He still didn’t get it, even after all these years. He never saw how he betrayed Troy every time he made that statement.

“Doesn’t mean it didn’t happen,” said Troy evenly.

“How can you cheat?” asked Savannah. “Isn’t there like a … ref?”

“There are no chair umpires at the lower levels,” said Brooke. “The players make their own line calls. It’s hard for some kids to be … ethical.”