Opposites Attract

you to run, sent balls over your head or lined them at you with a speed a stationary wall couldn’t match. Though he lost handily, Ty had discovered the challenge of competition. And the thirst to win.
    He continued to haunt the courts, paying more attention to details. He began to select the players who took the game seriously. Possessing quite a bit of charm even at that age, Ty talked himself into more games. If someone took the time to teach, he listened and adjusted the advice to suit his own style. And he was developing a style. It was rough and untutored, with the flash the sportwriters would later rave about as just a spark. His serve was a far cry from a grown Starbuck’s, but it was strong and uncannily accurate. He was still awkward, as growing boys are, but his speed was excellent. More than anything else, his fierce desire to win had his game was progressing.
    When the cheap racket simply disintegrated under constant use, Ada raided the household budget and bought Ty another. Of the hundreds of rackets he had used in his career, some costing more than his mother had made in a week, Ty had never forgotten that first one. He had kept it, initially from childhood sentiment, then as a symbol.
    He carved out a name for himself in the neighborhood. By the time he was thirteen it was a rare thing for anyone, child or adult, to beat Ty Starbuck on the courts. He knew his game. He had read everything he could get his hands on—tennis as a sport, its history, its great players. When his contemporaries were immersed in the progress of the White Sox or the Cubs, Ty watched the Wimbledon matches on the flickering black-and-white TV in his apartment. He had already made up his mind to be there one day. And to win. Again, it was Ada who helped the hand of fate.
    One of the offices she cleaned belonged to Martin Derick, a lawyer and tennis enthusiast who patronized a local country club. He was an offhandedly friendly man whose late hours brought him in contact with the woman who scrubbed the hall outside his door. He called her Mrs. Starbuck because her dignity demanded it, and would exchange a word of greeting on his way in or out. Ada was careful to mention her son and his tennis abilities often enough to intrigue but not often enough to bore. Ty had come by his shrewdness naturally.
    When Martin casually mentioned he would be interested in seeing the boy play, Ada told him there was an informal tournament set for that Saturday. Then she hurriedly arranged one. Whether curiosity or interest prompted Martin to drive to the battered South Side court, the results were exactly as Ada hoped.
    Ty’s style was still rough, but it was aggressive. His temper added to the spark, and his speed was phenomenal. At the end of a set, Martin was leaning against the chain-link fence. At the end of the match, he was openly cheering. Two hours on the manicured courts of his club had never brought him quite this degree of excitement. Ideas humming in his brain, he walked over to the sweaty, gangly teenager.
    “You want to play tennis, kid?”
    Ty spun the racket as he eyed the lawyer’s pricey suit. “You ain’t dressed for it.” He gave the smooth leather shoes a mild sneer.
    Martin caught the insolent grin, but focused on the intensity of the boy’s eyes. Some instinct told him they were champion’s eyes. The ideas solidified into a goal. “You want to play for pay?”
    Ty kept spinning the racket, wary of a hustle, but the question had his pulse leaping. “Yeah. So?”
    This time Martin smiled at the deliberate rudeness. He was going to like this kid, God knew why. “So, you need lessons and a decent court.” He glanced at Ty’s worn racket. “And equipment. What kind of power can you get out of plastic strings?”
    Defensive, Ty tossed up a ball and smashed it into the opposing service court.
    “Not bad,” Martin decided mildly. “You’d do better with sheep gut.”
    “Tell me something I don’t know.”
    Martin drew out a pack of cigarettes and offered one to Ty. He refused with a shake of his head. Taking his time, Martin lit one, then took a long drag.
    “Those things’ll mess up your lungs,” Ty stated idly.
    “Tell me something I don’t know,” the lawyer countered. “Think you can play on grass?”
    Ty answered with a quick, crude expletive, then sliced another ball over the net.
    “Pretty sure of yourself.”
    “I’m going to play Wimbledon,” Ty told him matter-of-factly. “And I’m going