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why we should still be hunkered down in foreign lands spreading democracy and winning wars and how losing is never an option in this country and Vince Lombardi’s philosophy of life and why do anything if you can’t be number one? and then there was that time when he punched his fist through the bedroom wall after Jack lost that match at the age of six and what effect will all of this have down the road on my darling son? and Avis looks across the table at her husband of two decades whom she somehow has continued to stay with through thick and thin come hell or high water only because of her ingrained loyalty and grace.
    But she does not see the real, physical Ira Spade now, the guy with the Groucho mask she somehow still loves, but instead she pictures first the image of Pat Hingle in Splendor in the Grass in the role of Ace Stamper, the driven father who pushes his son Bud mercilessly to be a winner and a big football star and to go to Yale and he ends up nearly driving his son mad and in fact driving himself to suicide, and then she pictures the image of Karl Malden in Fear Strikes Out in the role of John Piersall, the driven father who pushes his son Jimmy mercilessly to be a winner and a Major League Baseball star and he ends up literally driving his son to the brink of madness, and now Avis remembers how Ira was before they had Jack and how much more easygoing he used to be in the early days and sure there were harbingers of his red-blooded All-American hypercompetitive nature but somehow she didn’t mind them that much and boys will be boys and all and then came Jack and before long the tennis and the obsession with being number one and how much harder and more driven Ira seems now and what will Jack become?—she sure as hell hopes not a Bud Stamper or a Jimmy Piersall—and now she snaps back to reality and puts the last bite of lobster in her mouth and stares blankly across the table at her darling husband and his prize possession.
    Ira Spade removes the last piece of lobster meat off his fork, waves it under the table in front of a patient Akuma’s nose, pulls it back up to his own mouth, and pops it in.
    And, as a special treat, he tosses a diabolical little smile to his ever-faithful dog.
    * * *
    In the garage of the Midtown Racquet Club, Ira parks his black 2040 Mercedes 19000SE in his spot in front of the metal plaque that says IRA SPADE/CHAIRMAN, EXECUTIVE COMMITTEE.
    The two Spades enter the club, say howdy to the receptionist, the head tennis pro, the assistant pro, the shoeshine guy, the locker room attendant, and the masseuse.
    Once on the court, they take off their warm-up pants and meet at the net for a little pre-hit powwow.
    Their court is flanked by two on each side, every one of the five immaculate courts fashioned out of dark blue SuperDecoTurf 9, the best hard surface the technology of the mid-twenty-first century has to offer.
    It is a Friday night, and the conditions are difficult: Between the echoes of balls reverberating against the walls and ceiling and the sub-sixty temperature and the chatter of the raucous mixed doubles games on the other four courts, concentrating is definitely a challenge.
    At the net, Ira gives Jack his usual pep talk.
    “Now listen up, you sonuvabitch,” Ira begins, looking at his son with a stare that could melt tungsten. “Remember what I told you. No more Mister Nice Guy, okay? Outside of this tennis court, I am your father. But once we begin playing, on the other side of the net from each other, I am no longer your father, goddammit. I am your enemy . I am not to be respected. I am to be beaten. I am to be crushed . You got that?”
    Jack gets that.
    “Okay, now all you have to concentrate on for the next hour,” Ira continues, “is not letting the ball bounce twice on your side of the net. Nothing else .”
    On Jack’s way to the baseline, something on the order of the supernatural is happening to him. With every step, Dr. Jack Jekyll is turning into Mr.