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“I mean, hit it out once or twice just to make her grandma in the stands happy?” I stare at her.
    “No, actually,” I say, abruptly. “Not today.”
    “I think that’s the best I’ve ever seen you play,” Dad says, picking up my bag. As we turn to walk off the court, we almost knock over some guy who stands right behind us. He’s dressed like Dad, got the golf-shirt thing going, but there’s a lanyard around his neck with a laminated ID card. He sticks his hand out.
    “I’m Jerry Goss,” he says. “Chadwick Tennis Academy. We spoke on the phone a couple weeks ago.”
    “Mark Lloyd,” Dad replies curtly, shaking the hand.
    “Congratulations on an impressive first round,” Jerry says to me. “I think that was one for the record books. You didn’t lose a single point.”
    “Thanks—” I begin, before Dad cuts me off.
    “We’re going to find some shade for Henry and get a little lunch into her,” he says abruptly. “You’ll have to excuse us.” Dad shoulders past Jerry.
    “Sure thing,” Jerry Goss replies, his face reddening. “Why don’t I catch up with you folks when the tournament is over?” Mom, trailing Dad, smiles apologetically.
    “Yes, please look for us later,” she says. Eva and I follow quickly behind them.
    “What was
that
about?” she says under her breath to me.
    “He’s that recruiter from the tennis school in Boca Raton, Florida,” I explain. “Basically, a control-freak parent’s nightmare.” Eva bursts out laughing.
    “Hope Jerry likes getting chewed alive by a lion,” she says.
    “Wouldn’t be the first time,” I sigh.
    He’d called our house after I won the northern final. Wanted to come over and talk about this residential tennis academy. Dad was beyond rude to him over the phone.
    “Mark, why can’t we simply hear him out?” Mom argued afterward. “This could be a marvelous opportunity for Henry.”
    “Marian, these are the sorts of people who ruin kids like Henry!” Dad insisted. “They make ’em pros when they should still be junior amateurs. The tennis world is littered with their disaster stories. Remember that kid with the pigtails, when we were growing up? Andrea Jaeger. Whatever happened to her? And that other prodigy. Tracy Austin. They ruined that kid’s back. And what is she today?”
    “A very wealthy TV sports commentator,” I called out from the other room. They didn’t know I was listening in.
    “A has-been!” Dad barked back. “A talented kid who never reached her potential because people were trying to make money off her!”
    “I wouldn’t mind people making money off me,” I replied, “as long as I get to keep some.” It’s a strange thing about my dad: he’s sort of anti-money. Running down people in our town with big houses … McMansions, he calls them … orassuming rich people got there by cheating somehow. The good news is he’s not materialistic. Suspicious, controlling, bad-tempered, ill-mannered, but not materialistic.
    Jerry Goss pushes all his buttons. But I’m interested in hearing him out. I get the feeling Mom is, too.
    As it turns out, my bionic powers don’t extend to winning every single point for the rest of the day. I do manage, however, to win every game. Every set. The whole enchilada. By five o’clock that afternoon I am the newly crowned 16-and-Under New Jersey State Champion.
    When the last point is played out, I walk toward my opponent to shake hands. She stands at the net, still panting. She’s short and muscular and she hit the ball like a man. Rockets, one after another, most of them fired into my backhand. A bit too predictably into my backhand. She’d revealed her strategy only a couple of points into our first game: she was going to blast me off the court, slam me all the way to Pennsylvania on the sheer power of her strokes.
    So I made her run. I took the pace off every shot, moon-balled them deep to her corners, followed by short drops over the net. Two games into it, she’d