The Oldest Ball "Kid"

In my second-round match the next day, I lost miserably, grunting and groaning on the exhaustion and overuse of my muscles the night before. The player I lost to was Kurt Steiner.

He had the audacity to grin as we were shaking hands over the net at the end of a loss that made him look like a real tennis stud—on TV—and me like an unprepared dud and to say, "No hard feelings, I hope. Gene was worth it, wasn't he?"

Dolt that I was—having gone straight to the pro circuit rather than college—I didn't "get it" until that very minute. Kurt had used Gene—and the lay sessions before—as a distraction and as exhaustive activity for me going into the tournament. Kurt had looked ahead and seen that we might meet in the second round, and my ranking was nearly ten slots above his.

I could do no more than smile wanly and walk off the court while he was still acknowledging the applause of the tennis fans.

Gene hadn't worked as a ball kid that day. Checking with the office, I learned that he had only been brought in to cover more sicknesses in the ranks of the ball kids. "He's really too old to be a ball kid anymore," the supervisor confided in me. "And he called in sick today too—said he'd strained a couple of muscles and was hobbling around. There's really a limit to the age where a ball kid's duties are manageable. Do you not agree?" She looked at me as if I was going to stand up for Gene's right to be the oldest ball kid alive.

But I didn't.

If I'd had any sense I would have written off using Kurt's procurer services during future tennis tournaments. But I didn't do that either. I didn't rise much further in the rankings, and I'm happy to say that Kurt didn't either, but I made a living at it.

And the sex on tour was great.