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Tuesday are the days I showcase my own work on this blog.
Today I’d like to share an excerpt from my third novel, Match Maker.
I’m
very proud to say that Match Maker was voted best contemporary fiction novel at
the 2011 Rainbow Literary Awards.
My
favorite fan, Fausto Unamzor, made a
video trailer for Match Maker, so I thought I’d share: http://tinyurl.com/2ev95ds
Blurb:
In
the four years since being forced off the professional tour for being gay,
Daniel Bottega has taught tennis at a second-rate country club. He found a
sanctuary to hide from an unkind world, while his lover, Jared Stoderling,
fought a losing battle with alcohol addiction to cope with his disappointment of
not playing on the pro circuit.
Now
Daniel has another chance at the tour by coaching tennis prodigy Connor Lin to
a Grand Slam championship win. He shares his chance with Jared by convincing
him to return to the pro circuit as Connor’s doubles partner.
Competing
on the world tour is challenging enough, but Daniel and Jared also face major
media attention, political fallout from the pro association, and a shocking
amount of hate that threatens Connor’s career in tennis, Jared’s love for
Daniel, and Daniel’s very life.
Match
Maker
Dreamspinner
Press (Sept 2010)
To purchase: http://tinyurl.com/3qseap8
Excerpt:
We wandered
through the maze of courts that were drying nicely. He asked me what I loved
about tennis, and I explained, “The fact that you are in control of your own
destiny. You’re not at the mercy of a coach calling the plays or benching you,
and how you perform depends on how you prepare before the match and how you
keep your composure during play. The thing I love most is when I’m pressed to
the wall and forced to dig deep, when I hit rock bottom and have to pull out a
jackhammer to dig deeper until I find that hidden vein of strength I never knew
existed.”
I paused
for a moment, realizing the truth of my statement.
“Yes,
that’s what I love most,” I said. “When I surprise myself.”
Connor took
off his dark glasses and revealed a shine in his eyes.
Something
had gelled, but I still needed to tread carefully.
“If you’re
serious about the pro tour, we’ll need to work out twice every day. Three hours
in the morning and the same in the afternoon.”
“What about
school?”
“You’ll
take correspondence courses over the Internet. Most of the teenagers on tour
finish school that way.”
“But if I’m
on court six hours every day, when will I have time?”
“At night.
Connor, becoming a pro is a full time job. Greatness doesn’t happen without a
price.”
“Okay, Mr.
Bottega. School sucks anyway.”
“There’s
one other thing I need to know,” I said. “I have the feeling that you don’t
share your dad’s goal of you being number one in the world. What’s with that?”
“That’s his
agenda. I dream about going to college and becoming a top surgeon. You know,
healing sick people, especially kids, or doing clinical research to find cures
for shit like cancer and AIDS, but we can’t afford college, let alone medical
school. And if I can’t be a doctor, well, being a tennis pro is like, you know,
the next best thing. I mean, it beats programming a computer or flipping
burgers.”
“Are your
grades good enough for pre-med if you had the money?”
“Totally. I
mean, it’s all about memorizing shit in books, writing papers, and taking
tests. How hard is that?”
He had
forfeited his chance at an athletic scholarship by playing the pro tournament
in Carmel, which bumped him out of amateur standing, but I explained that with
enough hard work and a few good years on tour, he could win enough prize money
to pay for college and medical school. “That’s easier than attaining number
one,” I said, “but if tennis is your passion and you’re willing to pay the
price, becoming a top-twenty player is achievable.”
He didn’t
respond. I knew he felt that his dream was too remote even to hope for, but I
couldn’t tell which option he yearned after.
“Anything
you want to know about me?” I asked.
“Why did
you quit? You coached Jared Stoderling, and he was skyrocketing up the rankings
until you both vanished.”
Bingo, just
the question I had hoped for, because I didn’t want any uncomfortable surprises
down the road for either of us. “I met Jared at tennis camp when we were
teenagers, and we became lovers. On the tour, I relinquished my aspirations of
being a player to help develop his career. After four hard years, when our
dreams were coming to fruition, the ATP found out we were gay, and they
blackballed us.”
Connor
looked gut-shot. His jaw dropped, and his mouth made a perfect round opening,
just about the size of his unblinking eyes. The bond between us shattered. He
stepped back, shaking his head, visibly grappling with the shock of it.
In for a
penny, in for a pound. “If we work together, some people might assume that we
are intimate. They’ll whisper behind our backs at every tournament. You’d
better be sure you can handle that before we get started, because once the
rumor mill starts rolling, it’s unstoppable.”
A ladies’
foursome trooped by us on their way to the clubhouse. Their jewelry sparkled in
the sunshine that had broken through the clouds. “Hello, Mr. Bottega,” they all
crooned.
He waited
until they had moved out of earshot before saying, “I’m straight!” His curt
tone broadcast that he didn’t want anyone believing otherwise, not me and not
anyone on the pro tour. He slipped his sunglasses back on and looked as though
he was about to cut and run, but he asked, “You’re not interested in me? I
mean, sexually?” His voice had turned shy.
“No,
Connor. I’m not a chicken hawk.” I smiled, but he didn’t acknowledge my lame
attempt at humor, so I pushed on. “Jared and I are still lovers. We have our
problems, but there’s nobody else for me. Your virtue is categorically safe.
It’s your reputation that may suffer.”
He visibly
relaxed, even showed the hint of a grin. He stared at his sneakers and shook
his head. “My dad’s a straight fascist. He hates gay people. Of course, he
hates anybody that’s not Chinese.”
“If you
still want my help, we’ll tell him and let the stuff hit the fan.”
“Why? It’s
none of his business what you do off the court. None of mine either.”
I began to
protest but stopped because his sudden attitude change baffled me. One minute
he looked ready to bolt, the next he seemed accepting. Could his only issue
have been fear of me hitting on him?
“Does this
mean you still want to work with me?”
“I need
time to think.”
“Fair
enough. Let me show you the rest of the layout here before you decide.”
The
facility had a dozen pristine hard courts, but the two clay courts were my
pride and joy. As we approached them, he veered off the concrete walkway and
stepped onto the nearest court, sliding his foot across the moist clay. “If I
could win any one tournament, I would choose the French Open. Can you teach me
how to be a great dirt-baller?”
The clay
court tennis that dominates Europe and Latin America connects more closely with
my core values than the hard court tennis that prevails in North America. For
me, clay courts represent the true spirit of the game, which champions finesse,
patience, strategy, and endurance, whereas the hard court game is primarily one
of aggression, short points, and instant gratification from blasting winners. Clay
court tennis gives me satisfaction from playing long, grueling points and from
the tactical thinking that goes into every game. Connor’s interest in becoming
a dirt-baller hopefully meant we shared the same core values.
I nodded.
Again, I saw my reflection in those dark circles of glass hiding his eyes.
I thought I
felt something gelling again, but I couldn’t be sure. The fact that my facility
had the only clay courts in San Francisco gave me an edge, but was it enough?
“Talk it over with your father. Make sure you’re both comfortable with
everything, and I mean everything.”
“Tell me
one thing,” he said. “Can you make me a top contender on the terre battue?”
“I know
what you need to get there. Whether you can learn from me is another question.
We’ll just have to roll the dice and see.”
He took off
his dark glasses again. The tentative set to his eyes transformed his entire
face, making him ravishing, at least in my eyes.
“I know you
can help my game, Mr. Bottega, but I’m not sure I can handle this gay thing. I
mean, I don’t care that you’re gay, but it feels weird that people will assume
I am too.”
His
reluctance felt like a knife twisting in my gut, but I understood: he was
proud. I liked that about him. I hesitated, knowing he needed more coaxing and
that this opportunity was too momentous to let slip away, but I didn’t know
what else to say. My safe job, my entire life, seemed like a low-salt,
fat-free, sugarless diet. I wanted this badly.
“Go home
and mull it over. If you’re interested, be here Saturday morning and we’ll make
it happen. If not….” I paused and shrugged. “I wish you luck.” I tried to sound
matter-of-fact, like it didn’t matter one way or the other, but I couldn’t mask
the pleading tone in my voice.
Connor
reached out and clasped my hand, shaking it firmly. “I’ll think it over, Mr.
Bottega.”
He
turned and jogged back to the clubhouse, leaving me in the center of my
sanctuary, which suddenly felt way too small.
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