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January, 2008

Pete Simpson is a promising junior tennis player from Tampa, Florida, on track to earn a tennis scholarship to a major college. Pete’s game and expectations soar when Ambre, the beautiful French tennis sensation, begins training at the Saddlebrook Tennis Academy. Carlos Cordero, the world’s #1 ranked junior tennis player steals Ambre away from Pete, but not before Ambre and Pete’s younger sister Lisa become bitter enemies. Lisa channels her anger into tennis and vows retribution. The paths of these teenagers are destined to cross at Roland Garros Stadium, home of the French Open.

Jim Simpson, father of Pete and Lisa and husband to Mary, is a successful businessman with a rapidly expanding international construction company. Jim hires Marco Noah away from the French construction firm, Bouygues, to head up Simpson Construction. Successful projects in Mexico City and Tampa land Simpson a three billion dollar project to repair Roland Garros after it is severely damaged by Al-Qaeda. The huge project is on a tight timeframe and requires a joint venture with industry giants Bouygues, Hunt Construction and Clark Engineering. Jim’s best friend and CFO, Ken Reed asks Sven Johansen for financing. It is a race against time to complete the new, domed stadium, in time for next year’s French Open tennis tournament.

Agbu Galan, Carlos’ boyhood friend, becomes leader of the New ETA, the terrorist arm of the Basque Nationalist movement. Haunted by the death of his older brother Anton, who is shot by Jim Simpson during an attempted kidnapping in Mexico, Agbu swears revenge. Uncle Enrique and boyhood friends Rico, Stefano and Tito assist Agbu. Muhammad, leader of the European Al-Qaeda cell and supplier of Basque drugs, has his own agenda.

Chris Lewis, Ken Reed’s fiancé and longtime friend of Jim and Mary Simpson, is now with the CIA. She is assigned to protect the Simpson family and works with the French Police to stymie Basque and Al-Qaeda plans to blow up the newly rebuilt Roland Garros stadium. French Police Lieutenant, Georges Caron agrees to watch over Susan Peterson when she returns to Paris to help cope with the death of her husband Bill who died at the hands of Basque kidnappers.

This was yet another blow to the Basque who trace their heritage and language back thousands of years and have been fighting for their own homeland for centuries.

"Hey Dad, look at this."

"Just a minute, son, I’m on a business call. I’ll be there in a few minutes."

Fifteen minutes later I finished my call and went into the living room. The television was still on but Petie was nowhere in sight. Surprisingly, the TV was tuned to the French Open and was showing re-runs of yesterday’s men’s quarterfinal matches. Petie wasn’t into tennis.

I found him in his bedroom playing video games. "What was it you wanted, Petie? I was on the phone and couldn’t get away; sorry." I felt bad about not being there for Petie when he wanted me. He was a good kid, but was entering that age when they relied less and less on their parents.

"It wasn’t anything, Dad. They were showing some re-runs of old French Open Champions and I was wondering if you ever saw this guy Borg play. He must have been pretty good."

"He was the best of his time, son. In the late ‘70s and early ‘80s he was the man. What did he win, six French Opens?"

"Yeah, they were showing a match from 1981 when he beat Ivan Lendl in the finals. Gee, he was like a machine. He never missed."

"That’s what Borg was known for, his consistency."

"Is that why they called him the Ice Man?"

"That was part of it, Petie, but it was something more. Borg had this look in his eye that said, ‘I’m going to stay back at the baseline and wear you down. If you get 15 balls back, I’ll get 16, if you get 17, I’ll get 18. I’m willing to stay out here all day; are you?’ He was relentless."

"Wow, that’s cool."

"Did you see the rackets they used back then Petie? Wood frames with small heads. Racquet faces had about 66 square inches of hitting area. Now, a racquet face with 95 square inches is considered mid-size. Some oversized racquets have 120 square inches. Borg played before tennis became such a power game."

Petie hesitated for a few seconds before responding. I could see his mind working overtime struggling with what he wanted to say. When he finally decided, his decision surprised me. "Let’s go to the club and hit a few balls, Dad. Okay?"

"Sure, get the rackets while I change." I had planned on going into the office, but made a snap decision. It was a good one.

Looking back years later, I remembered this moment as a turning point in Petie’s life, and for the lives of those of us around him. It was the day that my son became a tennis player.

4,300 miles away, two 13-year olds were robbing a small drugstore in Vitoria-Gasteiz, the capital of Spain’s Basque Country. The boys escaped with 30 Euros, less than $40 American dollars. More importantly, they found a variety of barbiturates and opium-based prescription drugs worth more than a thousand dollars on the street. Drug trafficking was a major source of revenue to the local Basque cell group. Agbu’s older brother Anton was their leader.

"That’s the last time for me, Agbu, tomorrow I leave for the tennis school in Madrid."

"I envy you, Carlos. I wish I could play tennis like you. That’s your ticket out of this slum. Don’t blow it."

"What will you do, Agbu?"

"Don’t worry about me, I’ll get by. Soon I will join my brothers and do what my family has done for generations. The ETA needs young people now more than ever."

"Be careful my friend; it’s dangerous."

"I know, but it is what my family has done for three generations. My great grandfather fought against Franco in the Spanish Civil War. One day the Basque will have our own country, that’s what my brothers say."

"You don’t really believe that, do you Agbu? Do you really think Spain and France will ever agree to that?" A third of the land that the Basque claimed as their homeland was located across the border in Southern France.

Agbu was an intelligent boy and had often considered the question. "No, I guess I don’t Carlos, but it doesn’t matter. We fight anyway. If they give us our own country, we would think of some other reason to fight. It’s what the Basques have done for centuries."

Carlos thought about what Agbu had said and knew there was a lot of truth in it. He wasn’t as smart or quick as Agbu, but Carlos had the ability to reason things out and usually came to the right conclusion. The Basque trace their heritage back over two thousand years and were always warriors. Agbu was destined to be a terrorist; it was his culture and it was in his blood.

"You keep the money, Agbu, I won’t need it. The Spanish Tennis Federation will be picking up my expenses."

The friends parted and went their separate ways. It would be many years before they would meet again in Paris at the French Open.

I was bored. My business was doing exceptionally well, but it wasn’t enough. I needed a change. Mary and I just returned from a two-week golfing vacation to Ireland and Scotland. The kids, Pete and his younger sister, Lisa, were growing up faster than we wanted, but seemed to be doing very well in school and other activities. They were a pleasure to be around and we counted our blessings. It had been over two years since my dramatic golf match with Jack Pardo in the club championship. I can still visualize Jack’s putt rimming out on the 18^th hole and handing me a 1-up victory. I guess the excitement from the myriad of events that surrounded that day had spoiled me. It wasn’t every day that an amateur match play golf tournament has a winner-take-all prize of a business valued at 938 million dollars.

I still played golf twice a week when time allowed and my handicap hovered around plus three or four, not bad considering I was a plus fifteen when I moved to Tampa five years ago. Ken Reed, my golf mentor and business partner usually teamed up on Saturdays to play Jack and his partner in a two-ball, $50 Nassau. Jack and Ken were scratch golfers so a lot depended upon Jack’s partner whether we got strokes. Like most golf wagers, the winner is determined on the first tee. Ken was a great negotiator.

The Cabo San Lucas casino and resort project had been a tremendous success and I was fortunate to have maintained an ownership interest for my company, Global Management. Casino operations had been sub-contracted to a large management company that operated casinos throughout the world. They took 97% of adjusted gross revenue and paid all expenses. The ownership group received three percent, which amounted to about $80M annually. Global Management received 15% of this amount which provided Mary and me opportunity for several vacations a year.

Knock-on-wood, there had been no turnover of the key people at Global Management. The mortgage brokerage and equipment leasing businesses continued to grow. We exercised our option on an additional 20,000 feet of office space and added 15 new employees over the last two years. Our Christmas party was no longer a table of eight and Christmas bonuses last year totaled $320,000. It was money well spent and well earned.

Our international funding business was expanding and was the one area of the company that held my interest. In the last two years we funded three small deals in South America, one in China and several in Europe. The average size of these projects was just over $60 million dollars. Half of our business is for hotels and golf resorts but recently we began funding real estate developments and community infrastructure.

Relationships with our lending sources had also improved. We were now table-funding deals under our own name, pooling loans into investment grade packages, and then selling the paper to large Wall Street lenders and pension funds. There were two relatively small deals that I liked so much that we funded using our own money in exchange for a percentage of ownership. These changes significantly enhanced our credibility. We were no longer thought of as a broker, but as the final lender and source of money. It was mostly perception, but who cares, business opportunities were increasing.

The construction side of our business was treading water. Simpson Construction hadn’t done much since the Cabo San Lucas casino was completed. I maintained a skeletal staff, but they wouldn’t stay long unless we developed some new work. Maybe the phone call I received this morning from the government official in Mexico City would prove interesting. They were planning to build a new all-sports complex and asked if we might be interested in managing the project. "Sure," I replied, "we would be very interested in discussing this further. When can we meet with you?" We had never built a domed sports stadium.

"When did Borg start to play tennis? When did he win his first tournament? Did he play any other sports? What’s he doing now?" Petie talked tennis the entire ten-minute ride to the club.

Where did this come from, I wondered? Mary and I had never pushed sports on Pete or his sister, Lisa. If they wanted to play something, we encouraged them. Pete was a pretty good at soccer and baseball player, but not a star. He was fast and could throw pretty well, but wasn’t as big or strong as some of his friends. Tennis might be a good sport for him.

"Borg grew up in Sweden, so naturally hockey was his first love. I read that his father gave him a racket when he was nine and he won his first tournament a year later. I guess he had some natural ability, but I’m sure he practiced quite a bit."

"How long, Dad? How many hours would I have to practice to be as good as Bjorn Borg?"

"Petie, let’s take it a step at a time. It’s more important that you have fun. Not many people will ever be as good as Borg, but most of us can enjoy playing. Remember, he quit playing tournaments when he was only 26. It doesn’t sound like he was having that much fun anymore."

"Dad, it will be fun when I win the French Open, I promise you."

"Okay Petie, let’s stop the chatter and hit a few. Don’t try to hit winners, just keep the ball in play like Borg would have done. Let’s see if we can get to 20 in a row without missing."

Petie had hit with Mary and me before and knew the basics. He had a pretty good forehand, but wasn’t consistent. His backhand was weak and he still made the mistake of most beginners by standing a few feet inside the baseline. He would learn that it’s a lot easier to come forward for a ball than go back, and those half-volleys at your feet weren’t as easy to hit as Andre Agassi made it look.

Mary showed Pete the correct way to grip the racket but he usually reverted to his natural ‘western grip’, which coincidentally was similar to Borg’s. Pick up the racquet off the ground and you have a western grip. It’s the natural grip for kids because your wrist is behind the racquet and it feels strong in your hand, especially on your forehand. The grip allows a player to hit heavy topspin off the forehand, but requires a severe grip change to hit volleys at the net or to hit a one-handed backhand. Many players with a western forehand use a two-handed backhand, including Borg.

Mary and I used the more conventional ‘continental grip’, which is the grip you get if someone holds the racquet head with the strings to the side, and asks you to shake hands with the racquet handle. Mary uses the same grip on both her forehand and backhand and was dynamite at the net. I couldn’t break my habit of moving the racket a quarter-turn to hit my backhand volley. As a result, I can’t count the times I’ve been caught at the net with the wrong grip, forcing me to pronate my wrist to get the racquet face square to the ball.

This wasn’t the time for a lesson; it was time to have fun. Any tennis player will tell you that there is a certain level of ability you need to reach in tennis before the fun begins. It’s not too much fun if you or your opponent can’t get the ball back over the net with some consistency and all you’re doing is running after balls. It’s a lot more fun when you start hitting two or three shots back before someone misses. We started off slow, but after 25 minutes we finally broke 10 and were at 13 in a row when I netted a backhand. Petie was so disappointed that he looked like he was going to cry. "Geez Dad, we almost made it," he whimpered.

"I’m trying, Petie, believe me, I’m doing the best that I can." I wanted to tell him how hard it was to keep hitting the ball to his forehand with just the right speed to have it bounce waist high. Petie still wasn’t too good at adjusting his swing or hitting the ball on the run, much less controlling his backhand. It’s like pitching baseballs to a five-year old. They swing the bat hard, but usually on the same plane. It is a dad’s responsibility to pitch the ball to that spot.

Thirty minutes later we were at 12 when I ran far to my left and returned cross-court to his backhand.

"Thirteen," I shouted and watched nervously as he set up for his backhand.

"Fourteen," he shouted as the ball came back to me perfectly on my forehand side.

"Fifteen," as I hit a perfect shot to his forehand. Believe me, I was starting to feel the pressure.

"Sixteen," Petie called as the ball came back, barely clearing the net.

I raced forward and barely got to his shot just inside the service line. "Seventeen," I yelled as I scraped the ball off the court and cleared the net with inches to spare.

"Eighteen," Pete whispered as he lobbed the ball back deep to my backhand. I could tell that Petie was nervous too.

I sprinted to the ball and hit an over the shoulder lob back to his side. "Nineteen," I gasped as I saw the ball heading over Petie’s head, landing just inside the baseline. He would never catch up to it.

"Twenty," he screamed as he lunged for the ball and crashed into the back screen moments after he had sent back his shot. Lying face down on the green, synthetic har-tru clay, Petie never saw the ball clear the net and land safely on my side of the court.

I was racing to Petie to see if he was okay, but I needn’t have. He was crying, but they were tears of joy. So were mine.

"We did it, Dad!"

Monday Ken and I flew to Mexico City to meet with the group that called about the domed sports complex. We weren’t sure why they had called us but we looked forward to hearing more about the project. This was a great opportunity for a small firm such as ours.

We flew business class and Ken’s 6’3" frame sprawled into the aisle as he tried to get comfortable and catch some sleep. He had played in a 2-day invitational golf tournament in Jacksonville over the weekend and hadn’t gotten home until midnight. His final round 69 had earned him the winner’s trophy and the right to buy drinks. I could picture him sitting at a large table of men exchanging war stories. While other players talked about 300-yard drives or 250 yard 3-woods, Ken would be bragging about the 25-foot downhill, down grain, putt he nailed for par. At 180 pounds Ken wasn’t a long hitter, but he prided himself on hitting fairways and greens. "If you hit a 170 yard shot to within 10 feet, Jim, nobody cares if you used a five-iron or pitching wedge," he once told me. "Consistency and a good putter is all you need to play scratch golf." Men liked him because he had that casual, unassuming way about him that projected self-confidence. He wasn’t what most women would consider handsome, but they were attracted to him because he was polite and complimentary while seeming indifferent, like he was having too much fun to chase women. For reasons I couldn’t understand, women responded to this non-approach and did the work for him. I see others try the same approach and go home alone. Go figure.

I was fortunate to have Ken with me these last five years. He’s been a good friend and golfing partner, but more importantly, he is someone whose opinions I respected and whom I could trust. I knew Ken Reed four years and was constantly amazed at his breadth of knowledge and quick mind. I have watched him complete a New York Times crossword puzzle while I was still reading the instructions. He could solve an "evil" Sudoku puzzle in minutes using x-wing, jelly-fish, Ariadne’s thread and other techniques that I never dreamed of understanding, much less mastering. "The secret is, Jim, you need to see the entire puzzle, not just a single box or column." Easier said than done, I thought.

Ken got engaged last Christmas to Chris Lewis, a former employee who moonlighted as a DEA agent, but broke it off three months later. Ken didn’t talk about it much, but I’m sure it had something to do with her heavy travel schedule. He and Jack are still good friends and plan to enter several two-man golf tournaments this summer. They make a good team. Jack has the length to reach most par 5s and Ken is money around the greens.

Ken had a high I-Q, but unlike many Mensa club members, Ken also had the ability to relate this intelligence to the problem at hand. He was someone I could trust to do a tough job with a minimum of supervision, but let me know if there were problems that required my input. This is a trait that I valued highly, and requires an individual with enough self-confidence to tell his boss or in this case, the owner of the company, "Jim, I could use your help on this one." Ken had this ability and would be in charge of this Mexico project if we got the work. I had a gut feeling that getting a job like this on our corporate resume could be a catalyst for bigger and broader opportunities.

I interrupted my day dreaming and started reading the background material my secretary had provided. It never hurt to know a little about your client and the job environment before going into a meeting. The travel brochure told me Mexico City was founded in 1521 by Cortés in the middle of the now drained Lake Texcoco on the ruins of Tenochtitlan, the capital of the Aztec Empire together with its lesser-known twin city, Tlatelolco. Located in the high plateaus in roughly the center of Mexico, it is 2,240 meters above sea-level and surrounded by volcanoes towering 4,000 to 5,500 meters above sea level. It is Mexico’s largest city and one of the most beautiful cities in the world. This was confirmed when our Delta flight passed by the volcanoes before circling and approaching for landing to the North, offering a fantastic panorama to passengers fortunate to have window seats.

I skimmed the remaining information until an item regarding crime and guerrilla warfare caught my eye. I was surprised to read that factions in several Southern states were seeking independence and travel advisories were posted warning tourists to avoid these areas. There was apparently a strong Iberian-led independence movement in Mexico that is loosely affiliated with the Spanish Basque and South American terrorism. There was also a second article about increased crime and growing protests in the city. My reading was interrupted by the awakening giant on my left. "Are we there yet?" Ken asked, while he unsuccessfully tried to stifle a yawn.

The stewardess answered his question by announcing our arrival at Benito Juarez International Airport in Mexico City. It was 8:35 AM local time and 82 degrees. It would be a warm day. With only carry-on luggage, we cleared customs quickly and arrived five minutes early for our 10 AM meeting. A pretty receptionist promptly escorted us into a small conference room where our hosts rose to greet us.

"Mr. Simpson, thank you for accepting our invitation. I’m Juan Fretes, project manager. On my right is Commissioner Raphael Hidalgo who represents the Distrito Federal and to my left is Alejandro Rodriquez, Governor of the State of Chihuahua."

We had done our research and knew that the D.F. was the basic governing body we would deal with. "Buenas dias gentlemen, I am Jim Simpson and this is my friend and associate, Ken Reed."

"It’s a pleasure to be here," Ken said as everyone shook hands.

"Please sit down, gentlemen. May we get you anything before we get started? There is water on the table, but we have juice or soft drinks. Have you eaten?"

Ken and I shook our heads. "Water will be fine. We had a light snack on the plane and are set for a while. Let’s get started."

Juan took a moment to get organized providing me an opportunity to assess the three men at the table. It was clear that Juan was going to chair the meeting, which made me wonder where the other two gentlemen fit in. They obviously outranked him. "Before I get into the details of the project, you must be wondering why we called you. As you know, there are plenty of companies that would love to undertake a project of this magnitude."

I nodded, but wondered to myself how many companies had already turned them down.

"It’s really quite simple. My cousin, Pedro Sanchez is the General Manager at the Hyatt in Cabo San Lucas has told us many good things about your company. He complimented your firm on handling a very difficult situation with competence and integrity and assured us that you will treat us fairly."

What a lucky break. I now understood why they called us. Advertising is great, but referrals are everything in the business world, and nothing is a substitute for a little luck. We found out later that all three men attended the casino grand opening two years ago and each had won a few dollars at the tables. It’s no wonder they were ready to do business with us again.

"I appreciate the kind words, we were fortunate to have Pedro on the project. He is doing a great job managing the hotel and golf courses."

Juan continued. "Your firm also has a reputation for providing project financing, which I understand is your specialty. This is a key requirement for this project. You see, neither the D.F. nor the State of Mexico can afford to fund this sports complex through taxes, revenue bonds, or various other methods governments normally use to fund this type of project. Our country has too many basic needs to fund a sports arena with tax dollars. Compared to the basic necessities of life, many would consider this project a luxury, me included."

Ken and I said nothing although this tied into the information I was reading when the plane landed. Apparently, the protests and violence were not just in the South of Mexico.

Juan took a sip of water and continued. "As you may know, Mexican banks don’t have the resources to fund a project this big, and outside investors still remember the losses they suffered when the peso was devalued back in the 80s. It’s been over 25 years, but bankers don’t forget. The construction firm we hire to build the arena must also provide funding." He looked at me for a response, but none was necessary. Everyone in the business was aware of the challenges in funding projects in Mexico, not the least of which is the problem foreigners had in perfecting property liens. The business climate is improving, but the court system in Mexico is very slow.

"Let’s hear more about the project before I try to answer that, Juan. We have provided funding in the past although this project is a little bigger than our usual deal. I will say that our firm has made money on the Cabo San Lucas resort, and certainly would be open to reinvesting these profits back into your country. Are there any other conditions?"

Juan glanced at his two associates for help. Commissioner Hidalgo picked up on the signal. "Yes, Mr. Simpson, there are. We need the new arena to be a Mexican icon, and a source of pride for the Mexican people, but ownership must be turned over to Mexico when the project is completed. You might have read about some of the protests over the last few months. A large segment of our people will not be pleased if this were an American-owned facility."

I could see why Juan had wanted Commissioner Hidalgo to handle this issue. It wasn’t something that would appeal to a foreign investor. What are they saving the Governor for I wondered?

Ken vocalized what we both were thinking. "In other words, you want someone to fund a project that no one else will fund including your own banks, build it and then turn it over to the Mexican Government when it’s finished. Is that all?"

"No, Mr. Reed, there is one more item," Governor Rodriquez interjected. "The final stipulation is that the borrowing entity must be a nonprofit, joint venture between the D.F. and the State of Chihuahua. The only assets of this company will be 200 hectares of land valued at $20M dollars."

I must have had a perplexed look on my face as I tried to understand what he was getting at. "Is this is another way of saying that neither the State nor the D.F. will guarantee the loan?"

"That’s pretty close to accurate," the Governor replied with a sheepish smile.

I could feel Ken grimace next to me, but I intervened before he could voice his displeasure. "And what is your estimate of total construction costs?"

"Approximately $300M dollars, maybe a little more."

Ken started to say something, but I held him back again by putting my hand on his arm. "Gentlemen, I’d like to learn more about your sports arena, and maybe after lunch we could take a ride out to the project site. I have some ideas as to how we might get this done."

Ken told me later that he thought Juan and his associates were going to crack their faces trying to keep from smiling. My openness to working with them despite their unreasonable demands was obviously unexpected, probably because the large, international construction firms had already turned them down. I wasn’t naïve enough to believe that we were at the top of anyone’s list.

Lunch turned out to be sandwiches in the conference room while we poured over plans and drawings for the new stadium complex. The centerpiece was an enclosed soccer stadium that also housed a practice field, locker rooms and a convention center. The domed arena was surrounded by a 25-hectare park that included eight tennis courts and two soccer fields. It was an ambitious undertaking. The most challenging and difficult component was the retractable dome that would protect fans and athletes from the elements. It has been done many times before, but is new technology in Mexico.

We took a 10-minute break during which Ken cornered me in the rest room. "I can’t wait to hear your ideas for getting this done," he said sarcastically. "They are asking for a $300M loan and will not provide loan guarantees or supporting collateral. We are in a foreign country that hates American businessmen and has a history of screwing foreign investors by devaluing their currency. Even their own banks won’t lend to them. Why are we considering doing this?"

"Let’s wait and see, Ken. It sure would be an interesting construction job, wouldn’t it?"

Ken wasn’t amused.

The trip to the project site almost changed my mind and proved to be a forewarning of things to come. The governor and commissioner begged off with other commitments, having done their jobs. It was just Juan, Ken and me together with our driver and bodyguards. We traveled in an armored Lincoln town car with a police escort in front and behind. "Juan, Is there a reason for this extra security?"

Juan smiled nervously and assured me it was just a precaution that most government officials took advantage of when traveling on official business due to the growing number of kidnappings of politicians and foreign businessmen. "Don’t worry; it’s really nothing to be concerned about."

Two hundred yards from the stadium I became very concerned. After exiting the turnpike onto a dirt road, our small caravan came to a dead stop as we neared a disabled truck on the narrow road. I could tell our driver was concerned as we watched a policeman from the lead car get out and approach the vehicle with his hand on his holstered pistol. I tried to roll down my tinted window to get a better view, but found the windows locked. Seconds later I heard shots ring out and saw the policeman fall in a hail of bullets. More bullets raked the bulletproof glass of our town car as our driver swung around the truck and accelerated out of danger leaving the two police cars to fight off our attackers. Moments later the gunmen disappeared into the mountains. We found out later that the wounded policeman died on the way to the hospital.

"Are you all right Mr. Simpson? Ken, are you okay?" Fretes asked when we reached the construction site.

"Yes, we’re okay, but what happened? Why would anyone want to kill us?"

"There are some groups that don’t want this project to be built, particularly after the newspaper article last week that mentioned we might need to use an American construction company. Unfortunately, there is still a considerable amount of anti-Americanism despite the new employment opportunities that NAFTA has created."

"How can you expect anyone to work in this type of environment?" Ken asked, raising his hands in exasperation. "Will our people be safe?"

"We’ll provide 24-hour security for the job site and the hotel, although I don’t deny there is some risk."

"You don’t say!" Ken replied sarcastically.

"Mr. Simpson," Juan said, looking at me hopefully. "I hope this doesn’t affect your desire to work with us? I promise you we will do everything within our power to address your needs."

I was still rattled and took a few moments to gather my thoughts. I knew Ken was right and I usually took his advice when he thought this strongly about something, but I still had that gut feeling that this job provided a once in a lifetime opportunity. "Juan, give us a few minutes to talk things over."

Ken hadn’t changed his mind and repeated his earlier warnings. "And now, we can’t even drive to work without getting shot at. Why should we do this?"

"I’m bored, Ken. We need a challenge, and besides, I am counting on you to come up with some ideas on how we can get this done. It’s your baby."

Little did I know at the time that this decision would start us on a course to rebuild Roland Garros Stadium in Paris, France, home of the French Open.

"Mary, you should have seen him. He was so competitive. I never saw him want something so much. That’s something you can’t teach. It’s easy to teach kids to hit a good forehand or backhand, but you can’t teach desire or competiveness. Petie showed me something today."

"That’s great, but all I know is that I cooked a nice dinner and you and Petie were over an hour late. You could have called."

"Okay, but I’m telling you, you should have seen him. We went into the clubhouse to celebrate with a coke and fries, and one thing led to another. I just lost track of time. I’m sorry, but don’t take it out on Petie, he is so excited about tennis. Go talk to him."

"Fine, but what’s this about tennis lessons with Gregg?"

"Gregg was just finishing up his lessons and I invited him to join us. I mentioned that Petie saw a Borg-Lendl replay of the 1984 French Open finals and that Petie was excited about Borg. It turns out that Gregg saw Borg play in Miami and was at the French Open at Roland Garros five years ago. Petie just hammered Gregg with questions."

"What about the lessons?"

"They’re really not lessons; just a junior tennis program that Gregg suggested would be good for Petie to get involved in. It’s 90 minutes, Monday thru Friday and on Sundays, teams from our club play matches against other clubs in the area. Gregg thought this would be a great way to get started."

"It sounds good, but if Petie is really interested in playing tennis, lessons might not be a bad idea. He should learn the basics before he develops bad habits that will be hard to break later. It’s like golf, once you start having some success with a bad swing, it’s awfully tough to change because it always means a step backward before you realize the benefits."

"I know what you are saying. Petie still grips the racquet with the full western grip and was even trying a two-handed backhand today. Gregg likes a one-hander because it allows you a little extra court coverage. What do you think he should do?"

"Let me think on it for a while, there are a lot of arguments for the two-hander. In the meantime let me go talk to our young tennis star and take him some dessert. I’m feeling a little guilty for banishing him to his room without dinner. I guess I was a little hasty."

"I love it when you admit you’re wrong" I said, as I wrapped my arms around her.

"Don’t push it, Bozo. I’m still mad at you for not calling."

Mary found Petie watching French Open highlights in his bedroom. "Well, Peter, your dad says you did pretty well on the tennis courts today."

"Did he tell you we had a rally of 20 in a row?"

"He sure did, your father was awfully proud of you."

"We had another rally of 13 but Dad missed an easy shot. But that’s okay, he was trying."

Mary had to stifle a laugh. Jim was right, this was a new boy she was seeing. Something had changed in him. "I understand you want to start playing in the junior program at the club."

"May I, Mom? I’ll get my homework done after dinner."

"Sure, I think it’s good to get involved in sports. Tennis is a great game that you can play all your life."

"I want to be just like Bjorn Borg, the Ice Man. Dad said he practiced three hours every day after school."

"Borg had a two-handed backhand. Is that what you want?"

"Yes, and I want a full western grip, just like his. Will you teach me, Mom? Dad says you know more about tennis than he does."

Mary couldn’t help but be flattered by the compliment, and Petie asking her for help. She couldn’t say no if she had wanted to. "Sure, I would be glad to help you, under one condition. The first time I see you throw your racquet our deal is off. I want you to have fun. If I don’t think you are having fun, you will be grounded from tennis."

"Okay, Mom, I promise. I’m going to have more fun than Borg did and won’t retire until I’m at least 27."

Mary smiled. She knew that being 27 years old is unimaginable to a 12-year old. "Okay, let’s start tomorrow."

Pete surprised her by jumping off his bed and giving her a big hug. "Thanks Mom!"

"Pete, what do you think about a full time tennis camp?" Mary asked as we finished dinner Monday evening.

"That would be great," Lisa chimed in. "Do I get his room?" Lisa was 15 going on 25 and a pretty good tennis player in her own right, but until recently had never taken the game seriously. Soccer was her sport.

"No way, sis. I’m not giving up my room just so you have a more room to play with your dolls."

"Okay, that’s enough, children. Let’s get back to your mother’s question. Pete, what do you think about going to a Saddlebrook or Nick Bollettieri’s for a year?"

"Live there?" Pete asked. "Why couldn’t I just stay here and drive out there every day? It would be a lot cheaper, wouldn’t it?" Saddlebrook was only about 30 minutes north of Tampa.

"That’s an option," Mary answered, "but the people we talked to don’t recommend it. They feel you need to devote yourself to tennis full time if you are going to get to the next level."

"You talked to them already?"

"Pete, you remember last year when you beat that Canadian boy at the New Port Richey tournament?

"Sure, Craig. He trained at Saddlebrook, didn’t he?"

"He still does, in fact. His coach, Sammy Baston, came over after that match and left us his card in case you ever wanted to give them a try. I called him Friday and your mother and I drove out there this morning. They have quite a program."

"What about school?" Pete asked. "I heard that they are pretty weak and some colleges don’t give full credit for some of their classes."

"We asked about that because we had heard the same thing," Mary answered. "Their headmaster told us they had problems three years ago because a few of their teachers didn’t have current teaching certificates. They corrected the problems and beefed up their program and the school. The school is now fully accredited."

"It wouldn’t be easy, Petie. They play tennis for two hours in the morning, go to school from 10 to 3 and then practice tennis again from 3:30 to six. Everything revolves around tennis."

"It sounds like a drill camp," Pete responded with a frown.

"Don’t they get burned out and sick of tennis?" Lisa asked. "I know I would."

"A lot of them do. Sammy said the turnover is high. They lost eight kids last year, but most of these kids are the ones that find out that their game isn’t good enough to compete at the next level. Some of the kids make it and these are the kids you read about that are now on the tour. A few like Hingis, Sharapova, Agassi and Sampras basically grew up in tennis camps."

"It’s got to be your decision, Pete," Mary said as she sat down next to him and grabbed his hand. "Don’t do it because you think we want you to, you need to want it for yourself. Okay?"

Pete was silent for almost a full minute, as he weighed his decision. It was all I could do to keep silent.

"Let’s try it," Pete proclaimed in a strong voice. "Ten years from now I don’t want to say that I could have made it on the pro circuit, but was afraid to take my opportunity. When do I start?"

Two weeks after his decision Pete moved into a dormitory room at Saddlebrook. It was only 15 miles from home, but it felt like 1,000 miles. Despite Lisa’s pleadings, we told him his room was ready for him if he decided to come back home.

Five months later Pete lay awake wondering if he had made the right decision. Lisa had been right. Four to five hours of tennis six days a week, was boring. Worse, his tennis game wasn’t getting any better.

The first couple weeks were fun as he got to know the other kids at Saddlebrook. His two roommates were okay and showed him around the grounds. This was their second year at Saddlebrook and they were well into the routine. Pete showed them a few restaurants and nightspots in Tampa and introduced them to a few girl friends from high school that they ran into in Ybor City. School was easier than the advanced classes he had taken at his old high school, but Pete didn’t mind. He was usually too tired from tennis to concentrate on homework assignments.

Pete soon found his spot in the camp’s pecking order and ended up on court two or three. One teaching pro was assigned to each court. There were four boys per court, placing Pete’s ranking in the six-to10 range. A couple kids were clearly better, but Pete thought he could beat the rest if he played his best tennis. The problem was that he wasn’t playing well, and after a few weeks was playing on court three almost every day. To make it worse, his Canadian friend, Craig, was assigned to court two after easily beating Pete in a head-to-head challenge match.

The situation came to a head two months ago when he had been called into the camp director’s office after another disappointing practice. The director, Fred Liu was waiting along with the head pro, Sammy Baston, and Ron, another teaching-pro who was Pete’s instructor on Court three. Pete knew immediately that something serious was up. Was he being kicked out of Saddlebrook?

"Pete, have a seat," Liu started. "We want to discuss your progress over the eight weeks and tell you what we can do with your game to improve. We do this with all our kids after we have had a chance to work with them a while."

Sammy knew this wasn’t completely true, but thought his boss did a nice job of getting Pete to relax. It was never easy to tell these kids the truth. They came here thinking that they would be the next Roger Federer or Serena Williams, and soon found out that they didn’t have the game. Pete had some promise, but he wasn’t going to make it without some major changes.

Pete sat down and waited silently. What is this about?

"Sammy, turn on the video. Let’s take a look at Pete’s strokes in slow motion and tell us what you see. Ron, chip in whenever you want."

Sammy stood and grabbed the remote. "Pete, in the next hour or so, we are going to dissect every part of your game. You might not like or agree with everything we say, but please hear us out. We can talk about it after. Okay?"

"Let’s get it over with," Pete replied sitting back in his chair. He had a bad feeling about this.

The video showed Pete warming up before practice. The camera focused in on his feet. "See how open your shoulders are on your forehand," Sammy lectured as he paused the video. "That results in loss of power unless you whip through the shot on your follow-through. You don’t do this all the time, but when you do your forehand is inconsistent."

"I kept track of your errors in your match against Craig last week," Ron added. "I counted thirty-five unforced errors on your forehand side alone."

This one-two attack continued through every phase of Pete’s game. "You’re dropping the head of your racquet on your volleys, you are a step slow getting to the ball, you aren’t getting your racquet back soon enough on the overheads, you don’t break your wrist, you aren’t getting your legs into your serve," and so it went for 70 minutes. Pete was close to tears.

Mercifully, the video finally ended and Fred Liu called a much-needed time out. "Pete, I ordered some sandwiches and cokes. Let’s take a 10-minute break before we continue. I’m sure you need a few minutes to gather your thoughts. I know we were pretty rough on you. We can get your input and see what we can do about fixing some of these weaknesses when we come back."

A half-hour later Sammy Baston delivered the coup de gras and Pete found out what the meeting was all about. "Pete, we want you to convert to a one-handed backhand."

"No way," Pete shouted emotionally, "the two-hander has been my best shot since I started playing. Now you want me to drop the only shot I can depend upon. No way!" he repeated as he got up to leave.

"Hear us out Pete," Liu ordered. "Sammy, why don’t you explain our reasoning?" Pete sat back and looked over at Sammy. His face was readable to everyone in the room; I thought you were my friend.

Sammy knew that Pete wouldn’t like it, but was a little taken back by his vehemence. However, he believed that the change was in Pete’s best interest and continued with the message. "Pete, your two-hander is a nice shot when you get in position, no question about it. You can hit it all day without missing, and that has been enough to get you this far, but it’s not enough to get you to the next level. The kids you’re playing now aren’t bothered by the heavy topspin. They are taking your short balls and coming to the net. You need a more aggressive shot off your backhand side."

"We also believe the grip used on the two-hander makes it difficult for you at the net," Ron chimed in. "Your volleys aren’t consistent because you are forced to change your grip."

"We haven’t even mentioned the fact that the two-hander causes you to be a step slow going to your left," Sammy added. "You are fast, but not fast enough to give up the half-step."

There was complete silence for a few moments as they waited for Pete’s reaction. No one so much as twitched as Pete searched for a response.

"Let me sleep on it," Pete said finally. "It’s too big a decision to make on the spur of the moment. I also want to talk with my mom." He made the 30-minute drive home in 20 minutes.

"Pete, what a nice surprise," his mother exclaimed as he walked in the front door. "Is there anything wrong?" she asked with a mother’s intuition. "Come here and give your mother a hug."

"Not a thing is wrong, Mom," Pete said as he threw his dirty laundry on the floor, "except they just told me that my game sucks and they want me to change to a one-handed backhand. Other than that, I’m doing great."

Lisa came bouncing out of her room just in time to hear what her brother said. "Get real, don’t let them do it," she said with conviction that only a fifteen-year old girl can muster. "Tell them you would rather cut off both hands. I’m serious."

Pete saw that Lisa wasn’t kidding and burst out laughing, which broke the tension and got the women laughing too. It was good to be home.

"What made you such an expert in tennis?" Pete asked Lisa giving Lisa a brotherly embrace.

"Didn’t you hear? I’m the club’s new prodigy or something like that. I’ve been taking lessons from Gregg for a couple months. I could probably beat you now."

"That will be the day," Pete answered with a grin. "You wouldn’t even get a game off me. What started this? What’s his name?"

"She is getting pretty good. You would be surprised," Mary interjected, "and his name is Randy. Now let’s get back to your problem."

Three hours later they were still at the kitchen table. Lisa had gone to bed an hour ago, her mind unchanged. Her last words were, "don’t let them do this to you."

"Okay, Mom, I’ll give it a try for a few months. Changing to a one-hander paid off for Sampras; maybe it will work for me. If it doesn’t, I can always go back to my two-hander."

They didn’t say it, but both knew that if it didn’t work out, Pete’s tennis career would be limited to college tennis and the satellite tour. He would need to pay his way into Roland Garros.

Now, three months later, Pete knew his game was even worse. Part of it was the switch to the new backhand, but it was more than that. The teaching pros were spending less time with him; a sure sign that they thought his future was limited. Yesterday he had been demoted to the 4^th court and practiced with three fifteen year-olds. His confidence was shot.

Pete woke up this morning and resolved to give it one more shot. Next week there was a double elimination Saddlebrook tournament. This would allow him to show Sammy and the other pros that they had given up on him too soon. There were only a couple boys in camp that Pete had not beaten and he was determined to change that statistic.

Monday morning he felt ready. Pete normally went home on the weekends, but this time he stayed and practiced like never before; ten hours on Saturday and eight on Sunday. He had never hit so many backhands in his life, and he was starting to feel comfortable coming over the ball on service returns. He was hitting his volleys and overheads with authority. He looked forward to the tournament.

Pete drew his friend Craig in the first match. It was a good draw. Despite losing in a challenger match a couple months ago, Pete seemed to have Craig’s number ever since he had beaten him in that New Port Richey tournament two years ago. He usually played well against Craig.

Pete started fast and jumped to a 4-1 lead before his Canadian friend slowly clawed his way into the match. He held serve easily and got the service break back when Pete was long on a backhand passing shot. The momentum of the match had turned. Craig was playing well and Pete started to lose confidence. Craig started to kick every serve in the ad-court high to Pete’s backhand and follow it to the net. Pete had no answer. The ball was getting too high to allow him to come over his return with the one-hander, and left Pete trying to slice his returns low to Craig’s feet. Craig easily took the volleys inside the service line and put away the weak returns.

On Pete’s second serves, Craig chipped and charged to Pete’s backhand side, forcing Pete to come up with passing shots. Pete’s game collapsed under the pressure and his fragile confidence was gone. He lost 5-7, 1-6.

After congratulating Craig on a well-played match, Pete sat alone on the bench slumped over in despair, realizing the significance of this loss. Tears glistened in his eyes and he knew his days at Saddlebrook were numbered. Unless a miracle happened soon, Pete’s was finished as a competitive tennis player.

Lost in his own thoughts, Pete was not aware that someone had walked up behind him. He turned when he heard the familiar voice.

"Hi Pete, remember me?"

Ambre had won the Orange Bowl championship. At 15, she was the youngest women’s winner in the eighteen-and-under age bracket since Chris Evert in 1971. She also fell in love with America.

"Let’s stay a few days, Coach," she pleaded after the match. "I want to go to Disney World. Can we? Can we?"

"Okay Ambre, you deserve it. That’s the best tennis you have ever played. We can spend three days at Disney and another in day in Tampa. There is a tennis camp I would like you to visit."

Ambre had been to Disneyland Paris, but that didn’t compare to the Orlando theme parks. The Magic Kingdom was great, but Epcot and MGM Studios were better and Animal Kingdom and the water park were awesome. Ambre made friends easily and met several families staying at the Disney Hotels. After the first day at Disney, her coach stayed by the hotel pool and Ambre was on her own with her new friends. She had a blast.

"Why do we have to see this tennis camp?" she asked as they were making the 70-mile drive to Tampa. "I wanted to stay another day in Orlando."

"There’s a tennis camp called Saddlebrook that I want you to see," Coach replied. The Harry Hopman junior program comes highly recommended plus they get a lot of touring pros stopping here. You probably heard that Pete Sampras was at Bollettieri’s when he was a kid, but after he turned pro he bought a house at Saddlebrook and played there. Let’s take a look and see what they have. You might want to come here some day."

Saddlebrook Tennis center is part of a gated, residential community just North of Tampa, just East of 1-75 on Highway 54. The guard at the gate had them on his guest list and gave them a visitor’s pass, brochure and directions.

"Wow, some of these homes are awesome," Coach exclaimed.

Ambre was looking at the map. "It says here that they have two eighteen-hole golf courses, three swimming pools, four restaurants, 27 clay courts, 8 hard courts and 2 grass courts. Nearby they have horseback riding and fishing. At least there is something else to do besides play tennis. This place is out in the sticks."

It’s only twenty minutes from Tampa and 75 minutes from Disney World," Coach pointed out as they pulled up in front of the hotel which also housed the corporate offices.

Dick Browning, the General Manager of the entire facility, met them at the front desk and proceeded to give them a quick tour of the facility. They finished the tour at the Tennis clubhouse where they were turned over to Fred Liu, the Director of Tennis.

"Ambre, I have heard a lot about you. Congratulations on your Orange Bowl win. That’s quite an accomplishment."

"Thanks," Ambre murmured politely. She was accustomed to the compliments.

"Recognize that woman playing on the second court?"

Ambre thought one of the woman on the left looked familiar, but wasn’t sure until she turned their way. "That’s Martina Hingis. Wow, why is she here?"

"She lives five minutes west of here in Wesley Chapel, and trains here when she is home. Right now she is getting ready to launch a comeback. Hingis hadn’t played in almost three years, but she says her is almost 100% recovered from her foot injury."

Was it a foot injury or was it the William Sisters, Ambre wondered to herself. She had heard the rumors that Hingis had retired because her all-court game didn’t match up against the new, hard-hitting girls like Davenport and the Sisters. She sure has great groundstrokes, Ambre thought as she watched Hingis hit.

"That girl she is playing with us Conchita Perez, one of our top juniors. Giving our juniors the opportunity to play with pros like Hingis and Sampras are one of the benefits we offer at Saddlebrook. Conchita is 16 and made it to the finals of the European Championships last year. Do you know her, Ambre?"

"I heard about her, but I don’t think we ever played," Ambre replied politely.

"I asked them to join you for lunch, just the three of you. Feel free to ask them anything you want. I’ll warn you, Martina is our best ambassador."

"That would be great," Ambre replied with genuine interest. Hingis had always been one of her role models. "I have always wanted to meet her. Will Martina mind if I ask her about her injuries and if she is going to try a come back?"

"Not at all, in fact, while we wait for them to finish let’s take a look at our training facilities. That’s one on the reasons Martina likes it here."

Ambre was still watching Martina and Conchita hit. It seemed to her that Martina was ready now. She was hitting the ball hard and her movement was as good.

Three hours later they were in the car and heading to the Tampa Airport for a direct Delta Flight to Paris. "Well Ambre, what do you think?"

"I like it. Martina rides horses, plays a little golf and does a lot of things to make training fun. This will be a great place if I ever decide to come to the United States."

"Well, if it’s okay with you, I enrolled you in their camp starting this summer, after you finish school. I think a change in scenery will do you good."

Five months later, Ambre was off to Saddlebrook, arriving just in time to see the last few games of Pete’s first match in the Saddlebrook tournament.

Pete turned and saw this beautiful girl with the beaming smile, and his heart stopped. Had she watched the match?

"It’s my cheerleader from the Orange Bowl," Pete said as he smiled up at Ambre. ‘What are you doing here?" he asked lamely.

"I live here, starting today. I just got in an hour ago."

Pete’s heart started pumping faster and faster and his spirits soared. Somehow he found the courage to ask her to join him for lunch.

"Sure, I’d love to. You can tell me what happened to your backhand. You had a great two-hander the last time I saw you, and now you are flailing away like you’re trying to swat mosquitoes. Why did you change?"

There was no film, no slow motion, and no analysis, just a teenager’s insight.

"I don’t know anymore, Ambre, but I just changed back."

The five-minute wait in the tunnel before entering Philippe Chatrier court seemed to last forever. Ambre and Lisa dressed in separate areas of the locker room and barely acknowledged each other as they waited in the tunnel. It was more than pre-match nerves and it wasn’t gamesmanship. These two young women did not like each other. The icy relationship was apparent to the television cameras and was picked up on by the commentators. Bud Collins suggested the match be rescheduled for Siberia.

 Lisa walked out of the tunnel onto Court Chatrier smiling and waving to the crowd. Ball boys carried her tennis bag and a beautiful bouquet of roses. The crowd stood and cheered. I was so proud.

Moments later the French crowd greeted Ambre with a chorus of boos and jeers. Only last week she had been darling of France. Now she was seen as a villain and the ex-girlfriend of Agbu, the terrorist who had nearly succeeded in blowing up Roland Garros. There was no smile on Ambre’s face. She was all business.

Agbu rode his scooter ten kilometers to the small café where he had agreed to meet Muhammad. He arrived early and was pleased to see that Enrique was waiting with a large briefcase at his side.

"How is the leg today? I see you are limping."

"I’m fine. Did you bring the canisters?"

"Just as you instructed," Enrique answered, pointing at the briefcase. "There is enough in there to cover a square mile if delivered properly."

"Well done. We’ll let them worry about delivery. I really don’t care."
Muhammad and two Al-Qaeda operatives joined them at the table.

"Agbu, it’s good to see you again, my friend. I have been reading about you in the newspapers," he said glancing down at Agbu’s leg. "Are you okay?"

"I’ll be fine," Agbu replied, embracing his associate. Agbu pointed at the briefcase. "This is everything you asked for. Are you ready on your end?"

The Al-Qaeda leader was obviously pleased as he briefly inspected the containers. "Yes, but we have some details that we need to discuss. Let’s go over the plans one more time." An hour later everyone knew his role. The strategy was simple. Agbu and his group would create panic inside the stadium, forcing the fans to flee Roland Garros into the Al-Qaeda trap. It was a good plan.

"I don’t trust him," one of the Al-Qaeda men said aloud as Agbu and Enrique departed. "He’s up to something."

"No matter," Muhammad replied. "That’s why I didn’t tell him what we are planning to do with the anthrax."

Agbu indeed had another agenda that he didn’t share with Al-Qaeda. An hour later they arrived at the small airport where Stefano had hidden the crop duster. The five friends from Basque country went over their assignments. "Timing is critical," Agbu emphasized. "The devices must detonate exactly two minutes after completion of the third set, not before."

Gate security at Roland Garros was good, but still did not satisfy Chris. She had a persistent feeling that there was something she had missed; some clue or tendency that would indicate what Agbu was planning. She doubled the security on the Simpsons, but was still worried. The women’s finals would be a logical time for Agbu to strike, particularly with Lisa Simpson on the court. Two young agents dressed like tennis pros were seated behind Pete in the players box, their guns hidden by the loose fitting sweat suits. The agents sported headphones like many of the other players, except their headphones didn’t play music, but kept them in contact with Chris and spotters stationed in the press box above him. Many eyes scrutinized anyone approaching the players box, or the friends and family box. Chris hoped this would be enough.

The CIA was watching Carlos closely as he had a leisurely dinner in the Latin Quarter with his coach and trainer. Agents sat a nearby table watching the crowds pass by around them. "Nothing out of the ordinary," the agents reported. "There’s no sign of Agbu." Carlos returned to his hotel around 10:00 and the agents settled in for a long night. They would be there if Carlos left the hotel.

Lisa won the toss and chose to serve. She had only lost serve seven times in six matches, an excellent percentage on red clay of. Her flat serve was in the 110-115 MPH range, occasionally reaching 120. This was enough to keep her opponents honest, but it was her kick serve that was most effective, particularly to the Ad court where it got up high on her opponent’s backhand forcing a defensive return.

Lisa’s first serve was a 118 MPH bullet up the middle for a service winner. Ambre barely got her racquet on it, and the crowd roared their approval. The French crowd was totally behind Lisa. Ambre’s icy demeanor never changed. Lisa missed her 15-love serve wide, and kicked her 2^nd serve wide to Ambre’s backhand. Lisa had barely finished her follow-through when Ambre’s return rocketed up the line for a clean winner. The 15-all point seemed like an instant replay. Ambre stepped inside the baseline and took Lisa’s kick serve on the rise and hit it for another winner. The crowd gave Ambre polite applause, but she didn’t seem to notice. She was all business. Lisa took a little off the first serve and barely got a racquet on the hard return at her feet. Ambre easily put away the weak return. Lisa missed her first serve at 15-40 and faced a tough 2^nd serve. She looked over at Ambre who was already two feet inside of the baseline ready to bounce. Rather than kick another serve wide, Lisa tried a hard, flat serve up the middle that missed by inches. Lisa was broken for the eighth time in the tournament.

Players like to say they play one point at a time, and one game at a time. They try to forget the last point that was played and concentrate on the next. This is easier said than done. There is intimidation in all sports, where one team or one player establishes dominance over their opponent. One player knows they are in control and the other knows they are overmatched. This happened to Lisa. You could see it on the changeover. Ambre’s look was one of steely resolve while Lisa looked like a whipped puppy. Ambre not only had broken Lisa’s serve, but she had broken her confidence.

The first set was over in 25 minutes, 6-1. Lisa managed to hold serve once at 0-4, but had failed to break Ambre. She had only a single break point, which was erased by a service winner. The crowd was stunned. The booing stopped, but Ambre received only polite applause for what was a terrific set of tennis.

Lisa came out for the 2^nd set with a new determination. Ambre won the first game, but only after surviving two break points. Lisa had elevated her game, but Ambre was not finished. You could see it in her eye.

The second set was tennis at its’ best. Lisa broke to go ahead three games to two, but Ambre broke right back by ripping a second serve up the line for a winner. At five all, Lisa played a fabulous point to reach break point by ending a long point with an acrobatic, backhand overhead. The crowd was on its feet screaming, willing Lisa to make a comeback. Ambre’s first serve was in the net and many in the crowd cheered, a tremendous breach of tennis etiquette that would never happen in London. Knowledgeable tennis fans cheer good shots, not mistakes. Ambre glared at the crowd as she waited for the noise to subside. On second serve, down break point in the finals of the French Open, Ambre hit a 122 MPH serve up the middle for a clean ace. The crowd was silenced. Ambre quickly won the next two points to take a 6-5 lead.

There was polite applause and more than a few jeers as Ambre walked to her chair, which quickly turned into gasps of surprise. I had been watching Lisa when I heard the crowd noise change. "What happened?"

"Ambre just flipped off the crowd. I saw it but I can’t believe it." Many in the crowd were now booing as they realized what happened. Others applauded. One man yelled out, "we deserve it, Ambre."

Lisa served at 5-6 to try to get to a tiebreaker and stay in the match. She played a great game, hitting five out of six first serves and had only one unforced error. It wasn’t enough. Her opponent was too good. Ambre won the game, set, match and championship by hitting a solid service return and volleying away the weak return for a winner. The crowd was silent.

Ambre waited at the net for Lisa where they embraced and talked for 20 seconds. Ambre then shook hands lightly with the chair umpire, packed her tennis bag and left the court. She looked straight ahead and did not acknowledge the polite applause, stopping only to sign a few autographs for the kids lining the court.

It was the strangest championship ceremony in grand slam history. The champion didn’t show up. The crowd gave Lisa a tremendous ovation as she accepted her runner-up trophy. The roar got louder as she handed a camera to a ball girl and posed for a picture. They waited anxiously as Lisa walked to the microphone,

"Parla La Vu my French. Thank you so much, everyone, for the support you gave me over the last two weeks. I want to thank my parents, Jim and Mary, and my big brother Pete, who really is my great hero. Good luck tomorrow, Pete!" The crowd interrupted with loud applause.

"I also want to congratulate my opponent, Ambre, who played a tremendous tennis match. I can’t play any better than I did in the second set, but it wasn’t enough. Today she was unbeatable." Many of the crowd booed at the mention of Ambre’s name, which seemed to irritate Lisa.

"It’s a shame that you finally have a French born champion, but can’t enjoy it" Lisa admonished the crowd. "I saw articles written about Ambre and me, and Ambre and Pete, that were not true. Ambre and I are not best friends, but I respect her. She was very gracious after the match today. I’ll let Pete speak for himself, but suffice it to say that Pete would not be playing for the men’s championship tomorrow without Ambre’s support." The crowd sat in stony silence.

"I don’t know anything about the Basque or this terrorist, Agbu. Tennis players are athletes, not politicians. I do know that Ambre played great tennis and deserves your support. Lisa paused before concluding. "Thank you so much for supporting me. You are the greatest!" Lisa pulled her new Nikon camcorder and filmed the crowd as the applause rained down upon her.

Ambre listened to the speech from the locker room, and noted the boos when Lisa mentioned her name. She had almost gone back out to accept the trophy, but changed her mind. The French people could wait another 40 years for a French champion for all she cared.

She turned around and saw a friendly face. Security had finally allowed Pete into the women’s locker room.

"Ambre, go back out there," Pete implored as he held her. "The crowd will love you for coming back. Give them another chance. Come on," Pete said as he pulled her to her feet.

"What will I say?" Ambre asked when they got to the door.

"You’ll think of something. Tell them what’s in your heart."

A French official was accepting the Championship trophy on her behalf when Pete and Ambre walked out of the dark tunnel and into the sunshine. Applause started from the people near the entrance to the tunnel and spread through the stadium as the crowd recognized what was happening. Lisa, still holding her runner-up trophy, met Pete at the sideline and escorted Ambre the last 15 feet to the podium. The crowd gave Ambre a standing ovation that grew louder as fans returned from the exits. The noise was deafening as Ambre took the trophy accepted her trophy and walked to the microphone.

Ambre wiped tears from her eyes as she waited for the applause to abate. The crowd was silent as Ambre turned at looked around at her adoring fans.

In French, I am so proud that I could win this Championship for France. I love you."

Lisa quietly snapped a picture to give Ambre as a souvenir of her triumph.

"There are two people that I want to thank. Without their support, I wouldn’t be here today. Pete Simpson, you are simply the best and I owe this all to you."

The crowd roared in approval as Ambre blew Pete a kiss and Pete blew a kiss back.

After the crowd became quiet, Ambre began again. "There is one other person who has been there for me all my life. He is like a father to me and without him, I would never have been able to come back from, come back from the where I had fallen. ‘Coach’, would you do me the honor of standing beside me on the podium?"

Most of the crowd had never heard of "Coach", but applauded as they watched Ambre embrace her mentor. Television cameras projected onto the Sony Jumbotron showed the tears streaming down the faces of this nineteen year old girl and the 65 year-old man. Tears flowed down Ambre’s cheeks as she listened to the applause and realized what she had accomplished. "Thank you ‘Coach’ - thank you so much for believing in me," she whispered. The crowd continued applauding, recognizing that this was indeed a special relationship.

"Thank you," Ambre said to the crowd as they stepped down from the podium carrying the trophy proclaiming her as French Open Champion, the first French-born champion in 45 years. Tears came to my eyes as I saw "Coach" escort Ambre to the sideline where Pete was waiting.

"Lisa snapped a perfect picture of the symbolic transfer which she could have sold for a fortune if her father and mother hadn’t claimed it for their own.

Susan Peterson had watched the match with particular interest. She and Bill had played a lot of club tennis and she could appreciate the talent of these young women. Susan wondered what Ambre had seen in Agbu. What type a woman falls for a killer like Agbu?