The lust, if that was what this was, quickly dissipated. The mothers scrutinized their daughters with too much intensity, their lives seemingly riding on every shot. Looking out the picture window at Suzze, watching her sharing a laugh with one of her pupils, he remembered Suzze’s own mom, who used terms like “driven” or “focused” to cover up what should have been labeled “innate cruelty.” Some believe that these parents go overboard because they are living their lives through their children, but that wasn’t the case because they wouldn’t ever treat themselves so callously. Suzze’s mother wanted to create a tennis player, period, and felt the best way to do that was to tear asunder anything else that might give her child either joy or self-esteem, making her wholly dependent on how she swung a racket. Beat your opponent, you’re good. Lose, you’re meaningless. She did more than withhold love. She withheld any inkling of self-worth.

Myron had grown up in an era in which people blamed their parents for all their problems. Many were whiners, pure and simple, not willing to look in the mirror and get a grip. The Blame Generation, finding fault with everyone and everything but ourselves. But Suzze T’s situation was different. He had seen the torment, seen the years of struggle, trying to rebel against everything tennis, wanting to quit but also loving the actual game. The court became both her torture chamber and her one place of escape, and it was hard to reconcile that. Eventually, almost inevitably, it led to drugs and self-destructive behavior until finally even Suzze, who could have played the blame game with a fair amount of legitimacy, looked in the mirror and found her answer.

Myron sat and paged through a tennis magazine. Five minutes later, the kids started filing off the court. The smiles fled as they left the pressure-air confines of the bubble, their heads held down by their mothers’ forceful gazes. Suzze came out after them. A mother stopped her, but Suzze kept it short. Without breaking stride, she walked past Myron and gestured for him to follow. Moving target, Myron thought. Harder for a parent to nab.

She headed into her office and closed the door after Myron.

“This isn’t working,” Suzze said.

“What’s not?”

“The academy.”

“Looks like a pretty good crowd to me,” Myron said.

Suzze collapsed into her desk chair. “I came in with what I thought would be a great concept—a tennis academy for top players that would also let them breathe and live and become more well-rounded. I argued the obvious—that such a setting would make them better-adjusted, happier people—but I also argued that in the long run, it would make them better tennis players.”

“And?”

“Well, who knows what the long run means? But the truth is, my concept isn’t working. They aren’t better players. The kids who are single-minded and have no interest in art or theater or music or friends—those kids become the best players. The kids who just want to beat your brains in, destroy you, show no mercy—those are the ones who win.”