Pete was the sole American remaining in the men’s draw, but was getting little respect. Pundits were not impressed with his wins over an injured Andre Agassi and the unknown British qualifier. Tournament organizers were not impressed either and scheduled him for an early match on court #18, as far away from center court as you can get. His opponent was not pleased with the lack of respect. Fernanando Gonzales was a true clay courter and former French Open semifinalist who believed he had a good opportunity to win it all this year.
There were less than 50 people in the stands when the match started, which was fine with Pete. He felt enough pressure without the additional pressure of a big crowd. Unlike Lisa, Pete preferred to fly low under the radar. Mary and I were there and Lisa would be over after her morning practice session with Gregg. Hopefully, that’s all the support he would need. Ambre was scheduled to play at the same time.
The Chilean came out in a funk. Pete drop shot him on the first point and caught him flatfooted. Three unforced errors later and Pete had won the first game at love. Throughout the first set, Gonzalez’ mood alternated between lethargy and impatience. Mary commented that she had never seen a clay court player give away a set like that.
“I hope he keeps it up,” I whispered. “We’ll take it.”
Gonzales turned it around in the second set and started to show why he was one of the top clay court players in the world. The errors stopped and he started moving around the court with catlike quickness, forcing Pete to construct perfect shots to earn a point. They split the next two sets to give Pete a two set to one lead, but Gonzales won the fourth set easily. Pete looked tired and the momentum had obviously switched to the Chilean. Spectators heard about the close match and the stands were now packed.
Pete was about to serve at 2-3, 30-40 when a female voice shouted from the crowd, “come on Pete, you can do it. Get tough!” It was Ambre, still dressed in the tennis clothes she had worn in her match on center court where she had prevailed against a gritty opponent, 6-4. 7-5.
Pete won the next point in a long, 25-stroke rally that ended when Pete sneaked into the net and put away a volley. His fist pump and yell told everyone that the momentum had swung. Twenty minutes later Pete had won his first 5-set match, 6-4. After the perfunctory handshake at the net, Pete pointed to Ambre before acknowledging the crowd and giving us a thumbs-up.
It was a fantastic victory over a tough opponent and I expected that Pete would be the new darling of the American Press. As the only American remaining in the men’s draw, he would start earning the respect he deserved. We were surprised and disappointed when the first question from the media was, “Do you think your sister has a chance to win tomorrow?”
Pete thought a moment before he remembered their bet. “Lisa has always been my great hero. I think she can win it all this year.”
Pete was joking, but had provided the writers with their lead story for tomorrow’s papers, and a sound bite for the television media. “Brother predicts championship for Lisa Simpson.” There was little mention that Pete had made it into the 3rd round of his first French Open. That was fine with Pete.
Ambre was facing a fine for skipping her post match press conference. She had headed for Court 14 as soon as she heard Pete was in the fifth set. The fine was never levied, partially because the media didn’t complain. They knew where Ambre had raced off to and had their story.
Agbu slept for 16 hours and awoke with a splitting headache. He was sweating and ached all over. It took a minute before he remembered where he was. The clock on the nightstand said 4:30 and the darkness told him it was early morning. He realized how weak he was as he staggered to the small bathroom. He needed to regain his strength before he could implement the plan that had been germinating in his head while he slept.
The doctor came at 9:00 and found Agbu awake and having breakfast with the two Spanish college students that leased the apartment. Agbu had gone to high school with Juan and knew he could trust them completely. Both students were loyal to the Basque cause.
“Your leg looks pretty good,” the doctor said as he replaced the bandage on his thigh. “There is no infection. Stay off it for a couple weeks and you will be as good as new. I’ll stop back tomorrow to change your bandage.”
Agbu knew he couldn’t be laid up for two weeks, but decided not to tell the doctor. It was not a good idea to share his plans with too many people, particularly when he knew authorities would be searching for the doctor that had treated him at the apartment.
Implementing his new plan would require help from the Basque cell in his hometown of Vitoria-Gasteiz. He spent an hour making a list of the manpower and supplies he would need. “Juan, I need you to make a couple phone calls for me. It would be better if you made the calls from a pay phone at least a couple kilometers from here. Tell Enrique that this is what I need and to have it ready in five days. I’ll let him know where to meet me.”
Agbu laid back on the bed and soon fell asleep, but not before smiling at his plan for revenge, and thinking; Anton, I have not forgotten you.
The hyped match of the day captivated the imagination of the French crowd, but never lived up to expectations. Fourth seed Rafael Nadal brushed aside French hope Richard Gasquet 6-4, 6-3, 6-2 Friday to march into the fourth round. In this much-awaited, but eventually one-sided clash between two of the rising stars of the game, Nadal displayed his trademark power and tenacity, while Gasquet was inconsistent.
Gasquet has been mentioned in the same breath as Nadal for years now. The boys were both 18, born within days of each other. Gasquet was featured on a French magazine cover at age nine, while Nadal had been a Spanish prodigy for years. Gasquet made it to the semi-finals in Monte Carlo and the finals in Hamburg, giving the French fans reason to hope their man could stand up to Nadal.
It was quickly obvious that Nadal was physically superior. At 195 pounds, he exuded power. Large biceps and thick calves bulged from his trademark, sleeveless jersey and white pirate pants. He outweighed his opponent by 30 pounds and in the Paris heat and humidity; it was obvious that Nadal was too strong for Gasquet. Nadal won in straight sets to the disappointment of the partisan, French crowd.
The major surprise of the day was the upset of four-time Grand Slam winner Venus Williams by Sesil Karatantcheva, a 15-year old unknown from Bulgaria. 58 unforced errors from Venus accelerated her demise and another early exit from the French Open. In the post match press conference, the effusive youngster offered the following insight; “Three years ago I was just a kid begging coach Bollettieri to come watch me play. I can’t believe it!” She was all of 15 years old, still a year away from driving a car and six years from being able to vote.