Lily had the use of three nets if she needed them. A small grandstand held only three people: Mary Ann and Monica and a young man in a workout suit with “Artemis” blazoned across the back. I recognized Monica from the newspaper photos, but they didn’t do justice to her perfectly styled gold hair, the makeup enhancing her oval face, or the casual elegance of her clothes. I had a fleeting memory of her fat, pasty face as she sat eating Fritos twenty years ago. I would never have put those two images together. As the old bromide has it, living well is the best revenge.

Mary Ann squeezed my hand as I sat on her other side. “Good to see you, Vic,” she whispered. “Monica-here’s Vic.”

We exchanged confused greetings across our old coach, me congratulating her on her daughter’s success, she exclaiming at how I hadn’t changed a bit. I didn’t know if that was a compliment or not.

The man was introduced as Monte Allison, from Artemis Products’ marketing department. Artemis supplied all of Lily’s tennis clothes and shoes, as well as a seven-figure endorsement contract. Allison was just along to protect the investment, Mary Ann explained. The equipment maker heard her and ostentatiously turned his left shoulder to us.

On the court in front of us Lily was hitting tennis balls. A kid in white shorts was serving to her backhand. A dark man in shabby gray sweats stood behind her encouraging her and critiquing her stroke. And a third man in bright white clothes offered more forceful criticisms from the sidelines.

“Get into the shot, Lily. Come’n, honey, you’re not concentrating.”

“ Gary,” Mary Ann muttered at me. “That’s Paco Callabrio behind her.”

I don’t know much about tennis, but even I’d heard of Callabrio. After dominating men’s tennis in the sixties he had retired to his family home in Majorca. But five years ago he’d come out of seclusion to coach a few selected players. Lily had piqued his interest when he saw her at the French Open last year; Monica had leaped at the opportunity to have her daughter work with him. Apparently Gary was less impressed. As the morning wore on Gary ’s advice began clashing with Paco’s more and more often.

In the midst of a heated exchange over Lily’s upswing I sensed someone moving onto the bench behind me. I turned to see a young woman leaning at her ease against the bleacher behind her. She was dressed in loose-fitting trousers that accentuated the long, lean lines of her body.

Lily saw the newcomer at the same time I did. She turned very red, then very white. While Paco and Gary continued arguing, she signaled to the young man to start hitting balls to her again. She’d been too tired to move well a minute ago, but the woman’s arrival infused her with new energy.

Mary Ann had also turned to stare. “Nicole Rubova,” she muttered to me.

I raised my eyebrows. Another of the dazzling Czech players who’d come to the States in Martina’s wake. She was part of the generation between Martina and Capriati, a year or so older than Graf but with time ahead of her still to fight for the top spots. Her dark, vivid beauty made her a mediagenic foil to Graf’s and Lily’s blondness, but her sardonic humor kept her from being really popular with the press.

“ Gary ’s afraid she’s going to rape his baby. He won’t let Lily go out alone with any of the women on the circuit.” Mary Ann continued to mutter at me.

I raised my brows again, this time amazed at Mary Ann’s pithy remarks. She’d never talked so bluntly to me when she was my basketball coach.

By now Gary had also seen Rubova in the stands. Like Lily he changed color, then grew even more maniacal in his demands on his daughter. When Paco advised a rest around eleven-thirty, Gary shook his head emphatically.

“You can’t spoil her, Paco. Believe me, I know this little girl. She’s got great talent and a heart of gold, but she’s lazy. You’ve got to drive her.”

Lily was gray with exhaustion. While they argued over her she leaned over, her hands on her knees, and gasped for air.

“Mr. Oberst,” Paco said, his chilly formality emphasizing his dislike, “you want Lily to be a great star. But a girl who plays when she is this fatigued will only injure herself, if she doesn’t burn out completely first. I say the workout is over for the day.”

“And I say she got to Wimbledon last year thanks to my methods,” Gary yelled.

“And she almost had to forfeit her round of sixteen match because you were coaching her so blatantly from the seats,” Paco shouted back. “Your methods stink, Oberst.”

Gary stepped toward the Catalan, then abruptly turned his back on him and yelled at his daughter, “Lily, pick up your racket. Come on, girl. You know the rules.”

“Really, Oberst,” Monte Allison called tentatively down to the floor from the stands. “We can’t injure Lily-that won’t help any of us.”

Monica nodded in emphatic agreement, but Gary paid no attention to either of them. Lily looked imploringly from Paco to Gary. When the coach said nothing else, she bent to pick up her racket and continued returning balls. She was missing more than she was hitting now and was moving leadenly around the court. Paco watched for about a minute, then turned on his heel and marched toward a door in the far wall. As he disappeared through it, Monica got up from Mary Ann’s left and hurried after him.

I noticed a bright pink anorak with rabbit fur around the hood next to where she’d been sitting, and two furry leather mittens with rabbits embroidered on them.

“That’s Lily’s,” Mary Ann said. “Monica must have forgotten she was holding them for her. I’ll give them to the kid if she makes it through this session.”

My old coach’s face was set in angry lines. I felt angry, too, and kept half rising from my seat, wondering if I ought to intervene. Paco’s departure had whipped Gary into a triumphant frenzy. He shooed the kid serving balls away and started hitting ground strokes to his daughter at a furious pace. She took it for about five minutes before collapsing on the floor in tears.

“I just can’t do it anymore, Daddy. I just can’t.”

Gary put his own racket down and smiled in triumph.

A sharp clap came from behind me, making me jump. “Bravo, Gary!” Nicole cried. “What a man you are! Yes, indeed, you’ve proved you can frighten your little girl. Now the question is: Which matters more to you? That Lily become the great player her talent destines her to be? Or that you prove that you own her?”

She jumped up lightly from the bench and ran down to the court. She put an arm around Lily and said something inaudible to the girl. Lily looked from her to her father and shook her head, flushing with misery. Nicole shrugged. Before leaving the court she and Gary exchanged a long look. Only an optimist would have found the seeds of friendship in it.

II

The Slims started the next Monday. The events at the Skokie Valley Tennis Club made me follow the newspaper reports eagerly, but the tournament seemed to be progressing without any open fireworks. One or two of the higher seeds were knocked out early, but Martina, Rubova, Lily, and one of the Maleeva sisters were all winning on schedule, along with Zina Garrison. Indeed, Martina, coming off knee surgery, seemed to be playing with the energy of a woman half her age.

I called Mary Ann McFarlane Thursday night to make sure she had my pass to the quarterfinal matches on Friday. Lily was proving such a hit that tickets were hard to get.

“Oh, yes,” she assured me. “We linespersons don’t have much leverage, but I got Monica to leave a pass for you at the will-call window. Dinner Sunday night?”

I agreed readily. Driving down to the Pavilion on Friday, I was in good time for the noon match, which pitted Martina against Frederica Lujan.

Lujan was seeded twelfth to Martina’s third in world rankings, but the gap between their games seemed much wider than those numbers. In fact, halfway through the first set Martina suddenly turned her game up a notch and turned an even match into a rout. She was all over the court, going down for shots that should have been unhittable.