“Rod,” John asked, “is any of this my fault?”
“John, how am I supposed to answer that question? With my head or with my heart, mate?”
“How about with the truth, Rod?”
“John,” Laver began carefully, “it’s not your fault, per se. The problem is that Jimmy was so consumed with beating you that he simply pushed his body too far.
“You remember when I told you that the founders of Wa’Carthikos would brook no long-term rivalries?”
“Yeah, Rod, I remember. Is that somehow related to what’s happened to Jim?”
“Yes, it is! The processes at the spa and treatment centers work wonders on the body—the limbs, the torso, the immune system, even promoting weight loss and fitness—but there is very little that can be done to invigorate and protect the internal organs.
“Let me give you an illustration. Imagine having a car sitting in your driveway for years. You never drive it and it begins to deteriorate.
“So after 20 years, you get a hankering to drive that car again. It’s a classic now, and more popular than it had ever been before. You re-do the interior, put new tires on it, replace all the seals on the windows and doors, and you get a fancy new paint job.
“You tune up the engine, boost the power in it. Then you fill it up and take it out to the German Autobahn, so you can drive it as fast as you like.
“What do you think would happen, mate?”
McEnroe looked down at the floor and thought for a minute.
“I’m no mechanic, Laver,” he said impatiently. “Tell me what would happen.”
“Don’t you think that something could break down on the drive shaft, or perhaps in the transmission? Wouldn’t that seem highly probable?”
McEnroe slumped against the wall behind him and nodded his head.
“Yeah, I could see that happening.”
“Well that’s exactly what happened to Connors. He pushed his heart much too far. He’s been here every single day for five whole weeks now. And we told him several times to dial it back, but he didn’t.
“Now, you can sulk out here all day if you like. I know you must be pretty broken up over this. Or you can get in there and console your friend, and end this petty squabble for good.”
McEnroe walked to the snack machines in silence.
Wa'Carthikos was finished. The board immediately voted to cease all operations until further notice. Their worst fears had been realized—that someone could get hurt after undergoing the restorative processes and playing in matches.
McEnroe, meanwhile, doubled back to Connors’ room and peeked in to see if Patti and the kids were there. They were not.
“How you doin’, you big lug?” he said nervously. “You had us all worried sh*tless there for a minute.”
“You guys might have beat us on the court,” Connors rasped weakly through a thin smile. “But even after a coronary, I’ve still got more heart than you, McEnroe.”
McEnroe bit his lip and turned his head slightly, in an attempt to choke back a tear.
“Look, Jim, I just want you to know—“
“Don’t do this John,” Connors interrupted. “You and me, we’re okay.”
“You sure about that?” Mac asked.
“Of course I am. This whole thing was my fault. I was plotting against you for almost a month, and when you met me for dinner at Nobu, I sprung my trap.
“When I first brought you here, I was starting to have complications. Chest pains, dizziness, mini-blackouts and the like. I should have stopped then, but I didn’t. I was being petty, John, I wasn’t thinking clearly. I wanted to beat you.
“Guess I still have some growing up to do, huh?”
McEnroe laughed at Connors’ stab at himself.
“No more feuding between us, man. Okay Jimbo?”
“I still owe you an ass kicking on the court, Mac, and I’m gonna deliver it as soon as I’m outta here!”
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