A World Without Fear

By Joel Edward Fleiss

9/11. The events of the day ripped away any sense of security, replacing it with fear and rage. Take thirteen-year-old Bret Johnson; his parents snatched away, his life forever changed. Bret vowed to avenge his parents’ death. He was only thirteen.

 

Over the next two decades, Bret graduates from Stanford with degrees in c

• Language: English
• Publisher: Joel Fleiss
• Release date: Jan 1, 2020
• ISBN: 9781087858500

Book preview

CHAPTER 1

The Match

Wiping the dripping sweat from my forehead, I realized my tennis career’s most important point was seconds away. A single point separated being in my first Wimbledon tournament final or being homeward bound to my residence in Northern California. I had been playing tennis for over two decades. Being in the Wimbledon Men’s tennis finals, I would achieve the pinnacle of my tennis career. The idea of not winning this semifinal tennis match was terrifying when thinking of the thousands of practice hours I had endured to reach this point. After twenty-six years of hitting a little yellow tennis ball across a net or against a wall, dreaming of playing in the finals of a major tennis tournament was finally a real possibility. Thinking of Malcolm Gladwell’s book "Outliers: The Story of Success" made me feel confident I would reach my shining moment, for I had more than done my 10,000 hours of practice.

Until this tournament, Wimbledon had never been a success story. At five years old, I would accompany my parents on weekends to their tennis club and hit a few balls with my dad or occasionally my mom. Watch the ball, racquet back, bend your knees, not your back, swing through the ball, they would say repeatedly. At seven, I took lessons twice a week from one of the tennis club’s professionals.

By nine years old, I was playing in ten years and under tennis tournaments. Tennis had become an integral part of my early childhood. Mom would drive me to the tennis club almost every day. Dad would take me to local tournaments on weekends within a few hundred miles from our home in Palo Alto, California. Occasionally my mom would accompany us. I loved my parents. From the time I was a toddler until I was fourteen years old, my dad had been my hero.

On 11 September 2001, terrorist planes crashed into the Twin Towers, killing both of my parents. It was two days before my fourteenth birthday. They were to be flying home from a weekend vacation in New York City to join my birthday party the following day. They visited NYC because my mom wanted to see a Broadway play, and my dad wanted to visit his college buddy who worked in the Twin Towers. Their death was a tremendous shock to me. 9/11 shattered my world. I continued to play tennis because I thought it would please my father. I vowed to avenge my parent’s premature death one day. Nearly every day, I thought of my parents.

I lived with my grandparents for the remainder of my pre-college years. During the summers while attending Stanford on a tennis scholarship, until the end of my 15th year, I was timid around the opposite sex. I never had a date. Most of my friends always bragged about their girlfriends. I was usually the smartest kid in my classes. Before my parents’ untimely demise, I had a burning desire to please my father and make him proud of me. Probably because I never heard either parent say the words, how proud they were of me. It made me very insecure about never hearing those words. It was damaging to my self-confidence at an early age, and partially responsible for my nonchalant attitude toward school-work and tennis. Then a very popular classmate, Colleen Weiner, became my girlfriend, or rather, I became her boyfriend. She was my first and only girlfriend in high school. She dumped me in her first year of college.

My tennis coach at Stanford was always on my case, telling me I was wasting my talent and time on the court. I was Stanford’s best tennis player, my junior and senior college years. Our tennis coach said more times than I could count, Your game would improve several levels with some real dedication to being the best you can be. Interesting enough, my grandparents said the same thing, but about my academic achievement. In my mind, I never argued the virtue of hugging an attractive lady as opposed to spending hours over a software engineering or criminology book, my dual major.

I played all four years of my college career on the Stanford tennis team. In my junior year, I lost in the semifinals of the NCAA tournament. I reached the finals my senior year and lost a tight three-setter. During my first three years on the tennis circuit, I did not qualify for any of the majors. The next year found me losing in the first couple of rounds of all four majors. At the US Open, a year ago, I won three consecutive matches, making it to the round of sixteen before losing to Rafael Nadal. At Wimbledon, the premier annual tennis tournament, last year, Andy Murray beat me in a tight five-setter in the second round. He eventually won the championship. Andy won 7-5 in the fifth set. In the fourth set, Andy made a great passing shot at match point for me, destroying my dreams of beating one of the world’s best tennis players.

My mind raced back to last night, when I said, Not tonight, honey, as Suzanne Ballard, my brilliant, beautiful girlfriend, pranced into our suite’s bedroom in a sexy pink nightgown, not leaving much to the imagination. Suzanne had light brown hair with a body causing people to turn their heads whenever she walked near them.

Suzanne responded, Well, here’s a first! Bret Johnson, I have never seen you so serious and nervous before a tennis match. Do you think having sex will change how you play tomorrow?

I had never refused to make love with Suzanne before yesterday evening. An opportunity like this, in a major tennis tournament, has never happened to me. I would hate to think later my sexy, brilliant girlfriend seduced me on this night, I said.

I was reminded of my sixteen-year-old self, playing a match against my early teens’ nemesis, Hamilton Ash. He beat me in junior tennis tournaments the last five times we played. Hamilton lived only three blocks from me, and we went to the same schools from the first grade through high school. We played practice matches all the time. I won almost two out of every three times we played.

Once, like today, in a major junior tournament, I was ahead of Hamilton in the final set and only a point away from victory. The score was 40-5, 5-4 in games. Choking terribly, I remember double-faulting on the first match point, then missing an easy shot with Hamilton off the court on the next match point. The night before, at my girlfriend Colleen’s house, we had sex for the very first time for both of us.

Looking at the stands and seeing Suzanne in the player’s box was inspiring. She was smiling and giving me the thumbs-up sign. I could not disappoint her; she was by far the best thing to ever happen to me. Suzanne graduated from Stanford Medical School a few years ago, near the top of her class. She was in her final four months of her residency. Suzanne was bright, cheerful, sweet, and the prettiest girl I ever dated. She had this knack for raising my spirits. I always felt proud Suzanne had chosen me. Suzanne’s positive attitude enabled me to perform to the best of my ability.

A hundred clichés were racing through my mind. I glanced at my opponent and could see a disgusted look on his face. Gavril Tiriac was seeded and ranked number two in the world and had already won five major tournaments. Gavril was only twenty-five years old, seven years my junior. He was every girl’s dream guy, great looking, about six feet five inches tall, weighed two-hundred-ten pounds, charismatic, a terrific athlete, cocky, and from a wealthy family. His father was a world-class tennis player a few decades ago. Now he was a very successful business executive.

Gavril had more television advertisements than one could count. Here I was a point from victory, ranked number forty-three in the world, and a fifteen-to-one underdog in the betting. The London newspapers said, It is a miracle Bret made it to the semifinals. I was playing the best tennis of my career to get this far in the tournament, to reach the semifinals. I had won several very competitive matches, where in the past, I would wilt under the moment’s pressure.

Just then, a fan yelled out his frustrations. Pick up your racquet, Bret, or are you going to play these final points without one? The fan did not realize several of my racquet’s strings broke on the previous point, and I needed a new racquet.

Relax, I told myself. Be calm and aggressive; give it your best shot. Thinking about what a wimp I usually was in the tense moments, I said to myself, Not this time, go for it.

I remembered Clark Clifford, one of Harry Truman’s aides, who said, There is, you know, such a thing as being too intellectual in your approach to a problem. The man who insists on seeing all sides of a problem too frequently cannot make up his mind where to take hold. Harry Truman never wrestled with a decision after he made it. I had taken that to heart and never had a problem making a quick decision.

It was time to serve Gavril wide to his forehand as he often moved to his left on my first service to help assure he would hit his fantastic right-handed forehand. My first serves were 95% to his backhand. It was a great serving day for me, getting nearly 80% of my first serves in play. Don’t be nervous, I told myself. Go for it. Focus on the ball! Once again, I glanced at my player’s box to see Suzanne’s smile; it was all I could ask for in this situation.

CHAPTER 2

The Triumph

Over a decade ago, tennis introduced Hawk-Eye to confirm the location of a tennis ball. Each player has the right to challenge a call if he or she believes the ball was not called correctly by a lines-person. A player can make up to three unsuccessful challenges per set. Hawk-Eye shows the location of the ball on giant TV screens. You could always hear the audience groan or cheer, depending on Hawk-Eye’s displayed results of the ball being close to the line, like a centimeter.

My serve was two centimeters inside the line right next to the doubles alley. Sure enough, Gavril moved to his left to increase the probability of hitting his spectacular right-handed forehand as my service motion started. My serve fooled Gavril, who challenged the call and pointed to where he imagined the ball landed. Thinking I would have a nervous breakdown while waiting for Hawk-Eye to display my serve’s results.

It was an ace! My opponent said a few obscene words, not for publication, to the crowd’s delight. Amazingly enough, many of the fans were rooting for me. The roar of the fans was exhilarating. Feeling as if I just won the tournament, I leaped for joy. I threw my racquet high over my head. Jumping the railing separating the fans from the court, I ran up a couple of stairs and gave Suzanne a giant hug. Another player would have been hugging his agent, coaches, and parents. Suzanne was the only one in my player’s box. I did not notice how loud the crowd was cheering while we were hugging.

You were terrific, so cool under pressure. I am very proud of you. No one had ever said that to me before. My dad, mom, or grandparents never said they were proud of me. I felt ten feet tall, even though I was only 6’3". Even when I was twelve years old and received straight A’s in school, no one ever told me they were proud of me.

My mom did say, Pretty darn good, Bret and kissed me on the cheek. I was bright enough to garner a 3.7 GPA during my four years at Stanford. In my major, I was always in the top three of every class I took, usually number three, when one of my tennis teammates and best friend was in the class, Dwayne Martin. In our computer science classes, Jodi Kim was also better than I was academically. In our criminology courses, I would come close, but Jodi and Dwayne were a smidgen ahead of me in our academic achievement in criminology as well.

Dwayne was one of three black players on our tennis team. He has been my best friend for the last dozen years. On weekends when I was not in a tournament, we often played tennis together and would have a beer afterward. Older women thought Dwayne looked like a young Sidney Poitier. He was almost six feet tall and weighed about one-hundred-seventy pounds. Dwayne and I competed at everything. We even debated which of us were dating the prettiest girl. He usually won, except when I started dating Suzanne.

Jodi was petite, around five feet tall, cute, weighing around a hundred pounds, bright, beautiful black hair, and an exceptional complexion. We never saw her at any of the parties on or off-campus while in college. She was polite with a beautiful smile whenever she would look up from one of the books she was currently studying. She possessed a great sense of humor, but it was hard to notice because she rarely ever spoke to anyone. Jodi politely turned down those when asked. My tennis team members wondered about her sexual preferences. Other than being extremely intelligent and cute, she was a mystery to my chums and me.

None of us knew her parents were strict. Jodi’s parents were old school in their belief as to how to raise their daughter before her college graduation. They told her no dating until after she graduated. Although not destitute, they had worked extremely hard to send their only daughter to Stanford, which was an expensive endeavor.

Her one excursion was golf. Her dad had taught her to play golf at an early age. Nobody knew she played golf during her first two years at Stanford. She quit because she received a B in an English class. Her parents told her playing sports was consuming too much time from her studies, and she could no longer play golf while attending Stanford. Her only other B was an art appreciation class during her senior year.

Jodi had an uncanny ability to solve even the most complex and challenging computer problems. Her ability to break down complicated software problems into a straightforward set of components was second-to-none. She was reserved and shy. She hardly ever started a conversation.

All through college, she never had a date. Until a few years ago, when she and Dwayne would occasionally meet for lunch, she never spent time with the opposite sex. When Dwayne, Jodi and I were together, I sometimes found her staring at Dwayne, as if she had a secret crush on Dwayne but never letting anyone know.

If not for tennis, I would have followed the same path as Jodi and Dwayne to Stanford graduate school. Both Jodi and Dwayne had dual PhDs in my same major, computer science and criminology.

CHAPTER 3

The Proposal

I said to Suzanne, I have not checked the draw for my next match. Do you know who I am playing?

No, she responded.

I must be the only player to make it to the finals without a coach. While I shower and get ready for dinner, can you check the tournament schedule? I know Nadal and Federer were playing in the other semifinal.

I had made dinner reservations at Light on the Common. A tennis friend told me it was the best restaurant within twenty miles of the tennis complex. I did not think the two of us would be celebrating my victory. After all, before today, I had only a single win over someone with a ranking in the world’s top ten players. I was zero for twenty-three against players ranked as one of the top five players in the world. I thought, to be with Suzanne, my favorite person, was more than enough. I planned on putting up as good a fight as I could muster.

For the last half dozen years on the tennis tour, I had been thinking about my vow to even the score for my parents’ untimely death during the terrorists 9/11 attack. I had an idea for a software product to help non-terrorist nations deal with terrorism. It would help mitigate terrorist attacks before the terrorists committed a disastrous event. I had been working on it for over three years unbeknownst to my friends, grandparents, and even what I hoped was my future wife. I planned on retiring from the tennis circuit after this tournament and working full-time on my new endeavor.

Maybe my pending retirement was the reason for my tennis success today. My new endeavor would consider how we could determine who the terrorists are in a more humane method than our and our allies’ current processes. Like nearly every country, the US tortured suspects to obtain the desired information. Those who were innocent of being a terrorist did not appreciate the interrogation torture process.