Chapter One

The road snakes around green foothills, up through giant rocks and along rugged cliffs. 

Sparkling waterfalls surround its quiet village and along its nearer mountainside a sprawling retreat cascades.

The old tea-lover’s boy was there.

That day, the day before my first dream atop the Kasbah, my Carrera took those curves like a Latin dancer and its winds caressed my face, teasing me. 

Its wild aromas stirred up sweet memories.

Not so long prior, The Mission was on my mind. New superheroes had entered the great arena amidst thundering applause. 

I thought of those swashbuckling heroes my father knew. Lendl. McEnroe. Connors. Becker. Modern swordsmen. Courier. Agassi. Sampras. Guga. Men, armed with willowy weapons, plush balls and booming serves, toying with the dreams of pretty girls and hopeful boys. 

They dueled in the red dirt, and on hallowed grass, and beneath the slick willowy lights down under where mates know how to have a good time, and up North, beyond Times Square, in the sweating shadows of a field of bitter boys with metal bats. 

They dueled beneath the gaze of Kings and Queens and Presidents, raking in dollars and wild applause, like leaves from a forested fall. They tossed a few leaves into willing laps and a few into wishing wells, before the winds of change brought snow upon them all.

I thought of other greats my rich uncle met.