Every and now and then a good sports book drops on your desk and it is one of those that you just can’t put down. Slammin’ is one of those. When we were contacted to see if we by any chance would want to feature this story on TSF we didn’t expect this book to be so much fun. Enjoy the long excerpt and if you want to buy the book then you can buy it on Amazon (Kindle version also available)
About the author
Marcus Paul Cootsona is a tennis professional, lapsed playwright and the author of Occam’s Racquet – 12 Simple Steps to Smarter Tennis. Three times ‘Tennis Specialty Retailer of the Year’, a member of the Wilson Advisory Staff, and a contributor to Inside Tennis magazine, tennis is his life. He lives in Northern California with his wife and two sublime, ridiculous dogs. He is not a former Navy SEAL.
Fifty-three year-old tennis pro and family man, Wally Wilson is happily teaching Silicon Valley’s millionaires and billionaires at the double-wide estate of his temptress and benefactor, 17 year-old Ashley Margincall.
But when Wally’s serve speed spikes and unidentified government agents appear, he begins a pro tennis odyssey that might lead him to the U.S. Open or the twisted nexus of a Grand Slam conspiracy. Strangely blessed, but always behind the power curve, Wally realizes he’s been given all the power, but none of the control.
“Marcus hits a clean winner with Slammin’
Jon Wertheim, Executive Editor, Sports Illustrated
“Slammin’ has the sort of wacky charm that keeps a reader following Wally’s excellent adventure as the plot, like the pro circuit, curves around like a snake eating its own tail.”
Michael Mewshaw, Inside Tennis
National security beckoning, the Suburbans took the seven blocks from the Yacht Club to Wally’s Cloud Avenue house like the Stig. But despite their pace, they finished second. When they arrived, Wally’s GT 500 was already there and parked. And the neighbors, who would all be by with questions later, were taking pictures and texting Channel 7.
Four agents in suits had commandeered the four corners of Wally’s five thousand square-foot lot. Two more identical agents stood guard at the front door.
And the racquet was still in Wally’s hand.
Deuce took the news about his mom stoically, helped his dad free the racquet, then brought all the agents what he would like to drink – Red Bulls, Rockstars and Monsters. He and Wally now stood in the living room with Flint and Steel, watching a kidnapper productions DVD on their 52-inch TV. Deuce thought this was the most interesting thing that had ever happened in Menlo Park and was proud that his family had a TV worthy of federal agents and their badass attention. And happy that they liked the drinks. Wally, on the other hand, was struggling to make sense of everything that was happening and Addie wouldn’t come out of her room. Two identical agents stood vigilantly in the entry, sipping the cold beverages, admiring Wally’s handmade furniture and the various family photographs of Danielle, especially the ones of her in a swimsuit or running shorts.
On the TV, a friendly, educated German-accented voice started in over a wide shot of the wind-furled Swiss flag.
“We can no longer be neutral,” it said.
Suddenly, the screen image flag burst into flames, smoldered menacingly and faded incongruously into footage of Danielle, Donald and the bankers toasting each other with champagne flutes on a yacht in Lake Geneva. While Danielle talked business with the Swiss, her boss stared at her, tongue protruding.
“We have taken the American couple, Danielle Wilson and Donald Grosser.”
“American couple?” thought Wally.
“Who’s Donald Grosser?” asked Deuce.
“Mom’s boss,” said Wally.
“That guy with the tongue?” shuddered Deuce.
The Swiss voice went on, “We have also detained some of our countrymen so that we may now set in motion an overdue chain of necessary events.”
The dinner cruise image dissolved to a slick, promotional video of a luxurious estate in a Swiss forest, showing tennis courts, stables, a pool, a nine-hole golf course and a formal dining room with Swiss dinner delicacies and some perky, blond models.
The voice continued, “They will remain our guests, free to use all the amenities of this world-class destination and receive expert instruction in sports, cooking and language classes until our demands are met. You see, we are angry but we are not uncivilized.”
Inexplicably, Wally suspected that Donald had something to do with the reason they were snatched, but he could not quite work it out. Yet. He wanted to be Liam Neeson in Taken, but at the moment he felt like Harrison Ford in Frantic. And behind the self-restraint, he knew his son was rattled.
What could he do? Didn’t he have some hidden abilities that could be tapped for a daring, nighttime rescue? He had well-polished interpersonal skills, for instance. Couldn’t they help?
His rambling focus returned to the big screen TV.
Over a shot of downtown Zurich’s banking district, the precise voice was winding up.
“We want two things. One, for the Swiss government to lower the cost of living for average Swiss citizens who have been priced out of their own country. And two, for confirmation of this action to be delivered to us personally by the greatest tennis player of the Open Era, the Swiss maestro and Lindt spokesman, Roger Federer. That’s it. We will be in touch again after his first match on Monday.”
The DVD closed with a short highlight reel of Federer’s victory at the 2009 French Open over Robin Soderling.
“He really played well that year,” said Flint popping the DVD out of the Blu-ray player,
Wally asked, “Swiss pirates?”
“A lot of folks with an agenda these days,” said Flint.
“But Danielle just called me this morning. What happened?”
“As far as we know right now, heavily-armed men boarded the cruise boat and took them. They were well-funded, well-organized but unaffiliated as far as we can tell. The boat was found abandoned this morning. The dinner was uneaten, but quite lavish.”
“Who shot the video?” said Deuce.
“That’s a good question,” said Flint, taking a sip of Monster.
“Thank you,” said Deuce, delighted. “By the way, I thought you guys carried Glocks.”
Flint patted his service weapon. “We’re not FBI.”
“Okay. Then, CIA? NSA?” said Deuce.
“CGA,” said Flint. Off Deuce’s puzzled look, “Classified Government Acronym.”
“OIC,” said Deuce.
“So what can I do?” said Wally.
“Remain calm. Go about your normal life. Answer the phone when they call.”
“Aren’t you guys going to look for her?” said Deuce.
“We are following every available lead. We’ll do everything we can to get her back.”
“Awesome,” said Deuce.
“But please understand, it’s very delicate. We can’t just invade an ally.”
“So not everything, everything,” said Deuce.
Flint and his men assembled to leave. “We’re going to leave you now.”
“Great,” said Deuce, deflated.
Wally was worried. “But this is a kidnapping, don’t you need–”
“An elaborate phone set up with agents at your house?’ asked Flint.
“Yeah. Don’t you?” said Wally.
“We’ve already cloned your cell phone. We’ll know when they call.”
“Can you clone my sister’s too?” said Deuce.
Wally glared at him.
“I thought you’d want that,” said Deuce, honestly.
Then, Wally asked Flint, “And in the meantime?”
“To be honest,” said Flint, “Not much. Really, one of two things needs to happen. The kidnappers either decide it isn’t worth the trouble any more or the Swiss government does an unprecedented U-turn and devalues their currency to lower prices.”
“Those are the choices?” said Wally.
“The good ones,” said Flint.
“Can’t I do something?” repeated Wally.
Addie had just emerged from her room. “Dad?”
“Can I go on a date tonight with the hottest guy in school? He just messaged me and asked me out.”
“Addie, now? Your mom’s been kidnapped.”