"When is it going to air?" Myron asked.

"During the quarter finals. We're gonna blitz the networks in a very big way."

The tape finished rewinding. Duane was on the verge of becoming one of the most highly paid tennis players in the world. Not from winning matches, though that would help. But from endorsements. In most sports, the big-name athletes made more money from sponsors than from their teams. In the case of tennis, a lot more. A hell of a lot more. The top ten players made maybe fifteen percent of the money from winning matches. The bulk was from endorsements, exhibition matches, and guarantees – money paid big names to show up at a given tournament no matter how they fared.

Tennis needed new blood, and Duane Richwood was the most exhilarating transfusion to come along in years. Courier and Sampras were about as exciting as dry dog food. The Swedish players were always a snooze-a-thon. Agassi's act was growing wearisome. McEnroe and Connors were history.

So enter Duane Richwood. Colorful, funny, slightly controversial, but not yet hated. He was black and he was from the streets, but he was perceived as "safe" street, "safe" black, the kind of guy even racists could get behind to show they are not really racists.

"Just check this baby out, Myron. This spot, I'm telling you, it's… it's just…" Tunwell looked up, as though searching for the word.

"Fantastic?" Myron tried.

Ned snapped his fingers and pointed. "Just wait till you see. I get hard watching it. Shit, I get hard just thinking about it. Swear to Christ, it's that good."

He pressed the PLAY button.

Two days ago Valerie Simpson had sat in this very room, coming in on the heels of his meeting with Duane Richwood. The contrast was striking. Both were in their twenties, but while one career was just blossoming, the other had already dried up and blown away. Twenty-four years old and Valerie had long been labeled a "has-been" or "never-was." Her behavior had been cold and arrogant (ergo Esperanza's Ice Queen comment), or perhaps she'd just been distant and distracted. Hard to know for sure. And yes, Valerie had been young, but she had not exactly been – to quote a cliché – full of life. Eerie to say it now, but her eyes seemed to have more life in death – more animated while frozen and staring – than when she'd sat across from him in this very room.