The Final Match

The Final Match

Cherry had been quietly watching the tournament all week. Now and then, someone would come and pause by her for a moment, but then they’d move on again. Using almost supernatural concentration, followed by periods of boredom she had managed to pick up a rudimentary understanding of the game.

The fact that the ball was supposed to go over the net, while staying between the lines, was obvious to any preschooler. That it couldn’t bounce more than once before it needed to go back came to her by Monday evening. Often, in the warm afternoon sun she was lulled into a lovely snooze by the rhythm of smack, thud, swish, thud, swish… The scoring was odd, strange, archaic, even. But by Tuesday evening, she had a tiny epiphany, a sliver of insight. Only to lose it overnight.

She had a mostly unobstructed view of the south half of the court, which was enough for her, more would have been overwhelming. At times, there was shade, which she preferred, because it was hot. Hotter than she was used to, hotter than she was supposed to tolerate. During the unexplained lulls between the thuds and swishes, she often had difficulty staying focused. After all, concentration was not why she was loved. 

Each day, she was witness to several matches. Players came, sweated and left. But some kept coming back. By Thursday, she realized that those players must have won their earlier match and thus had earned the right to come back. If she had stopped to ponder it, she might have thought that all that work was a lot of work for what? A cheer from the crowd. There had to be more to it than that.

Cherry, like everyone else, found her favorite player. A young man, though probably a good bit older than Cherry herself, had a certain calm poise and grace. Moved almost noiselessly, seeming to be floating just above the court.

The other one that kept showing up and pulling in large crowds as well, was as focused, a little less elegant, but strong, fierce. And had a habit of sweating profusely. Even Cherry could see the rivulets of sweat pouring off him. But man, could he serve!

It's Sunday afternoon. The place is packed. Which gives little Cherry plenty of blessed shade. Someone drops down beside her.

Hey! he says.

Oh, hey. He’s cute, but she doesn’t want to sound too eager. On the other hand, she hasn’t had anyone to talk with the whole week. Just a few who moved on quickly.

You’re into chocolate, aren’t you? She giggles.

Yeah, does it show? He grins, proud of his good taste.

A little, right here.

That’s okay, don’t sweat it. I’m Chip.

Cherry, pleased to meet you. You like tennis?

Know nothing about it. How about you?

No, I didn’t till I got here. Want me to explain?

Since we’re here and not going anywhere, might as well, right?

Okay, then. There are two players. The one in the red shirt and the one in the white shirt.

Right, like our red and white striped shirts. Cool that we're dressed alike. It looks like the player with the white shirt bought it at least two sizes too big for him.

Cherry giggles. Right, like he borrowed it from his big brother. Never mind. The crowd has been rooting for both all week. Wonder which way they will lean today. I think I heard that White Shirt is more local. Maybe that will make a difference. And see that third guy? He is the umpire.

What is the umpire giving to the little boy?

Looks like a coin, and now he makes the boy throw it up in the air. Maybe it’s a party trick or yet another ritual. There are so many rituals in this game. For instance, see what they are doing now? They are just hitting the ball back and forth. As if they haven’t practiced for years and years or didn’t warm up in the locker room.

Now they are just practicing serves. I mean, really! They probably hit 300 serves a day when they are at home. But no, they need to do ten more right this minute.

If you ask me, and you did, right? They are just going through the motions. They can hit much harder than that. I heard one guy saying to another that White Shirt had hit a ball so hard, it got buried in the clay. No, I don’t know what clay is either, but it sounds like he really put some juice on it.

What’s wrong? Why are they sitting down again?

I’ve wondered about that too. Haven’t figured it out yet. May never understand all the rules and routines of this game. Okay, here we go. Looks like Red Shirt will serve first.

How do they know who will go first?

Honestly? I have no idea. In the beginning I thought it had to do with where their chairs are, but there isn’t a pattern, except that Red Shirt usually goes first.

Now, why did they stop?

White shirt hit the ball in the net. It’s supposed to go over the net.

I guess he should have practiced a little longer.

(giggle) Yes, he should have.

Why did they stop this time?

Because Red Shirt couldn’t get to the ball fast enough. This looks like it might become a good match.

Why are they walking off the court?

They’re not, look they are changing sides?

Why?

I think it’s another superstition. Both sides look the same to me. No, that’s not true, I can only see one side.

Whoa!

I know, right? That was 136 mph according to the numbers on that board. Holy chocolate. 141 mph. Wow!

And the crowd goes wild. Ooooh! Aaaaah!

Well, actually they did, Chip.

Yeah, you’re right. Sorry. So, you’re really into tennis?

You know? I wasn’t but it’s growing on me. What do you think so far?

It has a certain elegance. They make it look easy. A pleasure to watch, even with all the rituals and superstitions. Why are they sitting down, this time?

That I haven’t figured out yet, either. They are athletes, right? Why can’t they keep playing? Maybe they need to be in better shape.

Oh, look Cherry! A kissing cam. Come on, give us a kiss, will you? 

Chip, we’re not on the screen.

Yes, we are. Right there in the bottom corner.

Oh yeah. Mwoah. Oh, I like your chocolate.

Hey, you got chocolate on you. Does that make you a chocolate covered cherry, Cherry?

Oh, clever. Where is the chocolate? Oh, never mind, I found it. Yum.

I got more. Help yourself.

Look they are playing again. I don’t think White Shirt has a chance, do you?

Sorry, I wasn’t watching.

You weren’t? What were you watching?

You. You look good with my chocolate all over you. Hot.

Hot? Well, that’s the Midwest in August. Hot

Come on. Can’t you take a compliment?

I don’t know. I’ve never had one before.

Really? I guess I have to give you some more, so you can practice saying thank you Chip.

Shucks. I guess that will take a lot of practice. So, bring ’em on. Oh look, the match is over. Red Shirt won. Wow, you see that trophy. If that’s all they get for their sweating, I’d be just as happy with the smaller one.

Bet you like to sweat, don’t you, Cherry?

Is that a compliment, Chip?

I think it is.

Hm, well, okay then. Thank you, Chip..

You are welcome, Cherry.

Chip?

Yes?

Your chocolate is sticking to me.

I know. I sort of grow on you, don’t I?

I think you do, Chip.

The shadows suddenly become taller and leave. It doesn’t take long for the quiet to return to the stadium.

Oh, look Chip. Here it comes.

What? What is coming?

The broom. It has missed me every day this week. Whoo Hoo, finally! Since I’m stuck to you, the broom finally found me. Thank you, Chip.

The clean-up crew sweeps up the two red and white Graeter’s Ice Cream cups and throws them in the trash can.