Aced

I was already down a set. No way I was losing another. Set point just made me more focused. Alex was good, maybe better than me, but I’d rather have eaten the fuzz off a tennis ball before giving him two sets in a row. We’d played each other through high school and college, and that happened only once.

“You can still leave the court a winner! Not!” he cackled.

We always trash-talked each other across the net. But Alex never said that to me before. Those were the exact words my old man used to say to me right before I stepped onto the court at all of my junior tournaments.

Alex fired his serve to my forehand. I slammed my return down the line and rushed the net for the easy put-away. But he flew to it and blasted a two-fisted backhand right at me. It hit me dead-center in the forehead. My butt fell to the court hard. My vision blurred. I sat there for a few seconds. Where the hell was I? I blinked a few times to shoo away the little birdies flying around in front of me. It took a few moments; they finally got the hint. I rolled onto my knees and took a deep breath. Once on my feet, I grabbed my racket.

“Doing okay over there?”

I looked across the net at him.

“It’s just a game, right?” A sliver of a grin crossed his face. 

Right. He knew, for me, tennis was never that. Good old pop taught me the sport in second grade. Rule one: the racket is a weapon meant to draw blood. Of course, that was before he deserted me and Mom when I was fifteen. He said he didn’t mean to, but he fell in love with a younger woman. That fucker.

“Tell you what. I’ll go easier on you, this last set.” His smirk grew.

“Last set, my ass!” I knew Alex’s game inside and out—all his tells and weaknesses. All it took was a keen eye to exploit them. I accepted it was going to be a five-setter. Bring it on.

One thing Alex had was a strong history with that odd phenomenon that can accompany a winning streak. It can change your perspective on what got you there and, most lethal, what comes next. You could become overconfident, drop a few points, and before you knew it, the momentum shifts back to your opponent. I didn’t rely on it, but all of my senses were on alert, ready to pounce as soon as I saw an opening.

But he was hitting like, like my old man used to! That guy was a machine who never eased up, never played nice, no matter how far ahead he was. No matter how much older he was than his opponent.

“Play the ball, Max! Don’t look at me! And never look at the damned court! It ain’t the one moving! It’s ALL about the ball! And stop crying! How the hell you expect to see anything clear with tears in your eyes! Focus, Max!”

Alex’s serve flew past me. I didn’t budge an inch.

“What the…” Alex stared at me. “You giving up?”

I exhaled a puff of air. “Sorry. Got distracted. Good serve.” I moved to the add-court. He rifled one down the T. I framed it and sent the ball into the fence.

“What the fuck’s the matter with you?! Want to go to the movies with your friends this weekend or not? Shape up, pal! I want that ball hitting the sweet spot! Not the stinking frame! It holds the strings—that’s it! Capiche?!”

Alex’s next serve was fast, flat, and straight at me. All I could do was lean to the side and dig out a cramped return. But I yanked my racket up high over my shoulder on the follow-through and got a ton of topspin. The ball arced high, cross-court—wrapped over and around the net—went straight down and popped out wide at the top of his service box. Still at the baseline, he was pissed. I smiled to myself. Take that, old man.

“Now that’s what I’m talking about! Makes it worth my while, coming out here to train you after a long, hard day at work. I’m going to get you onto the front of a Wheaties box yet, killer! After that, the pros! Not going to let you mooch off me forever! I want some fucking payback for all this work I’m putting in here!”

I won the third set. At one game each in the fourth, it was my serve. I could feel my veins bulging, pounding with blood. But, oddly, I was quite calm and focused. For the next five games, I played like a demon.

“Alright! Fifth set. You’ve played well, but now I’m taking the gloves off!”

“You do that, Alex! Maybe you’ll finally be able to hold the racket right!” I wasn’t about to let some stupid compliment derail me.

“That’s good! Don’t! ‘Cause he’s just trying to screw with ya—get into your head. Nobody wants you to play better than them! They just want you to play cocky!”

From that point on, any semblance of friendliness from me vanished. I had one goal in mind, and niceness didn’t factor in. Jimmy Connors said his mother taught him to hate his opponent. I wasn’t at hate level, but I leaned toward it and gave into the dark side. 

“I aim to maim!” That was dear ole pop’s favorite phrase, the one he’d fling at me after every punch-shot straight to my face. He said it was to inspire me. It did. Hear that, Jimmy Conners? I capped it off with a wolf-howl and targeted a shot at Alex’s midsection. His normal, happy-go-lucky smirk dissolved. I aimed one after another until I finally connected and the ball pounded him in the chest. “That’s for all the affairs you had before you deserted us! Yeah! That’s right! I knew about all of them! You hurt Mom a lot!”

“Huh?” Alex’s jaw dropped open, his face twisted into a question mark. He shook his head and went back to the baseline to serve.

Again, I smiled to myself. Kudos to you Alex, for not easing up. Even though anything you try is going to be useless against me. I readied for his serve.

I had him at triple-match point. He crushed his serve out wide. I knew his plan, and he didn’t disappoint, bolting to the net to close off the angle and make an easy volley. I leaped out—my arm and racket stretched to the limit—rocketing the return. The ball smashed him in the nose. Blood drizzled onto his lips. He gave me a hard look as he wiped it away with the back of his hand.

I glared at him and gloated. It was over—six games to zero. I didn’t offer an apology. Instead, I pumped my fist into the air and bellowed, “I bageled you!”

I plopped my butt onto one end of the bench and guzzled some water. Alex trudged over and sat at the other end. I could feel his eyes on me. 

“What?”

“You played different, today. It wasn’t—”

“Just a game?”

“Yeah.” He grabbed his gear and headed off the court.

“We playing again Thursday?” We always played Mondays and Thursdays.

“I’ll let you know.”

It wasn’t like Alex to be a sore loser and skip our usual chitchat after we played. Oh, well. He’ll get over it. I doused my towel with water, draped it over my head, and closed my eyes to relive a few of my best points.

“Excuse me. Sir?” A voice intruded on my post-game movie. I swiveled my head toward it. A teenage girl and boy looked in from the court gate.

“Hmm? Oh, yeah. All done.” I threw my towel around my neck and the rest of my gear into my bag.

“Great! Thank you, sir.”

“You don’t need to call me ‘sir.’ I’m not that much older than you.”

“Oh, okay.”

I walked past the teens as I left the court.

“Thanks again, sir.”

‘Sir.’ Right. “Have a good game.”

I pulled the gate behind me, but before I latched it, the kid at the far end of the court yelled out to me.

“Sir! Wait!”

He ran to me and held out an old wooden tennis racket. “Is this yours?”

“Nope.”

He looked at it and chuckled. “It’s so old, huh?”

I took it in my hand. It was a Dunlop Maxply Fort—the same one my old man used to hit with. I smiled. And then I saw, on the frame, at the bottom of the strings, my father’s name etched into it. In his handwriting.

I looked at the kid for a long moment. “Yeah. A relic.”