My Father's Son

No one ever asked me what I wanted to be as a child. 

From the moment my hand grasped that racket my destiny was laid out for me. I’d like to say something poetic like it was written in the stars, but it really wasn’t. It was just meticulously crafted by a crowd of very headstrong bullish men determined not to “squander my gift,” at the forefront of which was my very own callous father. Maybe callous is too harsh a word, I don’t mean to speak ill on him, I really don’t. He only ever wanted what was best for me, and in his mind this was it, this career, this success. 

He died three years back but it’s like I can still feel him sometimes, in the stands looking down on me, anticipation masked by a heavy grimace. Dark gray eyes, thick bushy brows falling heavy over them, thin lips curled down as he followed the ball’s whipping back and forth with turns of his thick neck. He never said congratulations, congratulations was for when I was the best, until then, there was more work to do. If only he could see me now. I like to think he’d be proud. He’d never say it, of course. But I’d know, somewhere under that mean old man there was a spark of it, just the tiniest spark. He loved me, I repeat to myself sometimes at night, he loved me.

And I loved him. I did. Even though I wince when people say I remind them of him - I’m getting it more now the older I get. The first question I got when the media found out my wife was pregnant was at what age was I going to teach my child tennis. I cried tears of joy when I found out we were having a girl, not that I think she’ll be spared the prodding about the sport, they’ll expect me to make a women’s champion out of her before 20. It’s more that I was just so happy to be having a daughter. There’s something rotten about the men in our family, we’re all born like this, all the way back to my great grandfather. Obsessive, resentful, cold. I knew it in my father well and I see it myself more and more each year. I’m trying to fight it but sometimes I worry I’m not strong enough. But she will be. 

Third set. My serve. My opponent, a lithe young man from Sweden, had won the first, but I took the second and am feeling good. It's only the quarterfinals, even if I do win I have two more rounds to get through before the finals. But this is the closest I’ve ever been. And call me crazy, but it’s like I can feel it, something in the air today. It’s all been building up to this. Everything, everything I did, everything he put me through, everything I lost, it’s all going to make sense. 

I palm the ball in my hand, letting my breathing slow. I take my place on the court, it all feels so familiar. Like the steps of a dance I’ve performed a thousand times before. No matter how the music may change, how the tempo may shift, whether he hits hard or soft, left or right, I know my way. I read somewhere once that Bobby Fischer had the theory memorized for the first 25 moves of any chess game, regardless of what opening his opponent played. I’m not sure if it’s true. I probably saw it on the internet somewhere, some copy and pasted text post I threw a like to in my late night twitter scroll stupor, but it stuck with me. Whether it’s true or not I think I believe it, because that’s how I’ve come to feel. No matter how my opponent reacts to my serve, I have the proper reaction memorized, implanted within me like a basic instinct, as automatic as prey fleeing at the scent of a predator. Even when he serves, I am ready, I’ve calculated the variations. Sure, I might mess up occasionally, a slip of the shoe, a touch too much force applied in a return swing, a lingering headache from the morning I couldn’t shake, but when all goes according to plan, follows theory as I’ve learned it, the game is my story and I know how it’ll end. 

My serve is a bullet across the court, it taps down just barely in the lines and my opponent nearly trips racing after it, but he shoots it back. I feel myself fall into automation, my movements become smooth and fluid. He’s the type of player that relies on tiring me out to win. His hits aren’t powerful, they’re softer than the average player at our level, and easy to return. But what he lacks in strength he makes up for in stamina, sending me all over the court like a mad dog chasing this ball. Within 30 seconds I’m out of breath. But I didn’t get to this level of play relying on weak lungs. I save my energy, lobbying back hits on the softer side until I see my opening, a clear shot he won’t be able to return. I swing and watch the panic set in his eyes, he knows he won’t make it across the court in time before he even takes his first step. 15-Love. 

The next few serves go as expected. I clean up the points easily. One does slip away with a shot into the net, but I shake the mistake quickly. You have to stay focused playing at this level. 

It’s 40-15 when I see it. The first whispers. It’s my coach I notice before the rest of them. The look of fear and anxiety. I’m confused. There’s nothing to worry about. I’m in my zone and he knows it, so why does he sport such a ghostly pallor? I’m ready to chalk it up to his own nervous tendencies when I see the others. My assistant, my manager. Whispering, shaking their heads, glancing at me. Something is wrong. I can feel it in my gut. I try to shift my focus back to the match but I can’t. The fans are staring now, I’m taking too long. My opponent eyes me like a shark that’s smelled blood, he can tell I’m shaken. I whip my arm back and toss the ball into the air, launching a serve across the court. My hope is that gameplay will get me back into my rhythm, tune out the distraction of whatever crisis is happening over there. But it’s an unfruitful attempt. I’m on tilt, peering over at my coach between every swing. He’s not whispering anymore, but I can see in his face that all is not well. 

My distraction drives me straight off a bridge, as I miss what should have been an easy return, prompting an obnoxious celebration from the Swede across from me. I need to know what’s happening, I can’t keep playing like this. I run over to my coach, staring him down with a look of urgency. 

“What’s going on?” I huff, nearly out of breath, whether from the match or worry I’m unsure, “Is something wrong?”

“Nothing,” He says firmly and tries to mask his previous look of worry.

“Don’t give me that,” I snap back, “I’ve known you 18 years you expect me to buy that.”

He stares at me in silence. 

“Amelia,” I direct to my assistant, “What’s happening?”

“I really ca-” 

“Bullshit!” I shout, hearing my father’s voice echo in my own.

“If we tell you, you won’t be able to play,” My coach says, a hand on my shoulder like a sympathetic guidance counselor comforting me over school bullies.

“I can’t play now, damnit! Is it something about the Nike deal?”

“Michael,” My coach says.

“What?” I shout.

His gaze softens like he’s accepted defeat, “Your wife’s having a baby.”

It feels like the whole world around me has stopped. All the noise, all the chaos, it’s filtered out. All I can hear is the beating of my heart, my blood pumping, rushing through my system. 

“That’s not- she can’t- she’s only 8 months along.”

“Your girl wanted out early,” he chuckles. 

My first instinct is to run, dash out of the stadium and speed my way to the hospital running every red I see. But I stop myself. My head whips between my coach’s sympathetic gaze and the court. I must be wearing the panic openly because my whole team seems to have huddled into a semi-circle of worry around me. I feel I might be on the verge of passing out when my coach pulls me into a hug. I’m half convinced he’s only doing it so I don’t embarrass myself by fainting on the court, but then he says it.

“Go.”

He pulls me tighter into his chest and I feel a sense of calm wash over me. I know what I need to do.

“Thank you,” I say as I pull back.

I drop my racket and run for the exit doors. I don’t even bother looking back to assess the reactions. None of it matters in this moment. 

“I’m going to be a father,” I whisper to myself. 

I’m going to be a good father.