Set Point

“Is the match confirmed for tonight?” that was the text I received on the messaging app from my brother Jorge that Sunday afternoon. I had forgotten about our plan, having bought beer and popcorn to watch Flamengo's football game on TV. As usual, I hadn't checked my schedule on Sunday, and I had forgotten about my brotherly commitment.

We had a small age difference, just over a year. Jorge was older but had repeated a grade in school, so that we had spent many long years in the same class, and many colleagues even thought we were twins, despite him being taller than me. We did almost everything together, had many friends in common, and once even shared a girlfriend. Not at the same time, of course. He had moved to the UK right after finishing college, though, while I had stayed in our hometown Rio. Almost every year he would come back to visit the family, and then we would spend hours at the cheapest bar in the neighbourhood, drinking beer with our group of friends, recollecting adventures from the good olden days, lamenting our receding hairlines but growing waistlines, and cracking lame jokes about each other's faltering sexual potency, never admitting of course that our own potency was no longer as it used to be. Since both of our parents died, however, his visits had become rarer.

The appointment with my brother wasn't just for any game. It was a tennis match, a sport we used to play as teenagers in the vain hope of someday being the next John McEnroe or Björn Borg. I know that these names betray our age, but I hadn’t followed the tennis circuit for a long time. Neither Jorge nor I were anywhere near our former physical shape, and I hadn't touched a tennis racket in decades, but I replied to him: “of course, absolutely confirmed.” – I wasn't prepared at all, but I couldn't let my brother down. Winning wasn't important, but meeting my old brother was. Flamengo could wait, it wasn’t an important game anyway, and the team had been disappointing lately.

I took a benzo pill and went to take a nap. I woke up with the alarm ringing about half an hour before the scheduled time, grabbed a dusty box on top of my son’s bedroom closet, and inside it I found what I was looking for: my worn-out virtual reality helmet, the holographic camera, the control stick, and the video game console. The 2D treadmill that would represent my movement on the court was also dusty, in the usual corner of the room. I had avoided entering the room since the accident that had claimed my son's life, but I took another pill to gather strength, entered the room and turned on the video game, as I regularly used to do before the tragedy that had struck our family. The blame game between me and my wife had also driven her, now my ex-wife, away. She had returned to her parents' home, leaving me alone with the ghosts in our small sixth-floor apartment.

Jorge was still in Manchester, but knew of my passion for tennis, both real and virtual. Indeed, I hadn't touched a real racket for many decades, but I had used a video-game control stick many times. I used to play every month a match with him, and trained often in between at home with my son. The games with my brother were quite fierce; our partnership in life did not apply to the tennis court. There we were hardened rivals, like McEnroe and Borg. Regrettably, in the end I almost always lost, but I sold my defeat dearly, we would both generally end the game sweaty and exhausted, but happy. I was the smarter brother, but he was the more athletic one. Unfortunately for me, the girls in the neighbourhood admired his athletic talent much more than my good grades at school. After my son's accident, however, we stopped playing for a good while, I had no desire to do anything, least of all playing games, but my life had to continue. I was gradually resuming my activities, based on a lot of therapy and medication, and eventually my brother managed to convince me to take up again our old e-sports habits.

There was still time to pop the popcorn in the microwave. It would still be a good complement to the activity, but, because of the benzo, beer didn't sound like a great idea, and I got instead a bottle of an awfully tasting isotonic drink to accompany our game.

Jorge appeared on my screen right on time, already doing jumping jacks on a black square exhibiting the video-game manufacturer's logo.

"Hey, bro!" – he said enthusiastically - "You finally accepted the challenge, I was eager to face my favorite sucker once again!"

"Dude, Jorge, it's been a while! I see you’ve gained some weight, it’s going to be an easy win for me." - I remained standing still, though, with my arms crossed while he warmed up.

"So, how are you, man?" – He avoided explicitly commenting on the elephant in the room, but was obviously worried about my sanity.

"I’m okay, just getting on with life." – I lied, obviously I was not okay.

"Good, that's right, life goes on, and nothing like moving our asses in a good tennis match."

"So, shall we choose the surface? Lawn? Wimbledon? – I asked.

"Ha, I knew it! You always lose on clay! Whatever you prefer."

I chose the Wimbledon stadium by pointing with my eyes to the menu in the corner of the viewer, and soon the image of the packed stadium with King William attending the Royal Box appeared on the viewer. My brother was positioned in the centre of the lush green court, wearing an orange shirt, whereas I was wearing the Flamengo jersey, both of us violating the rules of the venerable English tournament. In our universe everything was nevertheless allowed, and Jorge even put on a virtual Mohican haircut to complement the look. I had already made enough effort just to get up and show up in my son's room, or rather, on the Wimbledon lawn, and I remained just as I was, in a worn-out football jersey and wearing a two-week-old poorly kempt beard.

Jorge started serving, and scored an ace already on the first point. I barely moved.

"Come on, move it, bro!" – he said.

"Calm down, I'm still warming up."

In the second point I managed a decent return, but the ball went out. In the third, I think my return would have gone in, but Jorge played a perfect serve and volley and scored, as he did in the last point of the game. 45x0.

"You used to be better at this, my brother." – Said Jorge.

"And I will be again, just wait a bit."

The fact is that I couldn't concentrate properly on the game. Being in that room brought back many memories and the overwhelming feeling of guilt. I know deep down that it wasn't my fault, or anyone's really, just an accident, like many others on our precarious roads, but I had let my son drive my car that weekend. He was a good boy, hard-working, but I had never allowed him to hit the road with it until that date. It was a head-on collision with a 40-tonne truck, as my son swerved to avoid a pothole in the road, according to police. The truck driver escaped unscathed, and my son's girlfriend, who was in the passenger seat, survived, but was left paraplegic. Well, there was no going back in time, I was still here, alone; not kicking, but alive. The game, and life, goes on, and I had to change focus.

It was my turn to serve. The first one came out better than I expected, at least the ball hit inside the court, but Jorge returned it powerfully and caught me wrong-footed. 0x15. At least I managed to score a point in a long ball exchange, when it was already 0x40, but I also lost that second game.

The match was tough, for me at least, and Jorge didn't ease up, better that way. I scored a point or two, and even managed to confirm my second serve, but the set, and probably the game, was already lost before it started. What could I expect? Just the fact of being there standing, chasing a virtual ball was already a victory for me, and my brother knew it. I appreciated that he had insisted so much on us holding the match, it could be a new beginning for me.

The first set was already 5x1, and Jorge was going to serve. The way things were going, I could hardly win, but I decided to put in a little more effort. I had to make my brother sweat a bit and lose his belly. I managed to gather my strength and made it tough. I returned two perfect backhand balls and Jorge committed a double fault. I also conceded three points, and the game went to deuce.

"Very good, bro, that's how I like it, but you're not going to win this one either." – said Jorge.

He served again, forcefully. I managed to return, the ball fell close to the line, but out. I thought it was in, but in the digital world it's pointless to challenge the call, the electronic umpire does not make any mistakes.

"Ha! Set point!" – exclaimed my brother.

"Hold on, I need a timeout." – said I.

"Sure, but it won't help you at all."

I sat on my son's bed, now without any sheets. I remembered playing e-tennis with him, and that I almost always lost. When we played for keeps, I reckon that the last time I had won, he had not yet turned 15. I had had some wins when he gave me some unfair advantage, like playing with his right hand, being left-handed obviously, or jumping on one leg, but those wins wouldn't count for the tally. Anyway, the age difference was an unfair advantage for him, I guess. But winning or losing didn't really matter, what mattered were those fleeting moments with him, since we had little time in the daily routine of work and study.

While I mused, I lost track of time, and Jorge yelled:

"Hey, let’s go, you've had enough rest."

"Wait a minute, I still need some time."

I looked up at the wall still covered with posters of his favorite bands and at the pictures of his pretty girlfriend on the nightstand, sat still for a while, and suddenly realized what I had to do. Controlling the game menu with my eyes, I turned off Jorge's image without even saying good bye. Then I accessed the database with the avatars of previous players, and selected my son's. In a few seconds his image appeared on my viewer, as if he really was there in Wimbledon, wearing his school uniform, and my eyes got watery. I could see him there, smiling, and I could almost touch him. Unfortunately, it was only almost. He was bouncing the tennis ball while holding the racket with his left hand, and I heard his sweet voice once again:

"Set point, dad, let's see if you can get this one!"