Good luck, Adi!

Aditya Rastogi comes running into the court. A roar of cheers bursts from the crowd. He tangles his hands and starts stretching his forearms over his head. An arrogant smile and the audience is vindicated. He starts skipping rope and looks towards me. We lock eyes. I remember something similar happening in my dream. But, instead of puffing my chest and giving him a middle finger, I get flustered. He ignores me sneeringly and turns perpendicularly to finish his warm up.

I prepare to serve in the first game. The crowd only cares about Adi. I cannot fault them. He won this inter-school tennis tournament for the last three years. I’ve always been paired up with him for the first round and lost. Some people would call it bad luck.

I prefer to call it fate.

Imagine the much beloved champion losing in the first round.

I toss the ball overhead and jump to hit it. Adi is looking the other way. He seems zoned out. I am not a threat to him. This affects me. So much that I slip and lose balance. I hear a mix of laughter and cheer from the crowd.

Laughter at me, cheer for Adi.

My face turns red again. The chair umpire shouts “First Fault”. The embarrassment reminds me of that one time my pants fell down during rock climbing on a class trip. The closest of my friends laughed at me.

Adi is also laughing, but his laugh doesn’t seem demeaning.

I redo the serve and this time the ball reaches Adi. Adi easily hits using a powerful forehand swing. The way Adi moves across the court always looked like a choreographed dance to me. It’s so mesmerizing. I reach the ball in time, but the force Adi applied is so strong that it twists my racket and Adi gets to make an overhead shot. I carefully observe as Adi finds the right position and casually smashes the ball into my court. I leap for the ball, but I miss it.

Score is 0-15. He is up by one point.

I try to bring back my focus for the next serve. But, Adi is just too good at receiving my serves. He makes me run for a few shots this time before finishing me up with a shot towards the back.

0-30. He gains another point.

After the next serve, I rush to the center. He makes way for the ball, elongates his biceps and puts his body-weight into a backhand shot. The ball reaches the left back corner of my court in an instant, the opposite direction of my momentum. A return ace. The crowd goes nuts.

That's more like it!

0-40. One more point and he wins the first game.

I put my all into this last serve. I don’t want two return aces in a row. Adi is on his toes, ready to hit. I manage to hit a nice serve. He hops towards the ball, lines up his feet and swings his racket. The ball is aimed at me. I fumble and the ball hits my nose. Blood sprinkles on the green grass.

Adi wins the first game.

After being given some first-aid treatment. I hide my eyes from the crowd and head towards the washroom. As I throw water on my face, I cry into the mirror, “There are still two more sets. I can win this.”

“Is anybody here?”, a raspy voice from one of the stalls.

“Ahh….Yes!”

“Can you please pass me the toilet paper from the next stall? I’m a mess right now.”

I do so. After a few stumbling and water noises, Adi appears from the stall. 

I am stunned and scream, “I cannot believe our first conversation is about toilet paper. Who even uses toilet paper in India?”

Aditya doesn’t pay much attention to my yapping. 

“Why were you crying over a stupid tennis match?”

Stupid?

“I worked very hard throughout the year. But, I wasn’t able to score a single point against you.”, I tell him.

“You’re in class 12th right? Shouldn’t you focus on college entrance exams?”

“But this is my last chance to beat your ass.”, I say with determined eyes.

He tries to control his laugh and then starts speaking in a somber tone. “You can’t. Nobody here can. I’m a tennis prodigy.”

This infuriates me. Not his words. His tone. He sounds sad. 

He raises an eyebrow at my expression, “I am envious of you. I kind of look forward to our match every year.” 

He hesitates, but continues, “Even though you haven’t scored a single point against me in all these years, you always appear so serious that it’s funny. I don’t understand why you even pl-.”

“To beat your ass. You’re my rival.”

I expected him to laugh, but he looks into my eyes. “You’ll not even be able to touch my ass. What’s your name?”

“Shashi. I’ll see you in the court, Adi.”

“Adi?”

“I mean Aditya”, my face turns red again. I storm out of the washroom in a hurry.

Adi’s serving this game. I take a deep breath and gain some focus. If I know someone’s playing style more than Federer and Nadal, it’s Adi. I’ve never missed any of his matches.

He does a beautiful serve. The arch he makes when he is about to hit a serve belongs on a magazine cover.

I shake my head and bring my focus to the game.

His serves are strong, but Adi mostly goes for the back corners of the court. I position myself there and manage to put the ball in his court. He is an aggressive baseliner. I’ve trained the past year to receive his kinds of shots. I just needed to get serious.

This time I don’t focus on Adi, I focus on the ball. I don’t care if Adi is surprised, impressed or shocked. I just return his balls.

After a good rally, I manage to drop the ball near the net. Aggressive baseliners like to control the game from the back, but they are weak near the net.

He finally makes a mistake and I score a point.

0-15

I look at Adi’s face. The crowd is silent. He gives me a warm smile.

Then he beats my ass with back-to-back service aces. I guess he got serious too.

After the match, I run to the net and extend my hand for a handshake. He rushes towards me and our hands meet.

"I scored a point. I guess, that's a start."

“You made one of my last matches memorable.”

“Last?”

His eyes lose its sparkle for a moment, “I’ll be busy with medical studies starting next month.”

I don't know what to say.

“Good luck, Adi!”, my last words to him.

He runs towards the exit and fades. The crowd cheers.