Glory and Sacrifice

The clouds hung low in the sky like pillowy mountains that were mysteries to those who gazed up at them. Above them the sun burned evenly, spreading an indolent haze. Below them, it was the first day of Wimbledon and the green was strikingly verdant against the array of colours the spectators wore. Nikola Marusic was preparing to serve, and he approached the ball boy behind him who brought out three balls. The ball boy’s name was Max Hunter and he tried his best to stop his hands from shaking as his idol approached him. Marusic towered above Max’s lanky sixteen-year-old frame like a giant, though the similarities stopped there as his face seemed chiselled from granite, all sharp lines and perfectly proportioned. The rest of his body was sleek and powerful - coiled tendons and inherent explosiveness ready to be unleashed.

“Which one is the oldest?” asked Marusic. Max held out the one in his left hand, knowing it had already been used for a few serves by his opponent and Marusic pocketed it, along with one of the other ones. Max had studied Marusic’s game for so long that he understood his tendencies, that an older ball was best for rallies, and he wanted to save that for his second serve.  For the first serve, it was best to have a new ball, especially if he was going for an ace. Marusic looked at him for a moment and it was as if he really saw him for the first time. He nodded and turned to prepare his serve. Marusic’s serve was exquisite and landed near the line, but his opponent was not able to get it. The crowd clapped politely as a clipped British accent pronounced: “15 – love.” Marusic pumped a fist and returned behind the line to prepare his next serve; Max watched with glory in his eyes.

The match continued with the expected grit of two top 5 contenders: fault, deuce, set point, et cetera, as the players spilled their sweat on the grass and Max waited for his turn to pounce, retrieving balls with precision, just as his training had taught him. There were moments, in the second before a serve, where that fraction of time seemed to stretch the very fabric of what a second actually was and Max would stare at Nikola Marusic and wish that he were him. He’d played throughout school and was fairly competitive against people his own age but had never had the prodigious skill or freakish athleticism required to play at the highest level. To him, players like Marusic were like the mythological Gods of Olympus, colossus astride the Earth, capable of bending the seemingly immutable laws of space and time.

Hours later, Marusic was trying to bury his opponent and win match point. Max watched as his idol’s racket swung with unabashed fury, as if he were controlled by some malevolent force intent on the destruction of the ball, yet capable of controlling it with precision. The ball outpaced his opponent to the corner and the crowd cheered as the voice exclaimed: “Match Marusic.”

There he was, his arms in the air, his face beleaguered but buoyed by the adrenaline of victory. He shook hands with his opponent and the officials and waved at the crowd, then went to his seat under an umbrella. He dug around in his bag for a moment and eventually pulled out a fresh towel that he dried himself with. He stood up and walked over to Max, who was standing at his post, as was customary for ball boys until the players left the court. Max felt his heart flutter as Marusic approached him and he hoped he hadn’t done something wrong, though he quickly realised his anxiety was misplaced when Marusic held out his hand to shake. Max did and felt a piece of paper being placed into his palm. Marusic spoke, and now that the fog of battle had cleared, his voice was calm, the Serbian accent there but smoothened with years of public relations training: “Put this in your pocket and look at it later. Good job today.”

Max Hunter immediately put his hand in his pocket and deposited the slip of paper there as he smiled back at the man who seemed to emanate light.

*

That evening, Max Hunter got off the train at Clapham Junction and walked towards the address on the slip of paper. The message accompanying it was vague: You know the game well. Come by and speak with me this evening. Keep it secret. He memorised the address, ripped up the paper and told his parents he was going to dinner with some school friends. His destination was a house that Marusic had rented, and it was larger than most in Southwest London. He knocked on the door and his mind flooded with terror: why had he been asked here? Was he in trouble and this some kind of trap? Somewhere in the back of his mind, though, was the exhilaration that can only accompany meeting someone who holds the very balance of the world in their hands. The door opened and Nikola Marusic smiled at him. He wore a loose top with buttons undone at the top and tight chinos.

“Ah, come in. Glad you made it. I like my own space, so my team, they are in a place around the corner.”

Max stepped into the house and looked around, taking in its opulence as Marusic guided him into the sitting room. His eyes noted the blinds drawn and Marusic caught him, stating with derision: “Can never be too careful with these paparazzi, yes?”

 Marusic walked over to the counter where there was a pitcher of clear liquid.

“You will have a drink of celebration with me, yes?”

“Uh, yes, sir. I would.”

Marusic poured two drinks and walked over, handing one to Max. “Call me Nikola, please.”

Max nodded and sipped his drink; the fragrance of gin invaded his mouth and stung as he swallowed. Nikola now laid his eyes on him and there was something curious and inquisitive in them.

“So, tell me about yourself.”

Max did, and stammered and faltered through an abridged story of his short life: born and raised in Southwest London, private schools, loving tennis as a child, playing and practising as often as possible, having some success but nothing major, going to the try-out for ball kid at Wimbledon and making it through, studying the game and, with a blush to conclude, studying his game.

Marusic sipped his drink, but his eyes didn’t ever leave Max. “This does not surprise me,” he said. “The way you move on the court to get the ball, your eyes, they tell me that you know how the game works. You anticipate, yes?”

Max nodded and sipped his drink which he was surprised to see was almost finished. Marusic noticed this as well and chuckled: “Ah, you drink quickly. Let me fill your cup.”

Before Max could tell him that wasn’t necessary, he had retrieved the pitcher and refilled it.

“So, you tell me about your time playing. Maybe I can help you. Show me your serve,” said Marusic, and with a magician’s flourish brought a brand-new racket out from behind the sofa. “You go over where there is some space,” he said as he pointed to a clearing in the palatial sitting room. Max stood up and took the racket, feeling as if the only possible explanation for what was happening was that he was dreaming and somehow lucid. He picked up the racket and bent his knees, brought the racket back as he imagined the ball floating upwards and swung the racket down, making a whoosh sound in the still air. Marusic nodded and stood up.

“See, here is your problem. It is your hips.” He moved to stand behind him and his chest was now against Max’s back; he could smell aftershave and gin but could sense the power of the man that seemed to ooze from him. He placed his hands on Max’s hips and moved them gently, showing through motion the way the hips should open, how the legs should propel the serve, utilising all the larger muscle groups in the body.

“Okay, now your try,” said Marusic as he sat back down and sipped his drink, the dark eyes never leaving him. Max did a few more serves, trying to navigate through the gin and sheer panic he felt.

“See, this is better. I can tell you have something special,” he said. “You know, if you practise like this, one day, maybe when you finish school, you can come on my team. Work with us to win.” His eyes spoke of an opportunity that wasn’t extended to many and he awaited a response.

“Wow. Um, well yes, of course! That would be incredible. I’ve always dreamed of… working with you.” Max blushed again but had begun to feel at this point as if his mind was no longer tethered to his reality.

“Of course,” said Marusic, “You need to make sacrifices. Friendships and things like this – these are for the weak. For the people in this world who have no conviction, no desire. Are you weak like them?”

“No, si- I mean, no. Nikola. I’m not weak. I would love to work on your team.”

A smile across the granite face and the eyes, still dark, still unwavering. “Good,” he said. “Now, come up with me. I need your help with something.”

Marusic rose and went towards a winding staircase and said nothing else. Max Hunter followed him.

*

The bedroom was enormous, and everything was white with black trim. On the walls were paintings of pastoral landscapes.

“Just have a seat,” Marusic said. He went into the bathroom and came out in a robe a few minutes later. “I have some very bad soreness in my back. You don’t mind helping?”

Here, Max felt a line being crossed, but that part of his brain was being outvoted by the notion that it was perfectly normal for athletes to get massages and that it was actually an honour to be able to do this and that he needed to sacrifice for his future. Marusic lay on the bed and slipped his robe down to his hips. Deeper in Max’s mind were the thoughts that only came out at night when he was in bed, watching highlights of this very man and thinking about what his body would feel like. As he placed his hands on the sinewy back, he felt himself step back into his own consciousness. The tether had been reeled in and every sensation was now real as he felt the supple flesh that was full of life beneath his fingertips.

“Get the oil,” Marusic said through the towel at his face and pointed towards the dresser. Max did and poured some onto his hands, rubbing them together. He massaged and pressed and leaned his weight into his work until Marusic spoke again: “Stop for a second.”

 With that, he rolled onto his back. The robe was still around his hips but there was a slight protrusion in the fabric. “You know, it’s very common for members of the team to… help out. You know? Only if you want to.” As he said this, he sat up, his abs perfectly chiselled, his eyes on Max still unwavering, still dark. Max’s hands moved without his brain asking them to as he took Marusic into his hands and moved them up and down. Eventually, Marusic sat up and turned Max onto his stomach with the towel on his face. Max felt something painful inside of him and he winced with a gasp; Nikola Marusic shushed him and grabbed a handful of hair.

Later that night, Max snuck quietly into his house. His parents were asleep, and he knew they might give him a hard time for being so late, but they were lenient about most things. He went into the bathroom and ran the water lightly, taking off his clothes and getting into the bath; the water that ran down the drain was tinged with blood.

*

For the rest of the summer, a routine developed. During Wimbledon, Max would work during the days and be with Nikola at night. They would talk about previous and upcoming matches, go over strategy and would always have a massage session at the end. On off days, they would sometimes go to a court that Nikola had booked out. To the outside world, it seemed like a lucky kid who had won a Make-a-Wish contest or something. Marusic’s discretion was effective, though, and they barely had any interactions with outsiders. By the time Wimbledon was over and Marusic had lost in the semi-finals, their training regimen extended through August as Marusic had some time off before the next tournament in September.

Other than tennis, they didn’t talk about much. There wasn’t much to Nikola Marusic other than tennis, and Max realised that early on. Often, a conversation would dry up and Marusic would take out his phone and google himself, reading the articles on the sofa, his face empty of thought, eyes hungry for recognition. Eventually, it came time for Marusic to leave for a tournament in Australia that aligned with the start of school for Max. They met in the morning and there was a final massage. Max expected a farewell or a clandestine way of keeping in touch, but there was nothing. Just a nod of the head and the vagueness of: “I will see you another time.” As Max left the house for the final time, he felt something hollow in his chest where his heart should have been.

*

The school year began, and Max avoided any feelings of ambivalence towards Nikola. He knew that he had to stay in school, and though he felt like he could have been doing more for the team that he felt he now belonged to, he contented himself watching his matches and making notes – that would surely impress him when they were reunited.

A match had just begun, and Max’s eyes were tuned to Nikola’s every movement. It would have been imperceptible to most, but after a serve, he saw Marusic approach a ballboy for a new ball and there was a way of standing, of body language, that Max knew right away. Instantly, the searing heat of anger built in him, and he knew that that kid, whoever they were, would be given the same treatment: the slip of paper, the rented house, the drinks, the massage. His fury came from the realisation that he wasn’t special; that it had all been a lie.

He turned off the television and sat stewing. That night, he collected all the magazines, newspaper articles, photographs and notes he had taken about Marusic and put them into a shoebox. He went deep into the forest by his house and lit the box on fire. His anger, by now, was shapeless, formed from the pain he had felt but hadn’t known how to explain; when the box was embers, he stomped his foot on it so that no more damage would be caused.

*

Just under a year later and there was Marusic again, centre stage at Wimbledon with all the eyes in the tennis world on him. He was fresh off a hot streak with a string of wins from big events around the world. He walked onto the grass and sat on the chair, preparing for battle. Turning behind him, he spied the familiar eyes of Max Hunter and he flashed a quick smile. Max’s eyes looked through him; his expression didn’t change. Marusic thought nothing of it and stood up. 

Nothing of note, outside of exceptional tennis, happened until the third set. It was a standard return for Marusic, but as he made his way to the corner and planted his foot, something went wrong. Analysts and coaches call it a career-ender, but to go outside the vagaries of euphemism, it was a torn MCL. There is no way to know exactly why it happened. It could have been a misstep or a miscalculation or it could have been something else, something divine in its sense of justice.

But what was clear was the gasp, the toppling over, the pale face – all of these were soaked in by Max Hunter. But more than anything, it was the certainty that this man would never play again that brought a smile to his face.

*

Another year gone and another tournament at Wimbledon. This time, Nikola Marusic was at one of his many spacious homes scattered around Europe. His recovery had officially finished but he would always walk with a bit of a limp; it was safe to say that his playing days were over. He had begun to coach but things were slow getting off the ground, so for now, he was stuck watching his opponents. He had switched to scotch, and as he sipped his drink, he could barely taste it for the bitterness in his mouth of not being able to play. It was unfair, he thought, that someone who worked so hard would have to pay such a dear price. Of course, the hypocrisy of his statement about fairness in relation to his own actions was lost on him, but so were so many other finer points of morality and justice.

The Italian, Marcello Lamberto, was up to serve and Nikola watched. In the background, a familiar face: the young, soft mouth; the deep blue eyes that seemed to see so much; the blonde hair that caught the sun. The serve was short and as Max Hunter retrieved the ball expertly, Nikola Marusic turned off the television and sipped his drink, feeling for the first time a true realisation of how powerless he had become.