Game, Set, Match

I can’t remember how long ago Jake killed Sam. Lots of people ask me about how it was like to witness the Murder Match. I always tell the same story, sometimes omitting details, sometimes adding ones nobody knew about. I like the way their facial expressions change from mesmerised to horrified in the blink of an eye. And then I tell them what I thought of it. Truthfully and honestly. It was horrifying.

 I can still see in my mind sometimes the way that Sam’s body lay motionless on the court, his blood the same colour as the clay. It dripped slowly out of his head, mixing with the ground, almost looking like he was just laying there. Just resting after a point. Eyes wide open as he stared up at the clouds. Dead.

 I remember when Jake agreed to one last match before he retired to show Sam he would always be better. The way that he slammed the door shut, rocking the whole house, a stupid grin on his face, was the beginning of the horror movie. The type of grin that he gave me when he knew something I didn’t reminded me of a serial killer’s. He also gave me that grin when he was proud of himself. 

 The way he approached me was almost comical, smiling, raising eyebrows. He put his arms around my waist and sighed happily, “Remember Sam?” 

 I knew in that moment what he meant. Sometimes I wish I told him not to go and that it was a bad idea. Should’ve told him now that I think about it.

 The next week, they walked onto the court simultaneously, not turning their heads to each other for a greeting, not acknowledging each others existence, not noticing the eager audience. I’d watched matches before and the opponents would always shake hands before playing. Take a picture together and then scurry back to the safety of the baseline to warm-up.

 There was no handshake, no picture and no scurrying. Not even a warm up.

 The audience wasn’t sure wether they should clap or sit silently. I was sat there: my favourite dress hugging my body tightly, suffocating me like a corset suffocated my ancestors. Everyone decided on silence.

 Jake took the ball from a ball boy that volunteered to be part of the match. He turned it in his hands once, dropped it, took another ball and approached the baseline. He took his time, bouncing the ball carefully, egging the crowd on to hold their breaths for just another second, another moment. 

 I sat in the crowd, silently watching him. If I had known what would happen, I would’ve run right then. Legs flying across the stairs to make it out before it happened. I would’ve divorced Jake right then and there so our young children wouldn’t have to live with the fact that their father put the Murder in Murder Match. 

 The bounce of the ball echoed in the stadium. It was an old court that they were lucky to get. I heard somewhere is was called the Arthur Ashe Stadium. Maybe some guy called Arthur Ashe played on it and did something amazing.

 With every bounce, the crowd breathed in until they were as full as balloons. Jake caught the ball for the last time and prepared to serve. He looked up, took aim in his mind and tossed the ball up, up, up. Everything happened in slow motion. His arm flexed moving upwards into perfect trophy position and he swung. 

 The jump he had worked on for months was flawless. The contact point was perfectly in front of him. Every movement perfect, every moment just right.

 Fault.

 Everyone exhaled in one large puff. The tension was gone. The match had begun.

 Jake took the second ball out of his pocket slowly, turning it over and bouncing it. It didn’t happen in slow motion this time. The ball flew upwards and he smacked it with a thud. There was a sound that signified that he had created just the right amount of kick like he’d been working in lately. 

 It hit the ground and bounced into Sam’s backhand. Sam did a perfect split step, he was in position, leg muscles flexing as he jumped for the ball and-

 Fault.

 Jake exploded.

 I’d never seen him get so angry before that moment. Usually, he was quite calm, never raising a hand against anyone, never raising his voice even in the worst situations. His face was the pure resemblance of rage, dripping with anger and resentment for Sam.

 “What bullsh-t are you pulling on me Sam?” he screamed, “What fake information are you feeding that umpire? Telling him my serve was out? You want to f-ing cheat again?”

 I remember making eye contact with Sam, silently apologising for Jake. He looked away, then back at me and away again. Then he nodded once.

 “I’m not lying, Jake! You wanna see the ball mark? Right ‘ere,” he walked forward with confidence, bent down and pointed at a mark that could’ve been out and could’ve been in. My daughter would’ve said it was a Schrödinger’s cat kind of situation. Jake would’ve never known if he didn’t open the box.

 “Get the umpire to check it, a-hole!” he yelled and gestured for the poor, obese man on the tallest chair to come down and check the mark. 

 Painstakingly slowly, he got down and checked the mark. He walked around it, once, twice. He bent down really low to see if there was a gap. The entire time I could see Jake staring daggers at Sam as he shuffled a few steps closer to him with every passing moment. 

 “The ball is in,” the umpire whispered, scared of what Jake would do if he told the truth.

 “Say it louder.”

 “The ball is in,” the man stood up straight and looked Jake in the eyes. A second passed where Sam bent down again to check the mark and then stood up. A mischievous gleam was present in his eyes. If only it wasn’t the last time I saw that sparkle.

 “Get Hawkeye to check it,” Sam crossed his arms over his chest and waved the umpire away. 

 After a few minutes, a video popped up on the screen above the court. It showed the court from above, Jake and Sam both little cartoon characters. Cartoon Jake served and the video zoomed in on the ball. 

 “The ball is out.”

 “No, no it’s not. The mark says it’s in. The ball is in,” his body was shaking, hands grabbing onto air until he found something solid to grab onto.

 “You rigged it!” Jake screamed. I looked away when I knew what was happening.

 Thwack. Thud. Smash.

 Sam lay dead on the floor. 

 It took everyone a few moments to register what had just happened. Sam’s lifeless body lay bleeding before Jake, his new racket smeared with blood. The audience was dead silent, trying to understand what they had just witnessed. They had witnessed history.

 “15-0,” the umpire chocked out.

 “No,” Jake smiled grimly and put a hand on the umpire’s shoulder, “Game, set, match.”

 And finally, looking down on Sam’s corpse, he shook his friend’s hand. 

 “Good game, Sam.”