Match Point

It was set point. I lost the first one—I can’t lose this one, too. I laser-focused onto Alex across the net at the baseline, took a deep breath, went into my Zen-mode, and sent him into slow-motion. I could read his serve like it was a kid’s picture book. High ball toss about a foot out into the court, deep knee dip into a low crouch, body swiveled under it, trunk and shoulders coiled. He’s going for the slice—I leaped right and straddled the alley. Slo-mo ended—WHAM! No! He pronated the racket at the last second—blasted it down the T! He aced me! Alex grinned and yelled out: “It’s all fun and games, right?”

Right. He knew, for me, tennis was never that. My dad taught me the game in second grade, and the first rule: the racket was a weapon meant to draw blood. Still, it was hard to be mad at my best friend. Especially when even my signature slap-cross-court-forehand was letting me down.

It may not be what most players did, but as close friends, we yelled a conversation across the net to each other, between points.

“I’ll go easier on you, this last set.”

“Don’t even think about it, old man.” He was nineteen days older.

He’s never won all three sets before—I wasn’t about to let him change that. We both played, and lettered, on the same high school team. I was number one, and he was number four. He flipped that around the summer after graduation. College tryouts were humbling. He played as number two; I was lucky to make the team as alternate. Once we had our degrees, we even toyed with going pro. That was two years ago. We still chatted about it, but less often. 

One thing never changed: we both loved to win. At any cost. So when he drilled his shots right at me, I wasn’t offended or surprised. I moved my feet fast and whipped them back for winners. It’s a funny thing about winning: it can change your perspective on what preceded it and, more important, what follows. You can get cocky, lose a few points, and before you know it, the momentum’s shifted in the opponent’s favor. Dear old Alex succumbed, and I broke his serve twice. I was up five games to three and serving at set-point. I rifled it out flat and wide to his backhand in the add-court and then hustled to the net for the simple volley. But Alex anticipated where I was going—he covered it easily and powered a blazing two-fisted backhand return. The ball pummeled me dead-smack in the forehead—my butt hit the court hard—my vision blurred for a moment. I climbed to my feet, retrieved my racket, and shook it off. “Nice return, Alex!”

“You okay?”

“Yeah. You’re not getting off that easy.” I served up a body-shot and caught him flatfooted. The set was mine. Two sets to one, we started the fourth.

“Guess there’s still a chance you can leave the court a winner. But don’t get your hopes up.” He laughed.

“You sound like my old man. That was the last thing he used to say to me before all of my junior tournaments. Before he died, that is.”

“Well, he just wanted to give you some confidence. Doesn’t look like it’s working anymore, though.”

That got me hitting harder. Which got Alex hitting harder.

“Don’t mind me, as I aim to maim.”

“Did my old man write a tennis book? That’s another line of his.”

“Oh. And I thought I was being original.”

I bulleted a ball into the corner for a winner.

“Not bad. You’ve been eating your Wheaties, huh?”

“Why don’t I just call you Dad from now on?”

“Why’s that?”

“Wheaties was his favorite cereal. He used to tell me they were going to put me on the front of the box one day. Like all the star athletes.”

“Hey. Breakfast of Champions. Right?”

“Yep.”

“So let’s see some championship shots, already!” He laughed again.

“Your laugh is very annoying. Almost as much as your game.”

“Funny. Try to return this.”

He coiled his body around and pulled the racket behind him for a backhand. But he only used one hand, so I knew this meant a slice. I charged the net, but he used a topspin and sent it cross-court. He never hit a backhand with only one hand. “What? That’s old-school! Where did you learn to hit with one hand?”

“What are you talking about? I’ve always done it.”

“You’re trying to get into my head. It’s not going to work.” I went on to win the fourth and fifth sets. He wasn’t happy.

“Alright. I’m done. You played like a younger man today, Max.”

“I am younger. Maybe your reign is over.”

“Not a chance. You just got lucky.”

“Hey. It’s not that you played bad, Alex, my boy. It’s just I played much better.” I did my best rendition of his laugh.

“Enjoying yourself?”

“Always. Come on. I'll buy you a smoothie. Flatten out that crinkle between your eyebrows.”

“Nah. Thanks. Not today. Gotta run some errands.”

“Okay. You do that. Rest up, old man. See you again, Thursday. For a repeat.”

That got him snickering all the way across the court and out the gate.

I dropped my butt onto the bench and took a few swigs of water. I was happy with how I played. At least the last three sets. I sat back, let my vision blur, and replayed a few of the better points in my head. 

“Excuse me. Sir?” A voice barged in on my post-game analysis. I swiveled my head toward it. A teenage girl and boy looked in from the court gate.

“Hmm? Oh, I’m all done.” I tossed my towel and wrist band into my bag.

“Great! Thank you, sir.”

“You don’t need to call me ‘sir.’ I’m not that much older than you.”

“Oh, okay.”

I grabbed my gear and walked past one of the teens as I left the court.

“Thanks again, sir.”

‘Sir.’ Right. “Have a good game.”

As I dragged the gate behind me, the kid across the net yelled out: “Sir!” He ran up to me and held out an old wooden tennis racket. “Is this yours?”

“Nope.”

“It’s old, huh?”

I took the racket from him. It was a Dunlop Maxply Fort. My father used to hit with the same one. I checked the frame at the bottom of the strings. There it was: my father’s name etched into it. In his handwriting.

I looked at the kid. “A relic.”