Mike

by Andrew Norriss

“You do?”

  “Yes,” said Floyd. “I want to make my parents’ dream come true.”

  When Floyd told his parents that he would not be returning for any further sessions with the psychologist, they were at first delighted. They were less sure after they had received calls from both Dr. Pinner and Dr. Willis at the Altringham clinic urging their belief in the importance of Floyd continuing his treatment.

  In the end, though, they went along with Floyd’s decision. As Mrs. Beresford said, they didn’t really have much choice. Floyd had clearly made up his mind, and short of physically dragging him to the clinic, there wasn’t a great deal they could do about it. But they could, she suggested, keep a careful eye out for any signs of anxiety and strain, and make sure he wasn’t overdoing it. As the days passed, they watched and were relieved to see no sign that this might be the case. If anything, their son seemed to be training with even more energy and determination than usual, and Mr. Beresford actually found himself urging his son to slow down.

  Floyd, however, was reluctant to slow down for any reason. Slowing down gave him time to think, and those were the times when unwelcome thoughts crept into his mind. Thoughts like what a relief it would be to do as Dr. Pinner had suggested and admit to his parents that playing tennis for up to six hours a day was not what he really wanted …

  Keeping busy was the best means of holding such thoughts at bay, though they still leaked into his life at unsuspecting moments. As he endlessly practiced hitting a ball to make it go where he wanted, a part of his mind would start wondering, What’s the point of it all? As his father called across to say that it was important to watch his position on the court, Floyd would find himself wondering, Why? Why would someone call that important? And in the matches his father arranged for him with opponents down at the Sandown club, Floyd could see in the faces of the people watching how much his winning seemed to matter to them, and he would wonder why winning no longer mattered to him.

  But then his mother would appear at the supper table excitedly clutching the details of their hotel booking for Roehampton, or his father would watch him catch a volley and send it, beautifully disguised, to the far corner of the court, and the delight on their faces would remind him why he was doing it all.

  Not that it was easy. Keeping the secret of how he really felt did seem to take a lot of energy. More, if he was honest, than he had expected. Though it was only when they got to Roehampton that things got really difficult.

  Because at Roehampton, Mike came back.

  The U.K. Under-18s National Championships are held each year at the Roehampton tennis club, a few miles north of Richmond in Surrey. In those days the tournament lasted a week, and there were thirty-two entrants, all of whom had earned their place in the competition either by appearing in heats held a few months earlier or by points they had earned in tournaments during the previous year. Then, as now, they are the top young players in British tennis, and the competition is closely watched by anyone who has an interest in the game and wants to see what talent is climbing the ladder.

  For Floyd, the trouble began in the first round. His opponent was someone he had beaten on at least a dozen previous occasions, and his parents were expecting an easy victory. He won the first set 6–1, but when Floyd was about to serve at the start of the second set, he looked up to see Mike striding onto the court.

  This time, instead of merely standing by the umpire’s chair, he began pacing restlessly up and down the sidelines with the same look of dissatisfaction on his face that he had had at Bournemouth.

  Floyd’s first emotion was of shock rather than annoyance. Hadn’t Dr. Pinner said that Mike was a projection of unconscious feelings Floyd had not been able to admit that he had? But he had admitted them now, so how could Mike be standing in front of him? It shouldn’t be possible.

  Possible or not, however, Mike was definitely there, and as the match progressed he did more than simply pace up and down the side of the court. On three occasions he actually walked across in front of the net during a rally. Floyd determinedly ignored him, but the effort took its toll. He won the match, but only after the second set had gone to a tiebreaker.

  In the next round, Floyd’s match went the full three sets. This time, Mike not only appeared on the court and walked across it while he was playing, but actually stopped in front of the net and stayed there for most of the match, never looking directly at Floyd, but still with that slight wrinkling of the nose at what he saw around him.

  It is not easy to serve a tennis ball through the body of someone standing directly in your line of sight, even if you know they’re not really there. For the first time in the competition, Floyd lost a set, and only won the third—and the match—with considerable difficulty. As he walked back to the locker room, his father asked if everything was all right.

  “You seemed to be having a bit of a problem concentrating out there,” he said. “Is everything OK?”

  Floyd assured him that it was, but the concentration required to deal with what felt like two opponents on the court instead of one was taking its toll. Floyd wasn’t sure how long he could continue doing it.

  In the quarterfinals he was due to play Paul Cutter, a seventeen-year-old who looked more like a weight lifter than a tennis player.

  “Don’t let his shape fool you,” his mother had warned. “He’s deceptively fast and volleys like a maniac. Try not to let him get close to the net, and play to his backhand—that’s his weakest stroke.”

  Only a part of Floyd’s mind was listening to this advice. A larger part was wondering what mayhem Mike might be planning, and he didn’t have to wait long to find out. Two games into the first set, Mike appeared on the court and, as Floyd prepared to serve, came and stood directly beside him, close enough for Floyd to hear his breathing and a quiet sigh.

  Floyd let the ball drop, bounced it a couple of times on the ground, and wondered what to do. Part of him yearned to shout at Mike to go away, but in front of several hundred spectators that didn’t feel like a real option. He decided the only thing to do was try to imagine Mike wasn’t there, and serve anyway …

  He tossed the ball in the air with his left hand and was in the process of lifting his right arm for the serve when … he found it wouldn’t move. Looking down, he saw that Mike was holding his right forearm in a grip that made any movement impossible. Floyd tried to pull himself free, but Mike was stronger than he was. Far stronger. The grip on his arm looked almost effortless, but Floyd’s attempts to pull himself away had no effect whatever. There was no way he could break free. No way at all.

  “Mr. Beresford?” called the umpire. “Is everything all right?”

  And the worst thing, as Floyd later told Dr. Pinner, the very worst thing about it was the look on Mike’s face as all this was happening. As they struggled, he could see there was nothing aggressive or malicious in Mike’s expression. Quite the reverse. Looking into his eyes, all Floyd could see was an immense kindness, as if Mike thought he was doing a favor for a friend. And as Floyd struggled vainly to get free, Mike actually leaned forward and said, “Don’t worry. I won’t let go!”

  “Mr. Beresford?” repeated the umpire.

  Floyd’s father appeared on the court, running over with the medical kit in a bag slung over his shoulder.

  “What is it?” he asked quietly. “What’s wrong?”

  “It’s my arm,” said Floyd. “I … I can’t move my arm.”

  “Let’s have a look …” Mr. Beresford put down his bag and ran his fingers gently down Floyd’s arm.

  Mike, for some reason, was no longer visible, but Floyd could still feel the grip above his wrist.

  “Well, you’ve certainly done something.” Mr. Beresford gently massaged the muscles beneath his fingers. “It feels like they’ve gone into spasm …”

  “I’m sorry … ,” said Floyd.

  “Not your fault!” His father smiled. “These things happen.”

  “I tried, I really tried …”

&nb
sp; “Of course you did.” Mr. Beresford patted his arm. “Don’t worry about it. But you won’t be playing anymore today, I’m afraid. Come on!” He bent down to pick up the racket that had fallen to the ground. “We’d better tell the umpire.”

  If his father was disappointed at how the tournament had ended—and Floyd knew how desperately disappointed he must be—he did not show it.

  When the umpire announced that Mr. Beresford would be retiring from the competition because of an injury to his arm, a murmur of sympathy ran around the spectators, and there was a generous round of applause as both players left the court.

  “What happened?” asked Paul as they made their way back to the clubhouse.

  “It’s my arm. Seized up. Cramp, I think.”

  “Well, I hope you sort it out.” Paul spoke gruffly, but with sympathy. “I doubt I’ll get off so easy next time we meet.”

  Down in the locker room, Floyd sat on a bench and felt the iron grip on his arm slowly fade. Cautiously, he flexed his fingers and hand.

  “Better now?” asked his father, who had appeared with some hot towels and Floyd’s kit bag.

  “I think so.”

  “Keep it relaxed and don’t move it too much,” said Mr. Beresford. “We’ll put these on to keep it warm. I’m going to have a word with the officials in case there’s a chance of rescheduling, and your mother’s organizing a physical therapy appointment for tonight.”

  Floyd hesitated. “I’m not sure it’s a massage I need,” he said slowly. “I think I might have to go back to Dr. Pinner.”

  “Ah.” Mr. Beresford sat down on the bench beside him. “I did wonder.”

  “It was Mike,” said Floyd. “He was holding my arm. That’s why I couldn’t move.”

  “OK …” Mr. Beresford patted his shoulder. “Don’t worry. We’ll sort this out, I promise you. I don’t care what it takes. This time, we’ll sort it out.”

  Floyd wasn’t sure what it took to persuade a psychologist to drive down to London from the north of England at the end of a day’s work to talk to a fifteen-year-old with an imaginary friend, but by eight o’clock that evening the burly figure of Dr. Pinner was standing in the hotel foyer, in his slightly crumpled suit with patches of cat hair on his trousers.

  He said he wanted to speak to Floyd first on his own, and in a private room provided by the hotel manager, he listened carefully as Floyd explained what had happened over the last few days.

  “I don’t understand why he’s back,” said Floyd, when he had finished. “I mean, you said he was a projection of ideas I was too frightened to let into my own mind. But I have let them in now, so why is he still here?”

  “I would very much like to know the answer to that myself,” said Dr. Pinner, “but the first thing we have to deal with is that he seems determined that you shouldn’t play any more tennis.”

  Floyd’s shoulders sagged. “I know. What am I going to do?”

  “I think you have to tell your parents the truth,” said Dr. Pinner. “I don’t see that you have any choice now. Keeping it a secret is no longer an option, is it?”

  Reluctantly, Floyd agreed.

  “As I said before, I’m very happy to do the talking if you think that would help. Explain to them what’s happened and why.”

  “Will that stop them from getting upset?”

  “No,” said Dr. Pinner. “I’m afraid nothing’s going to stop them from being extremely upset. At first, they probably won’t even believe it. Then they’ll get angry with me, and then angry with you …” He gave Floyd an encouraging smile. “But eventually they’ll get past that. They’re good people. They’ll just need time to get used to it all.”

  When Dr. Pinner invited Floyd’s parents to join them, Floyd sat in silence as the psychologist explained about projection, about how they had discovered in the sessions at the clinic that Floyd didn’t really want to play tennis, how Floyd’s reluctance to accept this truth had made that part of him come out as a figure that only he could see, and how it was now necessary that they all accept the truth of his real feelings.

  The psychologist described how parents, with the best of intentions, could sometimes project their own desires onto their offspring. He said that while wanting success for your child was obviously not in itself a bad thing, if the time came that the child in question wanted something different, it was important not to force them onto a path they had not chosen for themselves.

  Floyd’s parents listened with increasingly baffled and bemused expressions on their faces, and he could see that his father, particularly, found the whole story difficult, if not impossible, to believe.

  “You’re trying to tell us Floyd doesn’t want to play tennis?” he demanded when the psychologist had finished.

  “Yes,” said Dr. Pinner. “It’s been extremely difficult for him to accept that, but … yes.”

  “No!” Mr. Beresford banged the table with the palm of his hand. “That is ridiculous! Have you ever seen him play? Have you ever watched him out on court? He … he was born to play tennis!”

  “I don’t think he was,” said Dr. Pinner. “I think he was taught to play tennis. And taught, if I may say so, extremely well.”

  Mr. Beresford gave a derisive laugh. “You think someone gets to be that good just because he’s been well taught? Never! Floyd plays like that because he loves the game! He always has. He couldn’t play that well if he didn’t!”

  “I don’t think Floyd plays tennis that well because he loves the game,” said Dr. Pinner. “I think he plays tennis that well because he loves you. Both of you.”

  “So it’s our fault now, is it?” Mr. Beresford’s voice was rising with his frustration and his anger. “You think we made him play tennis every day? And go to training and coaching and fly to tournaments instead of being out with friends?” He leaned across the table. “Let me tell you, I have never forced Floyd to do anything! Never. And you sit there and tell me he doesn’t want to play anymore? I don’t believe you! And I’m certainly not going to let you talk him out of a career that could make him one of the biggest names in the sport.” He turned to Floyd. “You don’t think any of this is true, do you? You don’t believe him! Surely, you can’t!”

  It wasn’t easy to answer, but Floyd managed one short sentence.

  “Yes,” he said, “I do.”

  His father blinked. “Well, I don’t! Maybe you’re a bit run-down. Maybe we’ve pushed you too hard and you need a proper rest, but …”

  “No.” Floyd wasn’t sure where the voice came from, but he found himself speaking with a decisiveness that surprised him as well as his parents. “I’m not run-down, Dad. I just don’t want to spend my life on a tennis court. I wish I did—you can’t imagine how much I wish I did—but I don’t.”

  “How … how can you say that?” His father was staring at him, openmouthed. “You love tennis! Why would you want to give it up?”

  Floyd did not know how to answer that until, from nowhere, the picture came into his mind of the two of them walking across the parking lot of an Italian restaurant when he was six years old.

  “Because … because it’s not fun anymore,” he said.

  Mr. Beresford stared at him. The blood had drained from his face and he said nothing for several long seconds as he looked across at his son. Then he suddenly stood up and, still without saying a word, abruptly turned and left the room.

  “How could you?” It was Floyd’s mother who broke the silence, and Floyd saw there were tears in her eyes. “After all he’s done for you, how could you turn around and say that to him? All your life, he’s tried to make sure you had all the chances he never had himself … and now, just when all the years of effort might actually be paying off, you tell him you don’t want it anymore?”

  Floyd mumbled something about being sorry, but his mother was not listening. With the tears streaming down her face, she stood up and left the room to find her husband.

  Dr. Pinner took a deep breath.

  “Like I
told you,” he said, “it’s going to take them a while to get used to this one.”

  Later, up in his room, Floyd sat on his bed and decided that it had been, without question, the worst day of his life. If he could have gone to his parents’ room and told them it was all a mistake, and that he had changed his mind, and that he was going to continue playing tennis, he would have done it in an instant.

  But he couldn’t do that. Because, as Dr. Pinner had pointed out, whatever Floyd said, Mike was not going to let him play tennis. If he tried, Mike would be there to make sure it was impossible. Dr. Pinner had suggested that this might even be the reason Mike was still around. To guarantee that any such attempt would fail.

  He and Floyd had spent an hour in the private room downstairs discussing all the possible options, while Floyd wondered desperately if there was an answer that would not cause his parents so much pain. But there wasn’t. Sometimes, the psychologist had told him, the only way forward was through the pain, not around it.

  For Floyd, it did not feel as if he was on the way forward to anywhere. It felt, instead, as if everything he had ever known and trusted and believed in and loved had been taken away from him, and he had been dropped in a large black hole. Every part of him hurt and that night, before the sleeping pill that Dr. Pinner had provided finally took effect, his mind continued to search for some way out, for anything that would make the situation even slightly better. But there wasn’t anything.

  There was only the pain.

  When Floyd came down to the dining room for breakfast the next morning, he was surprised to find Dr. Pinner sitting at the same table as his parents, and the three of them deep in conversation.

  The psychologist was the first to see him and beckoned him over.

  “Your parents and I have been talking,” he said, “and your father has come up with an interesting suggestion.”

  “Has he?” Floyd pulled out a chair and sat down.

  “Your mother and I have agreed,” said his father, “that if you don’t want to play tennis anymore, then … then that’s your choice, and we’ll have to live with it. But we want to be quite sure that this really is what you want and you’re not throwing away an opportunity because you’re tired or frightened.”