by Terry Davis
After his shower Bert drove to a strip of motels. He was going to stay the night even if he didn’t play in the morning. They all looked clean from the outside, so he stopped at the Blue Mountain Inn because he liked the name.
The girl at the desk saw Bert’s bag and asked if he was a racquetball player. He felt like saying only time would tell, but this girl was cute and he didn’t want to be a dink. The tag on her blouse said her name was Markie, but Bert figured he would be an even bigger dink if he called her by name. “Yes” was all he said.
He wrote a check for thirty-six dollars, the tournament players’ rate, and grabbed his key. As he walked across the lobby he wondered if Markie worked late tonight. He saw himself returning still a little flushed from a tough win. Markie would be walking out. Their eyes would meet and she’d touch his arm. Nine1/2 Weeks is playing on cable tonight, she’d say. Can we watch it together in your room? Naked?
“Good luck, Albert!” Markie called.
“Thank you!” Bert called back. Why didn’t I get “Bert” printed on my checks? he asked himself.
Bert wondered if he would ever have the guts to make a move on a girl. He wondered further if fantasies as pathetic as his grew only in the semen-drenched loam of male adolescence, or if grown-up men also suffered this sexual yearning.
* * *
Sam Stone was a wrestler at Columbia Basin College, and everything about him was tough. Bert was even intimidated by his name. The timbre of his voice alone caused Bert to give thanks that racquetball wasn’t a combat sport.
But Bert was tough too—at least his drive serve was. And Stone’s backhand was wimpy. Bert took the first game 15–4.
Bert was ahead 11–6 in the second game when he began thinking how neat it was to be winning a tournament match. Stone, who was steaming like a rock in a sauna, tied it up. Each broke the other’s serve at 14–14 until Bert choked and skipped a backhand.
Bert served first in the tie breaker because he had the most points in the two games. Tie breakers went to eleven. Bert was nervous. He tried to let the feeling go as Scotty had told him. He took a couple of deep breaths at the service line and thought of the nervousness floating away with his exhalations.
It worked. Or something did. And it wasn’t just his drive serve again. Bert was all over Stone’s returns. He pinched backhands into the corners, he rolled out a couple of forehands, he caught Stone cheating up and went to the ceiling with shots Stone wasn’t able to peel off the wall with his backhand.
Bert was stunned when it was over. “That was luck,” he said as they shook hands. “I can’t play that well.”
“You play real tough, kid,” Stone said.
* * *
Bert would never have said it to anyone, but by that evening he felt like a tournament vet. He’d lost a match, won a match, and reffed a match. In an hour or so he would be finished for the evening, and he would eat as much pizza as he could choke down. He might even draw a short beer from the keg if nobody looked weird at him.
It didn’t take nearly an hour. Bert won his evening match 15–2 and 15–10. When he checked the chart he discovered that tomorrow at ten he’d play in the consolation finals. The winner got a trophy. He’d seen it on display.
He listened to Thompson win its regional championship game through his headphones as he watched an open-division match after his shower. They’d beaten Sunnyside in a squeaker the night before. According to the radio announcer, Camille Shepard took a rebound with a few seconds left and flung it over his head into open court. Jackson caught up with it and laid it in. Bert had turned off his radio after the announcer began talking about Camille’s triple-double. He had twelve rebounds and ten assists. Bert hadn’t wanted to know the point total. Tonight they were blowing out Columbia.
Games were going on in all the courts, but most people sat near the glass walls of court six watching the open match. Workout bags with rows of gloves fastened to their carrying straps and racquet handles protruding from inside were strewn thick as luggage in a snowbound airport. One of the tiny kids toddling around fell into a big open bag and began to howl. The bag’s owner grabbed the kid and passed it through the crowd toward a set of outstretched arms.
Plastic cups of beer and pop were also passed, as well as pizza slices. Thin filaments of cheese hung from clothing, hair, and racquet handles like edible gossamer. All this needed to qualify as a picnic would be dogs jumping after Frisbees, Bert thought. Or one of these little kids getting stung by a wasp.
Bert’s high spirits had sunk. His stomach was in a nervous froth about tomorrow’s match, and he was ashamed of being jealous of Camille Shepard. He wondered if you could grow to become generous in your heart or if you had to be born that way.
Bert drank a lot of pop, but he didn’t put away as much pizza as he’d envisioned. It was fun being with all the players and their families, but it would have been more fun if he’d known someone.
* * *
Markie was still at the motel desk, looking as unsullied as a new ball right out of the can. “How’d you do, Albert?” she asked.
“I did okay, Markie,” Bert replied. “I get to go back and play again tomorrow.”
“All right!” Markie said.
Bert knew it wasn’t personal, but still he felt like thanking her for her interest. “Good night” was his response.
* * *
On the way to the club Bert began to wish Scotty would show up, but by the time he arrived he was glad no one who knew him would be there. It was the same feeling he’d had when he was little. He wanted his dad to come to his games, but he didn’t want his dad to see him screw up. Bert’s dad was always traveling, though, or too tired from having traveled, so he never saw Bert play.
The only person watching as Bert got set to receive the serve was the ref, a woman who had won a consolation final earlier. Bert’s opponent was a slight man in his fifties named Angie Priano. He looked particularly distinguished in his tennis whites. Bert was moved to call him sir, but he didn’t.
Angie had a good lob serve, but Bert was patient with it and his backhand was on. His drive serve was on too. Everything was on. Bert won the first game 15–9.
Bert served first in game two. He looked back to see if Angie was ready, then he looked up. The entire wall was filled with Thompson people. Camille was there, and Mike, Krista, Darby, and Sean. Bert saw a 35mm camera resting on the wall edge with Mark Schwartz’s frizzy red hair like an explosion behind it. The Hmongster was mounting a video camera on a tripod. Steve was there, and Zimster beside him, just high enough in his chair to see over the wall. Scotty stood on one side of the ref, and Rita on the other. “Zero serves zero,” the ref said.
Bert was a different player in game two. He played with desperation, rather than exuberance. Despair and joy are opposite emotions, but some of the behaviors they produce look almost the same. It’s a subtle difference, and maybe only Scotty and Steve recognized it. Bert knew it too. He knew exactly what was happening to him, but he couldn’t stop it. He hustled, he kept the rallies going. But Angie was the one with the touch this game, and he ended the majority of them. Angie was also the one with fifteen points. Bert had ten.
Ten points is a respectable score, but to Bert it had been a disgraceful performance. He walked out of the court and wanted to keep going. But there was nowhere to go. He had to be back in two minutes to humiliate himself again in the tie breaker.
Bert had only taken a couple of steps when Scotty wrapped an arm around his shoulder. Angie walked by breathing hard. “No coaching,” he said. He was smiling. “The kid’s doing just fine.”
“My boy’s unraveling out there,” Scotty said. “Time to take him in hand.”
Scotty told Bert to grab his towel and gave him a little push in the direction of his bag. They wove their way through the people sitting and lying on the floor to the quietest corner. Scotty leaned against the wall. He put his hand on Bert’s head and tapped him just lightly with his index finger. “Whatever
’s in there that does this to you, Bert,” he said, “it’s time to let it go.” He withdrew his hand.
Bert was still sweating. He wiped his face again and looked up at Scotty.
“When you walk through that door this time,” Scotty said, “I want you to forget everything in your life but the racquetball you’ve learned. Give yourself to the game. Don’t think about us watching, and don’t think about your opponent. The competition ain’t between you and him. It’s between you and the game. You guys are in there to make the game more fun for each other.”
Scotty held Bert’s head again and shook him just lightly. “Your opponent is that shit in your head,” he said. “Let it go, son.”
“I’ll try,” Bert said.
Bert was up on total points so he had the serve in the tie breaker. He looked back to see if Angie was ready. He looked up at the ref. He looked at the people who’d come to watch him play. He turned back and looked at the blue ball. What he saw was himself as a little kid in his pre-Lawler days. A little kid playing sports and having fun. And doing both things well.
It took a few exchanges of serve for Bert to loosen up. He heard voices from above, he heard his own voice in his head. But the more he followed that blue ball with his eyes and his body and his will, the more everything but the ball went away. And after a while the blue ball was everything.
He listened for the score, but he didn’t hear it as a comment on his character. It was a comment on the game.
At 3–3 Bert felt loose and strong. He fired up his drive serve. He dropped the ball as he strode forward, his head low and his eyes locked, his arm rising with the stride, then coming down to meet the ball as his front foot planted. When he saw the ball pass the receiving line, he relocated and watched. Just like in practice.
But this was more fun than practice because somebody was there to hit it back. Sometimes. The ball was coming pretty hard, and Angie didn’t return them all. When he did, Bert was there. He drilled a couple backhands cross-court that Angie didn’t get near. The smoothness of the motion was like a dream. Or like something remembered.
At 9–3 Bert served to Angie’s forehand. The ball caught the crack for an ace. “Lucky shot,” Bert said.
Angie smiled. The kid was hitting a lot of lucky shots.
“Match point serving three,” the ref announced.
Bert thought he might sneak another one by up the right side. But this was what Angie was expecting. He was set up, and he hit it cross-court. Hard.
Bert was after it, raising his racquet as he moved so he’d be ready to swing if he got the shot. He saw that the ball was going to hit the side wall. And it was going to hit real low. He planted his front foot as he watched it hit, and he swung at the spot where he thought it would come off.
And he connected. The ball hit the front wall a few inches from the floor, and that was the match. It was a sweet shot. It had been as good a shot as Bert was capable of hitting. It was also lucky, but that didn’t make it any less sweet.
Angie held out his hand and they shook. Bert heard the cheers. He didn’t want to look up, but he couldn’t help himself. He looked down again right away.
The sound rang in his ears all the way home.
Chapter 27
Phantom Pleasure, Phantom Pain
Lawler won the B league and moved up to A. He was out of range for now, but Bert kept him in his sights. Lawler was good; Bert wasn’t kidding himself about that. He had a couple of excellent lob serves and a pinch shot he hit from all over with his forehand or backhand. No, he didn’t hit it from all over—that was the point. He only hit it from the receiving line or closer. Lawler’s game was narrow. Bert believed that a player with a wider range of skills who could play the whole court—maybe even an inferior player, such as Bert himself—could get Lawler out of his game and beat him.
So Bert kept watch on Lawler. He continued to watch the best players in the club, too, but a lot of these guys didn’t come around after the weather warmed up. They golfed, Scotty said, or fished or played softball or worked around the house.
The player Bert watched most often now was himself—thanks to Cheng Moua. It took the Hmongster three weeks to edit the video he shot at the Richland tournament. He walked into the journalism room on a Monday noon rolling a cart with a VCR and a monitor and wearing a confident smile. “Showtime!” he announced. “Championship racquetball. Bert Bowden versus some old Italian guy. Admission is free.”
It was like a how-to film, and a how-not-to film as well. The Hmongster had split the screen and shown Bert hitting backhands on the left side and forehands on the right. This was intercut with the progress of the match and comments from the people watching. The concluding sequence was Bert’s backhand kill, Camille Shepard yelling “Smokin’ backhand!,” Bert and Angie shaking hands, and then Bert looking up for half a beat before he looked back down again. The final frame was Bert’s lowered head with Zimster’s voice-over. “He used to be a really good athlete when we were kids. I guess he’s found his sport.”
It was a lot more than a racquetball lesson, really: It was a story about Bert.
Cheng gave Bert a copy, and Bert bought him a three-pack of tapes in return. Now Bert could watch himself play racquetball, and he did this often.
* * *
The focus of attention around Thompson High in the spring—and the reason Bert had the journalism room all to himself at lunch now—was Camille Shepard’s band. This was also the subject of The Explorer’s biggest story since the basketball team took second place in state. It was so big that Darby covered it herself. Every noon she was down in the band room watching rehearsals and auditions for the “show” part of the “dance and show” that Shepard had given his word would revolutionize the concept of senior proms.
When Darby had first mentioned the story at a staff meeting, Schwartz instantly piped up. “Wait a minute. Shepard is going to learn to play an instrument and put together a band for a ‘dance and show’ by May twenty-sixth? He’s going to sandwich this in between genetic research and mediating ethnic disputes in the Balkans, I guess.”
Bert wanted to laugh. He was glad Schwartz had been the one to make the crack.
“He’s been playing the piano since he was a little kid,” Darby replied. “He started guitar when he was twelve.” She turned to Bert. “How come you didn’t get any music stuff in your story on him, Egg?”
“He didn’t say a word about music.”
“The Shepster is a modest fellow,” Schwartz said.
Schwartz was being sarcastic, but Bert had to concede that Camille really was modest.
“You guys have to see him,” Darby said. “You won’t believe it.”
“The boy can play, all right,” Cheng said.
This news sent Bert’s envy meter to the red line, but it also intrigued him. How could a guy be a kick-ass guitar player and go for almost an entire school year without letting anybody know he played?
Bert knew that Scotty played in a band on Saturday nights, but Scotty had never said anything about Camille playing. Bert preferred not to think about Camille Shepard. He didn’t like facing Shepard’s illustration that so much was possible in one life. It made him feel ashamed of how little he himself had accomplished and was accomplishing, and it made him envious of Shepard’s gifts. Bert wanted to concentrate on using his own modest gifts to pursue his own modest goals, so this is where he focused his mental and physical energy.
And Bert’s body responded. It had been responding all along at its own pace, in the way healthy bodies work when we set a task for them.
But Bert’s body began doing weird things as well. It made him think of the phantom pains people suffer when they lose a limb. Except that this wasn’t painful. It felt good.
Bert would be sitting in class reading, his hands holding the book, his shoulders square. And then he would feel himself turn sideways, his leading shoulder dip, his arm pull the racquet back high, his front foot stride into the ball. He would even feel the
contact. The vibrations would run up his arm.
Bert sat still as a stone while some dimension of him played racquetball. His shoulders dipped into forehands and backhands, his wrist snapped at contact, his legs took that one long cross-step to get him to the ball. It was weird, but it was neat, too.
The pain began when Bert felt his arms reach wide for the handlebars of a motorcycle. When he felt the vibration of the engine go up his thighs and into his throttle hand. When he felt the wind in his face. This wasn’t a physical pain; but it was a pain of loss. He wasn’t a Harley guy, but he must be a motorcycle guy of some kind. His body wanted to ride.
Not long after these feelings began, Bert’s body actually started moving with them. As he slept his hips would rotate, his shoulders roll, his feet move to setup, his hand close around a racquet handle, around the throttle of a motorcycle.
Chapter 28
A Norton Guy
Daylight saving time had kicked in and Bert was still without a motorcycle to save daylight for. He began suffering serious withdrawal by the end of April. Bikes were everywhere. The Japanese crotchrockets zipped by like angry bees, and the Harleys roared like artillery shells. Bert spread his hands wide on the steering wheel, twisting his right hand as though he held a throttle. He made motor sounds with his lips. He leaned his head out the window to feel the rushing air and the sharp kiss of winged insects.
Bert didn’t care if motorcycles weren’t on the official list of human needs. He needed a bike, and he was going to buy one. He had twelve hundred bucks left from the sale of the Sportster. If Scotty couldn’t find a cheap classic bike soon, he’d buy a restored one. If he couldn’t afford something that nice, he’d go Japanese. This was Bert’s emotional state as he walked across Highway 2 from the parking lot of Rosauers Foods on the morning of the first Saturday in May.
The first thing Scotty said was “Got something to show ya.”
