“Oh yes, Thomas is a friend of ours from way back. He scouts recruits for us now and then. Hall impressed him a great deal. But we'll talk tennis later. There's a good place to eat not far. How does ravioli sound?”
The veal-stuffed ravioli swam in a pool of red sauce. I chewed the rubbery pasta while I halfheartedly listened to my mom grill Phil and his big chin.
“What about the dorms? How are they set up?”
“There are three separate buildings for girls and three for boys. We call them villas. Each villa holds a different age group.”
“The place seems cozy. Unusual for the size,” my mom said, putty in the guy's hands.
“Glad you noticed. We're proud of that. Anyway, there are four girls to a room. Each villa also has four single rooms. The better girls in each age group get the singles.”
I knew it—the better girls from each age group got the singles. It was unspoken although constant competition, even for a bedroom. My mom hated unnecessary competitiveness.
“I see,” she said, her words breaking off in chunks.
Phil shoved garlic bread into his big dimpled cheeks, making him look like a chipmunk. Sensing my mother's disapproval, he tried calming it.
“We focus mainly on skills, coping under pressure, mental strategies. We don't turn out faceless robots. We stress individual style. No competing in every tournament that comes around, no need.”
My mom exhaled and relaxed, significantly soothed. “Oh, that's nice.”
“Yes, it's very nice,” I said.
“It was a long flight,” my mom said, as if I needed explaining. “It's a lot to grasp. Butterflies getting the best of her.”
Butterflies, ha!
“Nah,” Phil said. “She's a tough cookie. That delicate face doesn't fool me. We'll get you on a court tomorrow, get a stick in your hand, be good as new.”
“Just butterflies,” my mom said again.
“Your coach said you won the Junior Orange Bowl two years in a row?”
“Yes. I had easy draws.”
“No such thing as an easy draw at the Junior Orange Bowl,” Phil the Chin said. “That's a huge accomplishment.”
“It is,” my mom agreed.
“It was an easy draw,” I protested. “Two players in my half defaulted.”
“She got to the finals of the Copper Bowl and did well at the Columbus Indoors in Ohio as well. Won the Great Pumpkin Sectionals.”
Stunned, I looked at my mom. The woman had barely uttered a tennis term in her entire life, and she was choosing to become an expert now?
“Haven't played many tournaments this summer. Why?”
The only tournament I'd played was the Cherry Creek Invitational, thank God. I'd made such a mess of it, I felt sick just thinking about it. If I didn't start playing some tournaments, my ranking was going to plummet. In fact it probably already had. “Coach says the competition isn't hard enough. Wants me to concentrate on drills instead,” I said.
“Is that why you didn't play in the USTA Girls 14's National Clay Court Championship in July?”
I shrugged. It fit that he kept mentioning the Junior Orange Bowl and the National Clay Courts; they were Florida events.
“But you won the Clay Courts last year; you didn't want to defend your title?” he asked, prodding further.
Trent withdrew me from the Clay Courts after Janie had her breakdown. He didn't want to push me, I think. But I didn't want to explain that to The Chin. My mom recognized me floundering and piped up.
“Money is a factor,” she said, rescuing me. “All the traveling gets to be quite a financial burden.”
Phil nodded. “If you stay visible, stay winning, you can get some sponsorship deals going. Nike, Reebok, Fila … get free equipment at the very least.”
“Representatives from those companies have already contacted her. Her coach doesn't like the idea.”
“Why?” The Chin asked me.
“Because I'm not for sale.”
“Oh,” he said.
“Her coach feels it's important to change her equipment as her game grows. He doesn't want her feeling forced to use specific brands. Prince ships her free racquets every so often. Right now we're more concerned with the cost of coaching, not equipment.”
“I see,” The Chin said. That shut him up for a while. But not nearly long enough. “Have you played any international tournaments yet?”
“Only one in Mexico, in February, a lowly level 5 tournament. I lost in the first round to a girl from Argentina,” I said.
“That girl was eighteen, “my mom added.
I gulped down my Diet Coke until only ice remained and looked around, hoping to spot our absent waiter.
“Thomas Fountain was impressed with your serve-and-volley game. What's your best shot otherwise?”
I couldn't bring myself to answer. The level of his coaching prowess was questionable. A good coach is supposed to see a player's game, not ask.
“Just butterflies,” my mom assured The Chin.
I opted for the indoor hard courts at noon on Sunday. I hadn't had a racquet in my palm in a day and a half. My hand actually itched for it—felt complete again. The Weak Link sat to the side and watched me hit ground strokes against the backboard. Her face was fresh, spry, and curious. I ignored her. Phil joined her with cups of hot coffee.
A group of girls goofed off, waiting to watch.
“Katie!” The Chin called. “Rally with Hall?”
“Sure,” she hollered, stepping on court. I'm pretty tall, but Katie towered over me by four inches. We hit easy shots so she could warm up. “I'm Katie.”
She didn't look quite as depraved as I'd expected.
“I'm Hall. You thirteen?”
“Fourteen. Been here two years. Did I see you at early admission?”
“No. I'm just here for the weekend. I won't be back.”
“Too bad.” She caught the ball. “Ready?”
“Let's do it.”
She let me serve first. The ball echoed slightly in the building's steely acoustics. The twang made my heart skip.
Thump… thump …
… thump… thump…
Katie was a baseliner. Although she was a year older, her skills were years behind mine. Her strokes were haphazard and soft. If Trent were here, he'd holler at her lack of effort.
Thump… thump…
… thump… thump…
I charged the net like a warrior, suffocating her intentions.
… thump… Out!
Katie's next shot barreled down the court. I met it before it hit the ground, tenderly lifting my racquet. Hit gently, easy like an egg. Barely clearing the net, it rolled as it landed on her side of the court. A flawless drop shot.
I felt like kissing that ball.
“Vicious drop shot, Hall! Looking good! Exact amount of ease,” Phil said, confirming.
I won the next three games. Katie made a good-natured grimace. The girl wasn't the least bit depraved for someone who'd done two years at Bickford.
“I shoulda known you were a serve-and-volley girl,” she said. “Most of us are baseliners.”
“That's good for now, Katie,” Phil called. “Send Millicent over.”
Katie walked to the net, waiting to shake my hand. It seemed silly since we hadn't played a whole set, but I obliged. I thought briefly of Trent and sportsmanship.
I was relaxed, my head clear. I was playing like my old self again. Power and finesse dominated my strokes. Maybe the whole fiasco at the Cherry Creek Invitational was just an off week. I'd been worried about nothing. Trent's voice was gone, but apparently I didn't need it here. I was a fine player without his voice. A warrior after all.
Katie lowered her voice. “Millicent Mumfred is sixteen—turning pro this year, in time for the Aussie Open. She's good—high-world-ranking good. Good enough to have a single room. They tell you about the single rooms?”
“Yes.”
Katie looked around. “Millicent hates sprinting to th
e net. If I were you, I'd hit a few more drop shots,” she said.
“Really? Shame on you, giving me pointers.”
She shrugged. “It's only fair. Millicent's been sizing you up since you stepped on court.”
The Chin hollered, “Any day now, Katie!”
“See you,” she said, and then called, “Millicent, you're up!”
“Hall, need a drink?” my mom called nervously.
“No.”
Millicent Mumfred, a big healthy girl, walked to the net. We shook hands. Bickford Tennis Academy was high on manners, of that I was certain. The complete absence of grim, pale-faced girls concerned me.
“Hello, Hall,” she mumbled, indifferent to me, my game, and the fact that I existed. “I hope you're ready to lose.”
I ignored her silly head games. “Need to warm up?”
“Not for a scrawny thirteen-year-old.” Tossing her hair, she waddled like a duck to the baseline. No wonder she didn't like drop shots—her butt was obviously too big to get to them.
The group of kids watching respectfully off court had increased by ten, including Katie. Reverence so dominated the air I felt like I was in church.
Thump… thump… thump…
… thump… thump… thump…
Millicent was better than she looked, even with the big butt. She tried rushing me: she bounced the ball exactly once before she tossed it, hurtling it at me. I'd barely look up from the end of one point to find her in mid-toss again, serving as fast as she could to throw off my rhythm. She wasn't so much a great strategist as she was a Sherman tank.
… thump… thump… thump…
She hit a passing shot wide. “Out,” I called.
“That was in,” she said. “I could see it from here.”
“Wasn't. Out.”
“It was in,” The Chin called from the bleachers, taking her side. No way did he see that point. He kept his eyes on me to see what I'd do. What an amateur. Takes more than a bad call to shake me, stupid man.
“Fine, in. Your game. My serve.”
Thump … thump… thump … Her point.
Thump… thump… thump… Her point.
Thump… thump… thump… My point.
Her point, her point. Her game.
“Shit,” I said under my breath. Get it together. Win!
Millicent Mumfred twirled her racquet as though it was a baton and she was in a Main Street parade.
Thump… thump…
… thump… thump…
What to do? What to do? My brain was mush. In my junior career I'd learned a catalog of ways to win points, games, matches. Though I'd recited them aloud this morning, I couldn't conjure up one successful shot. The flogging I'd experienced at Cherry Creek was happening again. What type of player was I without Trent's advice? Should I …
Stay at the baseline?
Hit a passing shot?
Try a lob? Nothing. I was helpless.
Win, dammit, I told myself. Win!
“Pick up the pace, Hall, or she'll have you running all over the court. Stop play,” The Chin said as the ball went wide. “Hall?”
“Yes?”
“Don't let her control the point. You're rushing the stroke. Run around the ball until you get the racquet in a decent hitting position. Pick up some speed.”
“OK.”
My mom, an encouraging but semi-removed (until lately, that is) tennis parent, looked as though she would throw up, this man telling me what to do and all. She'd never heard Trent threaten to make me run sprints before, obviously. She nodded wildly at me from the bleachers, the hope on her face making me ill.
“Patience,” The Chin repeated. “Rush your foot speed, not the stroke.”
“I understand.”
On the next four points I let the balls pass me, ran them down, and slammed them in one fluid motion at her forehand. “Agg!”
… thump…
“Crap.”
I got one of the four.
“Great!” The Chin said, voice energetic. “That's it! You've almost got it!”
Almost got it? Was the man insane? I only got one! I was nearly crying.
Thump… thump… thump…
“OK, ladies, that's good for now.”
Taking his cue, Millicent let my return fly by as she walked to the net, waiting for me. “You suck,” she said, without eye contact, as I approached.
I couldn't think of a thing to say.
I traipsed over to my spectators. I swallowed to keep myself from crying. “Did you see that? Holy hell, did you see that? She clobbered me!” I screamed The Chin. “I wanted to win. Shit!”
“Hall!” my mom said, turning pink. The use of bad language could send my mother. I didn't care. Not only had I lost, but now I was throwing a tantrum. Nothing made sense. Why, why, why couldn't I hit that damn ball? The Weak Link and The Chin stared at me, dumbfounded.
“Did you see that?” I repeated. “She clobbered me.”
Phil held his big chin in his hand, covering the dimples. “I didn't expect you to give Millicent much trouble. She's three years older. Been at the academy three years.”
“How did she do that?” I demanded.
Phil looked like he was in deep thought, chin still cupped in his hand. “You've had some substantial coaching, Hall,” he said finally. “Bickford can do better. Too bad I didn't have the radar out, but some of those serves were … The net coverage you've got, that's some awesome net coverage at thirteen.”
The man was obviously a fool. “What game were you watching?” I said sarcastically.
“Hall!” my mom said.
“Didn't you see all my errors?”
“Hall!” Again, my mom.
“If you thought that was good, you must be blind.”
“But the pace you're able to generate is awesome—”
“I played like shit! I hate this game!”
“Holloway Louise Braxton!”
Abrupt silence covered the court.
I gulped water. I couldn't've cared less. People were worried about politeness, not realizing I was losing my mind right along with my tennis skills.
Strangely, the corners of The Chin's mouth turned upward ever so slightly. He seemed pleased—at what, I'd no idea. Like I said, he was a fool.
It was a farce. Who was I kidding? Tennis didn't love me anymore. Dead Grandpa Bonus Fund or not, regal surroundings like Bickford belonged to girls who possessed voices of tennis wisdom in their heads, instead of the rocks I had in mine.
My mom went with The Chin to look at the nearby private school the academy kids attended. I skipped out on the festivities under the pretense of touring the dorm rooms, like I cared. Katie and I sat in her room sharing a bag of potato chips.
She flung an official academy T-shirt toward me. “You can have it—I've got a million. It's a little faded, but the new ones have that funky smell from the screen printing—takes, like, a year before that smell leaves.”
“A souvenir. Thanks.” I didn't want it but decided to be low-key. I wasn't here to pick a fight or anything. She was right about the funky smell from the logo ink. The Chin had lent my mom a Bickford sweatshirt that smelled like Pepto-Bismol. “The other day I saw two huge groups of kids running. D'you run every day?”
Katie looked at me like I was stupid. “Well, yeah. Twice a day. In the morning before breakfast—that's the worst—and later, after matches and drills.”
“I hate running.”
“Who doesn't? It's pointless. Easier in a group, though. Better than doing it alone.”
“How long have you been here again?” I asked.
“Two years. I'm from Vermont, which has, you know, zero tennis opportunities. So I got shipped here.”
“You like it, though? You wanted to come?”
“No. I cried every day for three months. I don't know that I like it, but I've accepted it. You know how before you play a match you have to give yourself to the match—to the outcome of the match, good or bad?” she sa
id.
“Yeah.” I knew exactly what she meant. Trent talked about it all the time. He called it surrendering to the game—to the lines, ball, racquet. Feel the game. Submit to the game. Trust. By surrendering to the game, the “game freed a player mentally—to win. Zen. It was the only way to get into the zone. It felt like years since I'd been in the zone.
“Well, Bickford is like that. When I fought against being here, I was miserable. No one cares if you're unhappy. It's not like at home, where your mom is going to come to your rescue. You have to get your butt out of bed and do the morning run, school, drills, matches, tournaments, homework, and then more drills anyway. Arid then drills, and drills, and then more drills …”
My head ached.
“Instead of being unhappy all the time, I figured I'd spare myself the mental breakdown and give myself to it, to Bickford, I mean. Now it doesn't bother me.”
Oh,” I said.
“My mother says I've got to think of it as me using the academy instead of the academy using me.”
Since she was being so honest, I decided to ask her the question that no player dared to ask another. This question was the black cloud, the fear, that hung over the heads of all on the junior circuit.
“Do you think you'll make it to the Tour, honestly?”
Katie stiffened and looked out the prison-type window. (I'd decided some of the academy's windows did actually resemble prison windows. I'd pointed this out to the Weak Link this morning over breakfast.)
“Do you?” I asked again.
“My dad thinks I will. He's paying serious cash for me to be here … Who knows? College scholarship for sure. Free ride at college.”
“But the Tour?” I asked impatiently.
“It's possible.”
It was a lie. She knew she wouldn't. I knew she wouldn't before we'd played a set. Ranking too low, game too soft. Deep down, her father probably knew it, too.
What I didn't know was if I would make it to the Tour. If I couldn't beat Millicent, how could I beat a pro? But of one thing I was certain. No one at Bickford would buy me a Slurpee on the way home from a tournament or a Swiss flag because I had a crush on Roger Fédérer. Instead, they would make me run. Against my will.
Open Court Page 12
