by Roger Herst
Cuthbertson showed himself to be a seasoned doubles player with a high bouncing serve and lightning work at the net. His serve returns were solid and to Lydia’s feet as she raced forward to join Gabby. Unfortunately, he could not play for his partner who continued to dialogue with spectators, undeterred by the fact that he was losing more points than he was making. When given an opportunity Cuthbertson poached shots, but that took him from his defense zone, a situation Lydia was quick to exploit. The match ended 7-5, 6-3, and Cuthbertson hurdled the net to shake hands and compliment the women for a match well played. He also invited Lydia for a drink that evening, an invitation she declined, but with, as Gabby noted with some astonishment, nothing like her usual gruffness. DiJetto continued to smile, remarking to the media how far tennis had come in the past years, summing up with the phrase, “It’s a new and exciting era for women in sports.”
Lydia led Gabby to the parking lot at day’s end, complimenting her play. Hours of grueling drills had paid the dividends she always expected.
On Saturday morning, the stands were filled. Well-dressed executives, munching Danish and sipping coffee, waited for the sun to burn off the morning mist and allow play to resume. The master of ceremonies carried a hand-held radio microphone as he presented himself on the Tournament Court to introduce the day’s competition. Flanking him were the sponsoring corporate executives and the sixteen remaining doubles teams—eight in the women’s competition and eight in the men’s. He first read out the names of the women players, along with the charities they had designated, and then the men’s. Since many in the stadium still did not realize that two women were competing against men’s teams, the mention of Lydia’s and Gabby’s names in the male category produced confusion. But when the emcee repeated their names and confirmed their participation in the men’s competition, many of the spectators applauded. Scattered among them, Gabby and Lydia’s friends cheered boisterously.
In their fourth round match, Gabby and Lydia were pitted against Daymond Sterring, a professional from Toronto, and Nevada Senator Rudy Thornborg, who had reached the quarterfinals at Wimbledon twenty years before. Just before the match was scheduled to begin, the tournament umpire announced a change of venue. Senator Thornborg had asked to play Tournament Court, where he claimed the playing surface was superior to anything he might find elsewhere. Lydia was indifferent since she made a point of ignoring spectators, no matter how many or how partisan. Gabby had never seen her glance into the stands or converse with a fan, umpire, or ball boy or ball girl. She wished she could be so sanguine; the thought of playing before 7,500 people terrified her. It didn’t help that she routinely spoke before large groups from the pulpit.
In the locker room, Lydia delivered her customary appraisal of opposition. The senator, she told Gabby, was a typical has-been player who once hit firm balls but had slowed considerably. A cartilage operation on his right knee had left him unable to run. Daymond Sterring was another story. Unlike the other competing tennis stars, he was a doubles rather than singles specialist with unbelievable reflexes and superb placement. Lydia, who seldom had complimentary word for an opponent, had nothing but praise for Daymond’s tennis.
At 9:40 a.m. she led Gabby onto the court. The spectators, who had already endured a half hour delay, greeted them with a solid round of applause. Daymond Sterring trailed them, a thick multi-racquet bag strapped to his shoulders. His friendly wave elicited an enthusiastic response. He headed for a bench and pivoted around to await his partner. Many eyes scanned the backcourt, expecting to see the ex-Wimbledon champion, a regular on TV talk shows, enter the arena like a victorious gladiator, all hails and waves and ever campaigning for higher political office. When the Senator failed to appear, the umpire climbed down from his judging stand to confer with Daymond Sterring. He then approached Lydia and Gabby to announce that if Thornborg did not present himself for play in five minutes, he would declare the match forfeited, and they would proceed into the afternoon quarterfinals. He had just climbed back to his chair when a ball boy ran over with a cell phone.
On the other end, an aide to the Senator was short of breath. “Senator Thornborg was en route to the stadium when he received an emergency call from the Republican minority whip in Congress. The Democrats are pressing for a weekend vote on a labor relations bill, and all Republican senators still in town for the weekend have been asked to stand by in the senate. The senator sends his regrets and will return to the stadium just as soon as possible.”
The umpire announced that the match was forfeited, to groans of disappointment from the spectators. Despite his assurance that another match would be transferred onto Tournament Court and that there was no need to leave their seats, many filed into the aisles, heading for the outer courts, restrooms, or the refreshment stands.
Gabby searched for Joel’s face in the crowd, knowing she wasn’t likely to find it. He had said he would try rescheduling his Saturday morning patients, but that was easier said than done, and she had assured him it wasn’t necessary. Not in her wildest dreams had she thought she and Lydia would make it to the quarterfinals, even under the dubious circumstances of a bye in the first round and an unexpected default. Nor did she spot Noah in Pyramid Development’s corporate box. Just as well, she thought. She wasn’t proud of how she and Lydia had advanced.
Chuck was waiting for them outside the Women’s Locker Room with an irrepressible Cheshire cat grin. “Extraordinary playing, I do declare,” were his first words. “Practice does make perfect, now doesn’t it?”
“Sarcasm isn’t helpful, Charles,” Lydia growled, in no mood for it. “If the good-old-boys don’t want us to play in their sandbox, then so be it. We’ll take goddamn prize money by default. There’s no room for pride in this sport.”
He ignored her and spoke directly to Gabby. “There was a call for you at the office. Dov responded, but Marcel Clipper wants to talk to you. He left the phone number at his aunt’s house.”
Gabby glanced toward the locker room door where she might find some privacy. “Know what on his mind?” “No. But Dov said the kid sounded really upset.”
“I’ll call as soon as possible. Are you staying here or going back to the shul?”
“Since you guys aren’t playing until the afternoon, I’ll show the company colors at Shabbat services and monitor Herr Shellenberg’s ego. Then I’ll come back to see you guys win the quarters. And there was another call just a few minutes ago—Dr. Shaboya. He wanted to know how you’re doing in the tournament. He told me he pulled some strings at the Board of Education. Apparently, one of the corporate sponsors just bought up every grandstand and standing room ticket available and donated them to the school. A lot of Shaboya’s kids are planning to come tomorrow. Should I return his call to say you’re only a hop, skip, and a jump away from the Skulkin Tennis Center right now?”
“Over my dead body,” Gabby answered with genuine anxiety, “no false hope, please. It’s still a long journey to heaven, Chuck. We’ve been damn lucky so far. I know it, even if your sister thinks luck is nothing but superstition.”
Once in the locker room, Gabby made a call to Marcel’s aunt who said that her nephew had gone out first thing in the morning but might have returned. Gabby stayed on her cell phone for a long spell while the aunt went to have a look. She was just about to give up when Marcel picked up the phone. “Got problems, Rabbi Lewyn. You know James Tee on the team?”
“Sure. Number seven if my memory serves me right.”
“No. Number nine. Got a real good forehand, but no control on the backhand. His people don’t give him no allowance, so he has to scrounge for food. Always in trouble with the law. His girlfriend came to my aunt’s place this morning. She had a gun with her and she said it belongs to James. Says on it, it’s a Glock, just like what the police use. She told me James bought it for the weekend. She wants me to return it to the dealer.”
“Sounds familiar. I hope you’re not going to make the mistake Mr. Skulkin did. Where did James get
it?”
“Not sure, but his Switchboard is somewhere near St. Elizabeth’s Hospital.”
A chill went down Gabby’s spine. Old themes, new people. “Was it perhaps delivered in a men’s room toilet?
“Don’t know that. James’s girl says it was somewhere in the park.”
“Did she say which park?”
“Fort Chaplin. Should I take it back?”
“No, Marcel,” she replied, forcing herself to be calm and sound in control. “Absolutely not. That’s how Mr. Skulkin was murdered. Where’s your nearest police station?”
“Nine or ten blocks from here.”
“Call first and tell the officer in charge that you intend to walk from your aunt’s to the station and turn the weapon over to them.”
“I can’t do that.”
“Why not?”
“I just can’t, that’s all. I ain’t gonna say it belongs to James. He’s been in trouble with the police before. Besides, I ain’t got any place to keep the gun, so I gave it to Horace to hold for me.”
Gabby took a deep breath, reminded that many people in Marcel’s neighborhood had had some brush with the law and were hesitant about cooperation with local officers. “Then tell Horace to hold on to the handgun. Don’t give it back to James,” she finally said in a new voice, less self-assured than before.
“James gonna be pissed.”
“Better pissed off than in jail. Tell him I’ll help just as soon as I can. Payment for the handgun probably isn’t due until Monday. The minute I’m finished with the tournament I’ll huddle with you guys, and we’ll figure out what to do. Meanwhile, I may get a bright idea while I’m on the courts.”
“You and Ms. Browner still in play?” He sounded dubious.
“Damn right we are. We’re in the quarterfinals this afternoon.”
“You play well, you hear, because we’re all gonna be there in the morning. Old tortoise Shaboya got us tickets. The whole school is coming for Mr. Skulkin.”
As a parting thought, Gabby asked, “Marcel, how much does James Tee owe on this pistol?”
“Four hundred. He already paid a hundred as a deposit. Nobody got that kind of money around here.”
“I can get the four hundred,” she replied.
As soon as Marcel was off the line, she scanned the locker room, returning her thoughts to the tournament. Now she faced two Armageddons, each more daunting than the other.
An oversold crowd had gathered to watch what commentators on the local sports network were dubbing The Battle of the Sexes, so the tournament organizers moved Gabby’s and Lydia’s quarterfinal match from Court Six to Court Two. They might be displeased that their decision to let Lydia and Gabby play in the men’s events had distracted attention from tennis, but it had certainly galvanized the media coverage. Court Two was jammed with spectators eager to see women vindicate themselves in play or get creamed by overpowering males.
Jamil Graham, a six-foot-three inch guard for the Washington Wizards and a serious amateur tennis player, had been paired with Ned Patrovski, an up and coming Men’s Circuit player well known for advertising cross-training equipment on television. Several local sports commentators had argued that the pairing was a violation of the spirit, if not the rules, of the tournament, even though Graham was technically an amateur at tennis. The commentary had prompted several petitions to disqualify the team, but it was too late to make changes. Pundits favored Patrovski and Graham to demolish the women in straight sets, and they entered the court to an undercurrent of hissing. Lydia, resigned to handshakes before the match, was as perfunctory as possible; Gabby, whose expectations about winning were entirely different, was demonstratively friendly.
From the beginning, the Graham-Patrovski team made blunders. Instead of treating Lydia and Gabby as formidable competitors, they eased up, lost two of their service games, and found themselves hammered by Lydia’s relentless aggression, unable to catch up. They lost the first set, 6-4. In the second, they transformed their humiliation into hard, well-placed shots that unglued their opposition. The crowd naturally favored the underdogs, but given the women’s play in the first set there was some confusion as to who merited that status. The set score favored Gabby and Lydia, but the men were coming on with a winning game.
As the second set progressed, the men’s power drained Lydia’s capacity to compensate for her partner’s lack of strength and consistency. She scrapped like an alley cat, but the score continued in the men’s favor. Gabby was only moderately successful in keeping the ball in play until Lydia could make winning shots. In the fifth game, when she twisted too far and too fast on a backhand volley, her gastroc muscle shot a flame of pain up her leg. This necessitated favoring her good leg and their adversaries noticed. They took the second set 6-1, the worst drubbing Lydia and Gabby had experienced thus far. Since the Tournament Court was now free and many spectators had been unable to secure seats to view the next set, the umpire consulted with both teams about moving the venue. Lydia objected at first, but, ever calculating her advantage, she suddenly changed her mind, whispering to Gabby that a bigger crowd meant more support from the fans. And, to her way of thinking, the fans would play a big role in defeating Graham-Patrovski.
Moving spectators into the Tournament Court required a significant hiatus, and when the umpire finally signaled for play to resume a half-hour later, the mood had shifted, exactly as Lydia predicted. By then, supporters of the men’s team felt they had done their duty. Once the set score evened, the majority switched loyalties and started rooting for the women, sensing an historic turnaround in gender separation on the tennis circuit. On the road with the Wizards, Jamil had become accustomed to having local fans boo, hiss, and wave wands to distract his attention at the foul line. But Washington was his hometown, and he expected to be appreciated. His partner, often touted as an old-fashioned gentleman in a sport that as of late was becoming less courtly, had always played tennis in an atmosphere where partisanship was customarily subdued. Jeers from the stands unnerved him.
Ned dropped a service game and followed with a giveaway overhead. Lydia, who had previously aimed at the basketball player’s feet, quickly shifted to attack his vulnerable midsection. Gabby understood her role was just to keep the ball in play. In a 5-4 set with Gabby serving, Jamil sent a forehand return of service into the net, and, in a moment of uncontrolled frustration, batted a free ball into the stands. This unnecessary act soured what was left of his support, and a number of the spectators rose to their feet, chanting for Gabby to finish the match with a coup de grace.
Her serve, never the strongest part of her game, was consistent, but by tournament standards, quite slow. As she adjusted her stance at the baseline, Lydia telegraphed her own determination in an intimidating glare. Gabby bounced the ball four times, then a fifth, and then took a deep breath for relaxation, glancing to the spot where her racquet would eventually make contact with the ball. She rocked back on her heels as her arms opened and the ball left her fingertips. It was placed into play rather than pitched, mounting only a foot higher than her left hand. Her strings ripped into it with an alarming pop, producing a spontaneous gasp from the stands. Tennis enthusiasts understood immediately that she had broken at least one string. The ball traveled toward Ned with reduced velocity and an abnormal spin. He was forced to readjust his position, bleeding speed and accuracy from his return, which traveled too high and too close to mid-court. Lydia’s predatory reaction cut it off with a violent, almost hostile backhand volley, sending the ball at Jamil so fast he was forced to protect his groin by back stepping. The ball smacked his right hip with such power that it bounced back at the net and struck the tape before falling dead.
The new racquet Gabby chose from her athletic bag felt too heavy and the balance wasn’t right. Jamil received her first serve on the forehand and drove it back as she raced forward to assume a position beside Lydia. The return should have been lower than it was, which meant that all Gabby needed to do was to absorb its pow
er with her own strings. In that moment, hard training made the difference. She did nothing special, but nothing wrong either. She sent the ball back across the net, right between her two adversaries. In a wild lunge, both men snapped at it, their racquets smacking into each other, with Jamil’s prevailing. The ball sailed lethargically toward the opposite court. Lydia, ever on her toes and vigilant, did the unexpected. Instead of blasting it at her adversaries, she tapped it lightly right back from whence it came. The men were still recovering from the collision when the ball softly bounced past them, almost rolling into the backcourt.
Pandemonium filled the stands as spectators wondered aloud how it was possible that two women could have beaten the number one seeded doubles team.
Lydia provided the only worthy commentary to a gaggle of reporters outside the women’s locker room. “Get real, everybody. This was only the quarterfinal, not the semis and not finals. There’s a tough match tomorrow. My partner and I played good tennis this afternoon. But we’re a long, long way from the top of a greasy pole.”
Gabby was uncomfortable with celebrity status. Nor did she believe that she deserved it. Victory on the courts could be attributed to dozens of forces that, for several unforeseen reasons, had conspired to bring them success. Washington, the Hollywood of the East Coast, worshipped winners, even when their victory was unmerited. She couldn’t wait to put distance between herself and her admirers.
