by Roger Herst
After a shower and a change of clothes, Gabby agreed to accompany her to a box reserved by Lydia’s friends, where they might remain invisible to the fans. A rap on the locker room door interrupted them as they were about to leave. A dumpy security guard, with lots of embroidered patches sewn onto his uniform, inquired after Rabbi Gabrielle Lewyn. Beside him stood Marcel Clipper in his yellow Bart Skulkin T-shirt and with a bewildered expression on his face. Gabby stepped into the corridor.
“Go scout the competition,” she told Lydia, “and I’ll meet you in the box as soon as I can. If I don’t make it, we’ll meet here before the match.”
The arrangement was not to Lydia’s liking, but she acquiesced with a curt nod.
“You’re playing great,” Marcel said. He waited until the guard moved down the corridor before continuing. “I don’t want to bother you, but don’t know what to do. You remember, I told you about James Tee and his gun. You told me to hold on to it. Okay, I did that. James’ girl called me and said she told James she gave the gun to me. I couldn’t hide it at my aunt’s house, so I gave it to Horace to hold onto, but James went to my aunt’s. The dealer is hot. He wants his money. James thinks the dealer is gonna hurt him and his people if he can’t find it. Should I take it back?”
This was a looming tragedy. If Marcel and Horace held on to the pistol, James might become another homicide statistic. If, on the other hand, Marcel returned it, James was likely to commit a robbery and land in jail. “Can’t we wait until late this afternoon when this tournament is over?” she asked.
“James’ girl tells me he’s gotta get the money by tomorrow night.”
“Where’s he supposed to deliver it?”
“He don’t know. Two hours before the exchange, Switchboard will tell him exactly where.”
A cheer from the stands echoed in the cinderblock tunnel. It reminded Gabby that soon she would be playing the hardest tennis match of her life. Despite all the fanfare and cheering, it wasn’t as important as the life of a young man trying to survive in Southeast.
“I promise to get the four hundred dollars by tomorrow night,” she told Marcel.
“We don’t need four hundred. Everybody on the team is bringing whatever he can. I can raise twenty from my aunt’s friend. They are all working on it right now. We may have maybe eighty dollars.”
“It’s OK,” she said. “The four hundred is not a problem. I save funds for emergencies like this. Can you get in touch with Switchboard and find out where the money must be delivered?”
“Yeah. I can probably talk with him, but I’ll have to pretend to be James Tee.”
“Won’t Switchboard recognize you?”
“He saw James once last week. We’re about the same height. It will be nearly dark, won’t it? Switchboard might not notice.”
“Has the dealer ever set eyes on James?”
“Probably not. That ain’t the way it works. Nobody sees nobody till the dealer gets hot.”
“If I get you the four hundred it won’t matter. Why should the dealer care who actually delivers the cash? If I can’t reach you tonight, call me at nine-thirty sharp in the morning at my office. If I’m on the phone or in conference, tell my secretary, Chuck, who you are. I’ll alert him to expect your call. You have the number, don’t you?”
He nodded affirmatively, his expression easing as he stepped back to leave. “Hey, Rabbi,” he said, looking out towards the tournament court. “You’re gonna beat them out there. They ain’t got what you’ve got.”
Lydia returned, confident that she and Gabby had already met their most dangerous opponents and lectured her partner about competition in tournaments. One would expect the best players to end up in the finals, she said, but the win/lose selection process often favors weaker players. One or two upsets in the early rounds, when competitors had not yet mastered their timing or become accustomed to the peculiarities of the court or weather, can have a profound influence on the end result. Excellent players often lose in early rounds and never get a chance to come back. Gabby smiled to herself; this was Lydia’s form of pep talk. She accepted it in the spirit in which it was intended, dragging her thoughts from Marcel and Bart’s murder on a cold night in Southeast Washington.
During the second semi-final match, the kids from Anacostia High had abandoned their seats to buy snacks, hang around the exhibitions, and meet with friends. But by 2:00 p.m., they were back in the stands and presented a solid block of yellow in the upper level of the stadium. They were silent until Gabby and Lydia entered the court, then they exploded. Students jumped to their feet, cheering. Cheerleaders raised their pompoms, and a student with a snare drum began a long, sustained drum roll. Caleb Shaboya engaged in a series of low, in-place jumps, hands fisted in victory. Gabby responded with open arms and a smile that conveyed her appreciation. Somehow during the recess, the kids had managed to hang a banner from a row of seats. It reminded Gabby of Bart’s memorial service:
BART SKULKIN TENNIS CENTER –OUR TEACHER, OUR FRIEND
Phoenix’s Franklin Drew, an experienced player on the Men’s Circuit, had carried Health and Human Resources Secretary Tito Espinoso through their matches by aggressively poaching volleys and, behind a bullet serve, winning almost all his own service points. They had elected not to contribute their prize money to Bart’s tennis center, but to the Big Brothers, a worthy organization with an admirable track record for providing male role models to young boys from single-parent homes.
Before the match, Espinoso seized a photo opportunity by walking over to his women opponents and wishing them well. They were forced to wait until photographers could scramble down onto the court to snap him in the act of shaking hands. He possessed a toothy smile and a limp handshake. Franklin Drew and Lydia studied each other suspiciously, drawing upon previous knowledge of the other’s skill.
Warm-up was short. A coin-toss favored the women, and when Gabby stepped to the service line, the rooting section ignited with encouragement. The cheerleaders stood on their seats to address the kids above them. Pompoms slashed through the air as they launched into a chant that had resounded at every football and basketball game at Anacostia High. If Bart Skulkin had been unknown to anyone in the stadium before, that changed. Several thousand kids shouted his name. This, finally, brought the umpire, trailing his microphone cord, down from his platform to the court.
He turned and faced the wall of yellow. “Okay. Now listen, kids. I know you like to cheer for your teams at Anacostia, but…” His remark was broken by a renewed roar. Mention of their school sent them into wild screaming. He threw up his free arm to quiet them. “Hey, kids, give me a chance, will ya? I appreciate your enthusiasm, but at a tennis tournament we don’t do that. We don’t cheer or say anything while the ball is in play. You’re welcome to clap between points, but just with your hands. I ask that you honor this custom. It’s just different from basketball and football. Thanks for your cooperation.”
The kids mumbled to each other in confusion. Why, they seemed to be asking themselves, should tennis be different from basketball and football? What was the harm of cheering for their friends?
Gabby served the first point to Secretary Espinoso who, favoring his forehand, returned a medium-speed projectile down the middle. Lydia sidestepped to swat it deep and down the center, between her two opponents. Neither Espinoso nor Frank Drew could put a racquet on it. On Gabby’s next service, Drew skipped forward and drove a forehand low and at her toes. Bending to retrieve it stretched her gastroc, sending a streak of pain into her thigh. Her rather feeble return moved toward Espinoso, who batted it into the tape. A tumultuous cheer rose from the rooting section. So much for the umpire’s admonition.
Gabby needed to ease off her injured left leg while carrying on as if nothing untoward had occurred. The secretary failed to return her subsequent serve, but Frank Drew clobbered her next one back, forcing her into a weak return that he accelerated with a punishing swat. She hid a limp with a small skip. Espinoso returned her s
ervice with a high pop, which Lydia sent low to Frank’s ankles. This forced him into a high return that she jumped high to blast as an overhead. Anacostia High was ecstatic.
Gabby could barely get a racquet on Frank Drew’s powerful opening serve, but he was experiencing troubles of his own. He’d been in competition on an adjacent court when the women had played their semi-final match, so he was unaware of the treatment their opponents had received. The kids in yellow hissed until he eased off his serve. Lydia, who had either not noticed or did not acknowledge the courtesy, seized the opportunity to angle her returns at Espinosa. Just about this time, the secretary made a startling discovery. However billed, the match was really nothing more than a charity event. A cabinet secretary, particularly someone in the sensitive position of overseeing Social Security, Medicare, and a host of federal programs for children, could win far more by supporting feminine idols than by winning a victory on the court. A sports center for black youths in Anacostia? Here was a golden opportunity to support the Administration’s desire to show it was helping inner city neighborhoods. Wouldn’t the president be pleased to have his secretary further a popular project right in his backyard?
It was no wonder that the score began to favor the women. No one but Frank Drew seemed unhappy, but he was powerless to keep Lydia and Gabby from exploiting his weak partner. The umpire had given up trying to quiet the rooting section. Were this a circuit tournament with true prize money at stake, he would have been compelled to enforce discipline. He decided that the event’s charitable nature permitted him wide latitude to bend the rules.
Even after the women took the first two sets, the students, throats now raw from screaming, remained energetic. When Lydia and Gabby took a 5-3 lead in the final set, victory seemed certain. Frank Drew, who’d grown annoyed by his partner’s lack of zeal, took vengeance by producing a series of withering overheads, and then continued when it was his turn to serve. Lydia managed to get the first serve back to Espinosa, who wasted the opportunity by manufacturing a short overhead for her to exploit. Drew’s first serve to Gabby just missed the service line. She returned his second to the secretary, who repeated his previous mistake by returning a soft shot that Gabby powered back at him. Lydia missed the next missile serve. When Drew lined up to plant a 130-mile-an-hour rocket into Gabby’s court, she bent low, remembering the lesson from Titus Cecera. She inched imperceptibly right in order to finesse the serve onto her backhand. “Just get the racquet up to block, then hold your wrist as if riveted with steel, yes?” he’d said. The trick was to move into position the very instant the ball left Drew’s racquet.
She absorbed the fiery pain along her leg and focused her mind on the ball as it traveled from his fingertips into the air. Somewhere in that second, her body intuited its direction for she angled with her right shoulder forward, her elbow out and flexed, her feet moving in the direction of the ball as it skidded off the court’s surface. When it left the ground, her racquet head was there. Frank Drew’s blitzing service collided with her strings and ricocheted back at him. He found himself racing forward into the kill-zone, unprepared for the speed of her return. He could barely position his racquet and his shot drove low and into the net.
His fight finally gone, Drew missed his first serve on match-point to Lydia, then hit an average second which she aimed at Espinosa’s backhand. He lifted it high above the net where Gabby could reach for an overhead. Cheerleaders leaped into the air, followed by the rest of the spectators who, freed from their inhibitions by the example of the students, cheered. Gabby coiled for the overhead smash and adjusted her footing. The ball began its descent at the precise moment she made a last adjustment and commenced her downward swing. Midway along its trajectory, her strings made contact. The ball shot past Espinosa, who was far too slow to return it. Drew made a lunge to cut it off, but the secretary was now between him and the net and blocked his line of return. Rather than swat the ball and chance hitting a US cabinet secretary, he disgustedly clubbed it into a bounce and scooped it into his free hand. A spontaneous roar of joy erupted from the spectators.
There would be a tennis program for Bart and a center for the kids he adored. The dream was coming true. For a moment Gabby stood in a trance, taking in the tumultuous joy. She allowed the tears to come.
Since it was no longer necessary to hide her injured leg, she hobbled to the bench where her partner joined her. Lydia didn’t usually hold spectators in high regard, but the Anacostia kids had touched even her. She recognized them as fellow warriors for a cause. Still, she returned to the cause nearest to her own heart. “We did it, partner!” she said. “Nobody thought we could! Now the assholes who organize these tournaments will have to think twice about letting women play for top money. Times are changing, aren’t they?”
The post-tournament speeches were filled with thanks to the sponsors and participants. The chairman presented Gabby and Lydia with a mock check for $800,000, made out to the Bart Skulkin Tennis Center. Gabby leaned on Lydia to keep weight off her left leg. She knew she was going back into her soft cast for a few weeks, but what did that matter now? At the picnic dinner served for players and contributors, she felt a little uncomfortable about receiving so many accolades, but accepted them as graciously as she could. Sooner or later, people would figure out that the victory belonged to Anacostia High’s unruly cheering section.
Later that evening, Joel came by Gabby’s condo to congratulate her. She thanked him for the T-shirts and his support of the Anacostia kids. With the Zentner Foundation’s matching funds, they had now raised $1,600,000—enough to launch the center. Other donations would be almost certain to follow. But Bart’s killer had not been found, and every day that passed made it less likely he would be.
The phone rang, interrupting them. Horace Sklar, having gotten Gabby’s phone number from Marcel, called to say thanks on behalf of the team. He stumbled for words, but his sincerity was eloquent.
“It’s your victory. You kids destroyed their desire to win,” she said, knowing he wouldn’t understand the role played by the rooting section. “You just plumb wore the men down. Have you talked with Marcel today?”
There was a disturbing moment of silence.
“Well, Horace? This is important. I know about James Tee and the Saturday night special.”
“He hit me for twenty dollars. He said everyone on the team had to give twenty. I ain’t got that kind of money. So I had to go to friends for a loan. I think Marcel is wrong on this one. James Tee has the problem. Not the rest of us.”
“You still have the gun, don’t you?”
“Yep.”
“Good. Hold on to it and, above all, don’t return it to James or his girl friend.”
When it was time for Joel to leave, they hugged affectionately, allowing the curves of their bodies to fit comfortably into each other. They clung together for a moment and then began to kiss, softly at first and then with more passion. But there was no urgency; they shared recognition that there was no hurry in their relationship. What made it special for both was its slow, cautious evolution. Joel was still recovering from his marriage and faced the custody battle for his sons. With Dov Shellenberg leaving Ohav Shalom and mounting criticism over her tennis successes, Gabby knew this was not the right time to introduce a romance to the congregation. They had time.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
FORT STANTON PARK
Gabby arrived at Ohav Shalom by 8:00 a.m. on Monday morning to find the telephone ringing continuously. She guessed that many of the calls had more to do with tennis than synagogue business and decided to let Chuck sort them out later. When he felt energetic, he arrived by 9:00 a.m., but more commonly came in a half hour later. Since he was always willing to work well into the evening, she never raised the issue. She thought of him as a lemur, better suited to life after sundown than early mornings. To her surprise, though, he appeared a few minutes before 9:00 with a list of voice mail messages that had piled up over the weekend. Most had arrived shortly aft
er Gabby’s victory. There were messages from congregational officers offering congratulations and from reporters who wanted to interview the rabbi/tennis star. Noah Zentner had called to confirm that his foundation would match the funds they had won. But the person she most wanted to hear from, Marcel Clipper, had not yet called.
“How should I handle inquiries from the media?” Chuck asked from his favorite position in the doorway between their offices.
“Send them to your sister. She’s the sports feminist around here.”
He laughed. “Most people adore publicity, but not Lyddy. It isn’t that she’s modest because, I can assure you, she isn’t. It’s more a matter of contempt. She thinks reporters are garbage collectors—the biggest phonies in the country, only one peg above politicians.”
“Well, please think of something because I’ve just missed three days on the job and haven’t got time. And forget about me on television talk shows. I’m no Hollywood starlet willing to answer questions while sitting on a low couch with a camera lens trained on my boney legs. My hands will be full convincing congregants that I have no intension of entering the Professional Women’s Circuit.”
“How about touching base with Ruth Ann Silverman? She’d appreciate a call from you. And of all the current officers, she’s the least likely to crucify you for advancing women’s tennis. It doesn’t hurt that her term as president begins in four months.”
Gabby paused, wondering why she hadn’t thought of that before. “You missed your calling as a political guru. Please get Ruth Ann on the phone as soon as possible. And I need your help contacting Marcel Clipper. He promised to call, but I’m doubtful. A teammate purchased a Saturday night special. After what happened to Bart, I’m getting bad vibes. The only phone number we have for him is his aunt’s. Call Dr. Shaboya’s office too. I need to speak with him.”
