by Pat Flynn
And the umpire, I think, but I don’t say anything.
Fox has an American twang that makes him sound like an expert. No wonder Jett’s improved so much. ‘But all that pressure, he says, ‘can get stressful. If you ever want to talk about anything, anything at all, give me a call.’
He hands me his card.
‘Thanks,’ I say, although there’s no way I’ll be calling him. Why would I? I’m the champ.
Before the presentation, Mum makes me change out of my sweaty shirt and Dad buys me a chocolate icecream from the canteen. My favourite.
I open it eagerly but pull a funny face after the first bite. ‘It tastes weird,’ I say. ‘Like someone’s put metal in it.’
‘That’s shocking!’ says Dad. ‘I’ll take it back.’
But Granddad clicks his fingers and I hand the ice-block to him. He takes a bite.
‘It’s fine,’ he says.
‘No, it isn’t.’
He smiles. ‘It’s the nerves playing tricks on you, son. Your stomach’s just spent two hours going through a blender so it’s probably not tasting things quite right. It’ll settle down soon.’
Dad has a lick and agrees with Granddad. ‘Nothing wrong with it, mate. Sorry.’
I shake my head. You’d think that winning a state title would make an ice-cream taste sweeter, not yuckier.
‘Don’t worry’ says Granddad, taking back the ice-block. ‘I won’t let it go to waste.’ He gives me a wink.
As annoyed as I am, I can’t help but smile. He’s such a tease.
An hour later my name is called and I walk out in front of a large room full of people. They clap and cheer, and I hold up a trophy that’s bigger than Fluffy, our dog.
My mouth smiles widely, like it’s got a mind of its own, and I feel proud of what I’ve done. But a thought nags at my head when I see a dejected Jett holding his runner-up trophy.
Jett’s the real state champ. You lost.
I push that thought to the back of my mind, reminding myself that luck is a part of sport and if I hadn’t been good enough, I wouldn’t have won no matter how lucky I was.
And then the strangest thing happens. I float outside my body and see myself holding the trophy. Like I’m watching myself on TV.
Even though it’s kind of interesting, I don’t like the feeling.
I’m not in control.
We’re driving home and Dad is replaying the match, point by point.
‘Remember when he did that drop shot at 2-1 and you bolted in and sneakily drop shotted it back for a winner? That was great!’
Dad’s so excited he can’t stop talking. ‘I always say the best answer to a drop shot is another drop shot and it finally got through that thick skull of yours’
He takes one hand off the steering wheel to cuff me gently on the back of the head. I’m up front because Dad says I need a lot of leg room in case I cramp up, so Mum and Granddad share the backseat.
‘But what were you thinking when you tried that forehand drop shot at 3-2? It was awful!’
Dad loves analysing tennis. His dream job would be to work as a tennis commentator. Trouble is he’s not a famous ex-player. He’s not even an average ex-player.
‘I’m always telling you not to hit a drop shot unless’ he holds up his thumb, ‘A: you’re well in front of the baseline’ Now he raises his index finger. ‘And B: your opponent is-’
‘Well behind the baseline. Yeah, I know, Dad’ I say, the frustration leaking out in my voice.
‘Well, if you know, why did you do it?’
Dad’s smiling because I won. But if I lost he’d say the same thing in a different tone.
Granddad sneezes.
‘Are you okay, Dad?’ Mum asks.
‘I’m fine’
And then a few seconds later: ‘Aaa choo!’
Dad and I laugh.
Mum sounds worried. ‘I hope you’re not coming down with something. It was a long match and the wind was quite cold’
Dad pipes up. ‘It would’ve been a lot quicker if Marcus won in straight sets. I couldn’t believe it when you didn’t put that smash away on match point. What were you thinking?’
I stiffen, but don’t answer.
Mum comes to the rescue. ‘No one’s perfect, Bill. Not even you. Besides, Marcus did very well to win the match.’
‘Hmmm’ says Dad.
He’s not sure about something, probably the part about him not being perfect.
‘It goes to show that there’s not much between winning and losing,’ says Granddad. ‘Reminds me of when I played the Rocket back in ‘55.’
Dad sighs and looks straight ahead. He doesn’t like Granddad’s old tennis stories, although I don’t know why. I love them. Granddad was a really good player and came up against some of the legends of tennis, like Ken Fletcher, Mal Anderson and ‘Rocket’ Rod Laver, who many say is the greatest player of all time.
‘What happened?’ I ask.
Granddad looks out the window, maybe to help him remember. ‘It was the Queensland Open title and I won the first set 9-7. No tiebreakers back then, not like you wussy kids today.’
I check the rear-view mirror to find Granddad with a little grin on his face. Typical.
He continues. ‘In the second set I break his serve to go up 5-3 and think, “I’ve finally got the red-headed rooster right where I want him.” ’
‘Did you beat him?’ I ask.
‘I get to 40-15, two match points, and on the first one I hit a big serve down the middle and reckon I’ve got it. I run into the net but only to shake hands, I’m not expecting to hit a volley. But blow me down if Rocket doesn’t dive out and get the ball back. I’ve got the wrong grip and hit a backhand volley wide by two inches. Rod hits three winners in a row and before I knew it, I’d lost.’
I wonder how much of the story is true. ‘Did he say anything to you when you shook hands?’ I ask.
‘I said something to him. I said, Rocket, you should go and buy yourself a bloody casket ticket after getting out of that one. ’
‘What did he say?’
‘He said, “No, I used up all my luck already.” ’
I shake my head. ‘So you nearly beat Rod Laver. That’s amazing.’
‘How old was he?’ asks Dad. ‘Thirteen?’
Granddad shoots back. ‘He was seventeen and Hopman had him in the Davis Cup squad the next year.’
‘Hear that, son?’ Dad says to me. ‘Davis Cup at eighteen. Now that’s something to aim for.’
Five more years of practice, running, lifting weights and playing matches against tough players like Jett. Five more years of worry.
I can’t say I’m really looking forward to it.
Chapter Four
We drop Granddad off at the little flat he moved into after Grandma died.
Although we hardly ever talk about it, I know we both miss her a lot. But it’s three years now and Granddad is doing well. He’s tougher than me.
He gives my hand a firm shake goodbye.
‘You did well out there, kiddo. Real well.’
I feel a surge of pride but I hold it in and shrug. If there’s one thing Granddad and I both hate it’s a skite. ‘It beats losing,’ I say.
He runs a hand through his still thick, white hair. ‘At Wimbledon, do you know the last thing you see before you walk onto Centre Court?’
‘No.’
‘There’s a quote written on the wall. It says, “If you can meet with triumph and disaster and treat those two imposters just the same.” ’
‘What’s it mean?’ I ask.
He gives my shoulder a squeeze. ‘Think about it.’
He turns and shuffles up the path.
On the way home I do what he says. I think. The line seems to be saying that winning and losing are the same thing, but that can’t be true. Else why would I feel so good when I win and so bad when I lose?
Once home I unpack my tennis bag, putting my dirty clothes in the laundry basket — including my spe
cial red undies. Much to Mum’s disgust, I wore them dirty for the last three matches so the good luck wouldn’t be washed away. Now they stink!
I try to place my new trophy on top of the bookshelf, but it won’t fit because there’s a crowd there already. To make room, I decide to stack my smallest trophy inside a large cup. As I pick up the faded bronze tennis-boy, memories come bouncing back. It was the first trophy I ever won.
When I was seven, Granddad bought me a racket and hit with me at the local club. He’s a life member and his name is on the honour board for winning the open tournament five times.
After a few lessons he said that he’d entered me into the club 10-and-under title.
‘Are you joking?’ I replied. I was flat out getting my serves in.
‘Never been more serious. You’ll be right.’
I wasn’t so sure, but practised a lot harder after that. I spent hours each day hitting against the brick wall at home. The brick wall is a tough opponent. It never misses. The window next to it, however, was much easier to crack.
‘Stop breaking windows!’ yelled Dad.
It’s funny, back then Dad wasn’t a big supporter of my tennis. He was a footy man and thought tennis was a sissy sport.
One day, Granddad got sick of Dad’s attitude and challenged him to an arm wrestle. Dad is big and strong and thought he’d easily win. But Granddad is a lot tougher than he looks.
They locked arms and eyes and Dad said that it wasn’t his fault if Granddad got hurt.
Dad was right about someone getting injured.
His arm was sore for a week.
I asked Granddad about it later and he said, ‘I made sure it was my left arm. It’s twice the size of my right from tennis.’ He showed me and it’s true. When he flexes, his left forearm looks like a golf ball is teed up under the skin.
In that first tournament I made a lot of mistakes but my opponents made more. I won my first trophy and I still like to hold it occasionally, usually the night before a big match, for luck.
As I place the trophy inside the cup, the phone rings downstairs. Could be someone wanting to congratulate me.
I look at my new prize closely before placing it on the bookshelf. The tall, athletic bronze man is about to serve — his knees bent and left hip out, the ball about to roll off his fingertips. He looks ready for greatness, which is the feeling I have after a tournament win. It’s a feeling I crave.
Marcus Wright — State Champion.
Marcus Wright — Australian Junior Champion.
Marcus Wright — Wimbledon Champion.
The odds of it all coming true are incredibly slim, I know, but the night after a tough victory it feels like anything is possible.
The trophy man is attached to a wooden base which has deep lines criss-crossing it, and I run my thumb through the grooves and dream of playing Wimbledon. My heart starts beating faster at the thought of walking out onto Centre Court. What was that saying again?
‘If you can meet with triumph and disaster-’
‘Marcus!’ The bedroom door flies open. It’s Dad. ‘We just got a phone call. Granddad has collapsed.’
‘What?’ The trophy drops from my hands.
‘Grab your shoes and something warm to wear. We’re going to the hospital right now!’
My mind fogs up and I start running on auto pilot. The next thing I know I’m sitting in the backseat with a jumper and shoes on my lap. No one speaks in the car but I can hear a steady sound coming from the front seat.
It’s Mum, quietly sobbing.
I slip my tennis shoes on and focus on tying the laces, looping them around twice to make a double knot. Then I tug at both sleeves like I do before a point and blow into my left hand, drying the tiny beads of sweat that make my grip slip. I complete the ritual by wiping my brow with each wrist, once for each eye.
As we screech to a stop outside the emergency room, I remember who taught me to tie my laces so strong they never come undone, not even during a long match.
Granddad.
Chapter Five
We race in and Dad asks the woman at the counter where we can find Granddad. She asks how to spell his name and types it into a computer.
We wait.
Around the crowded room, people are all doing the same. Most sit on hard plastic chairs and stare into space or at the almost silent television on the wall. Some have bandages on various parts of their body, some cough harshly into their hands, and others yell at their kids to sit down and shut up. It smells a bit like our house after Mum has mopped it, only much stronger, like the smell is covering up something awful.
‘Can you please hurry up,’ Dad says to the woman.
She clenches her jaw. ‘The computer is very slow tonight because we’re so busy.’
Dad’s fingers start tapping the front desk and although Mum and I look at them we don’t say anything.
Finally, the woman has some news. ‘He’s in ward 2B. You can see him if you’d like but first you need to fill these out’
She holds out a wad of forms.
Dad gives her a glare. ‘Can’t that wait?’
The nurse sits up straight on her stool. ‘No. He was too sick when he came in and we need the paperwork so we can give him the best possible care.
‘More like the best possible bill,’ Dad says to me in a low voice, although I’m sure the lady heard.
‘It’s okay’ whispers Mum, taking the forms. But as she puts pen to paper she lets out a small sob.
The woman puts her hand on Mum’s wrist. ‘I tell you what. If you promise to bring them back later I’ll let you go through.’
‘Thanks’
The woman pushes a button and we walk through some large doors and head down a winding corridor, following a red arrow on the floor that says, ‘TO EMERGENCY.’
When we make it to a room that’s packed with beds on wheels, it takes me a few seconds to recognise Granddad.
He looks different. There are tubes hanging from his nose and he’s hooked up to a machine that keeps beeping. His face is as white as a ghost and for the first time ever I think my granddad looks old.
But at least he’s awake and he gives us a weak smile as we come over.
‘How are you?’ Mum asks worriedly.
‘No bloody good,’ he says. ‘If someone asks for my name and birthdate one more time I think I’m going to scream.’
I laugh, mostly because I’m nervous. Then I hear an old lady moan on the bed next to Granddad’s and I feel bad for laughing.
Mum leans in close and takes Granddad’s hand. ‘What happened?’
‘It’s all of a bit of a blur, love. I remember singing in the shower, nice and loud as I like to do, when the room started spinning like a top. I turned the water off and went for my towel, next thing I know I woke up on the bathroom floor, a big bump on my head.’
I see it. It looks like a purple golf ball.
‘What happened next?’ asks Mum.
‘I banged on the wall and Kitty from next door came over. I said, “This might seem a bit strange but I promise I’m not coming onto you. I just want you to throw me some clothes.” If I was going to die at least I wanted to be dressed. I’m no bloody Marilyn Monroe, you know.’
I can’t help it. I laugh again.
Mum tut-tuts. ‘Oh, Dad. How can you joke at a time like this?’
‘I’m not joking. I was starkers. But then she calls the ambulance and they bring me here and what do they do? Take all my clothes off! Talk about a waste of time.’
‘Do they know what the problem is?’ asks Dad. He likes to get to the point.
‘Nah. Course not. Bloody doctors couldn’t find a heartbeat with a stethoscope.’
Someone clears a throat. I turn to see a lady in jeans and a T-shirt, with a stethoscope around her neck. She holds it up. ‘Betcha ten quid you’re wrong, old timer.’
Granddad smiles sheepishly. ‘I wasn’t talking about you, young lady. I was talking about all those other doctors. The ugly
ones.’
‘So now you’re trying to charm me, hey? Don’t even think about it.’
She throws me a grin to let me know she’s joking and starts checking Granddad’s chart.
After asking Granddad some questions and writing down some answers, she turns to Mum and Dad and they step away from the bed.
Even though one part of me doesn’t really want to, I listen to what they’re saying.
‘He’s taken a good whack to the head so he’ll be sore for a few days,’ says the doctor. ‘But otherwise all his vital signs are good.’
‘What do you think caused the collapse?’ Dad asks.
‘At this stage we can’t be sure. We’ll keep him in tonight, run some tests in the morning and see what we can find out.’
‘Thanks, says Mum.
‘The bad news is that his age puts him in a high-risk category for lots of things. Diabetes, heart disease, stroke. So they’re a possibility. But the good news is he seems very fit. His blood pressure and heart rate are better than mine.’ The doctor turns to Granddad and speaks more loudly. ‘Do you work out to impress the ladies?’
‘No. I hit a yellow ball over the net to impress myself.’
‘Tennis, huh? I love it but I’m hopeless. You’ll have to give me a lesson one day.’
Granddad points to me. ‘You should ask the boy. He won a state title today.’
She gives me the once over. ‘So I’m looking at the next Lleyton Hewitt?’
‘More like the next Roger Federer,’ Dad says.
My cheeks become warm and I’m sure they’re red as balloons. I wish Dad wouldn’t do that.
‘Well, tell me, little Roger. What’s the secret?’
‘Umm,’ I say. ‘Watch the ball?’
Everybody chuckles.
A bracelet on the doctor’s wrist beeps. ‘I need to go but I’ll be back tomorrow. I suggest you all get some much needed rest.’
She strides off.
Mum and Dad chat among themselves and I turn to Granddad and tell him something that has been bothering me all night.
‘I’m sorry for making you watch the match for so long. If I hadn’t choked on that smash this wouldn’t have happened.’
