by Pat Flynn
He takes my hand and squeezes it, which reminds me of the worst night of my life. I push the thought to the back of my mind.
‘Don’t be silly, Marcus. It’s watching you win state titles like you did today that keeps me alive in the first place.’ He gives me a wink. ‘I just didn’t want you getting all the attention, that’s why I did this.’
I smile and feel a little better. Until Granddad grimaces and closes his eyes.
‘Are you okay?’ says Mum, looking over.
He doesn’t answer straightaway.
‘Is there a medical person around here?’ Dad says loudly. ‘This is supposed to be a hospital.’
A nurse hurries over. ‘What’s wrong?’ she asks Granddad.
‘I think those little pills are wearing off,’ he says. ‘I might need some bigger ones’
‘Sure.’ she says. ‘But first, can you tell me your name?’
Granddad sighs. ‘Who do you think I am? A goldfish?’
I chuckle, but inside I’m worried as a tournament referee. If anything bad happened to Granddad, I think I’d die.
Chapter Six
On the way home Dad talks about tennis.
‘Tomorrow is an active rest day, there’s a light hit on Tuesday, and Wednesday is your private lesson. I’m going to ask Gary to work on your kick-serve. It should be as good as Jett’s, if not better.’
I look out the window. Each time we pass a roadside reflector I stretch out my toes. I don’t know why I do this, but I always have.
‘Are you listening?’ asks Dad.
‘Yeah,’ I say. ‘Why do they call it active rest, anyway? I mean, if it’s rest, how can it be active?’
Dad sighs. ‘It’s not important. What is important is that we start getting ready for the New South Wales title in October. That’s only four months away, you know.’
And then something happens that shocks us all.
Mum yells, ‘STOP IT!’
There’s silence. Mum never yells.
‘I wish you two would shut up about tennis for once’ she says. ‘Heaven’s above, how can you be worried about the next state title already. You just finished one today’.
Dad doesn’t answer. He grips the wheel tightly and looks straight ahead.
‘Sorry, Mum,’ I say.
‘It’s not your fault …’ she says.
It’s quiet for a few seconds, until Dad shoots with his lip. ‘In other words, it’s mine.’
Mum shakes her head. ‘Bill, when we got married you didn’t know one side of a racket from another. I could beat you in tennis. Actually, I still could.’
I can’t help it. I chuckle. Dad shoots me a glare through the rear-view mirror.
‘Well, it’s true.’ I say. ‘Mum’s good. Granddad said she could’ve been a champion except she was too nice. She felt bad when she beat the other girls.’
Mum sighs. ‘All I’m saying is that there are other things in the world besides tennis. Important things’
Dad doesn’t yell, but raises his voice just enough for me to know that Mum and I have got under his skin. ‘Helen, do you know what the 100th best tennis player in the world earned last year?’
‘No, and I don’t care’ Mum says.
Dad answers the question anyway. ‘Nearly half a million dollars. If this family can pull together and give Marcus every opportunity to be the best he can be, by the time he’s thirty he could be set up for life. Hell, he can even buy you a Volvo.’
Mum’s voice is shaky. ‘I don’t care about a stupid Volvo.’
Dad’s tone softens. ‘I’m sorry, Helen. And I’m sorry about your dad. I’m sure he’ll be okay.
From behind, I see Mum’s shoulders shake from silent sobs. ‘What if he’s not?’ she asks. ‘What if …?’
Dad puts an arm around her and she leans in close to his chest. He strokes her hair with one hand and steers the car with the other.
I look out the window, stretch my toes as the red reflectors flash past, and think of Wimbledon.
When we get home Mum makes hot chocolates and we drink in silence. Soon it’s time for bed.
But first I have to make sure my muscles don’t seize up tomorrow by stretching them. It’s in my program as part of the whole active rest thing, although I still reckon that’s a dumb name.
I sit on the soft carpet of my bedroom and start with the hamstrings, reaching forwards over a straight leg while the other knee falls towards the ground.
It’s uncomfortable, but I’m used to it. I kind of like the pain. It keeps my mind from racing — from thinking about bad line calls, missed smashes, or the night Grandma died.
I bring my feet together and let my knees fall apart, stretching my groin. It’s then I spot the state title trophy under my bed. It must have fallen there when I dropped it earlier.
I pick it up and remember what Granddad told me. ‘It’s watching you win state titles that keeps me alive.’
Lucky I won, then.
And then a thought jumps into my head.
Now, all sorts of thoughts pop into my head all the time, like I’m sure they do to you. But this thought is different. It feels real somehow, like it needs to be obeyed.
If you don’t touch this trophy six times Granddad will die.
And for a split second I see it happening. People dressed in black singing ‘Amazing Grace’ through a fog of tears, a coffin sinking into a grave. I feel an emptiness in the pit of my stomach that I don’t want to last another moment.
After placing the trophy carefully on the bookshelf I give it six quick taps with my pointer finger.
And then I feel relieved. It’s almost as if the thought was never there.
Chapter Seven
Mr Simpson stands on stage. His hands are so big that he makes the microphone look like a toothpick.
‘Quiet everybody.’
Everyone stops talking except for a few murmuring kids at the back.
‘QUIET!’
For the first time all assembly, there’s complete silence.
‘Thank you.’ He smiles, still managing to look a bit scary. ‘We have a special presentation to make to a special student. Perhaps some of you read in the paper how this individual recently won his third state title.’
I sit up straight. Dad came into my room this morning with news that Granddad was feeling a lot better, and with a newspaper that had a picture of me hitting a forehand with my eyes closed. Talk about embarrassing.
Mr Simpson continues. ‘I’m sure you’ll agree it’s a fantastic effort and what’s even more important is that this student always represents himself and our school with the utmost distinction.’
I cringe. I’m glad he didn’t see me accidentally on purpose whack a ball over the fence when I lost my serve yesterday.
‘Would you join me in congratulating … ’
Kids glance my way and I bite my lip to stop myself from smiling. What if it’s not me? Perhaps Joe Calabrese won the state chess title.
‘… Marcus Wright!’
Students clap as I hobble to the front. Despite the stretching, my muscles are tight as rubber bands. I hope kids don’t think I’m walking slowly to soak up the glory.
It’s funny, I like being good at tennis and I dream of playing on TV one day, but when I have to get my photo taken or stand in front of a group of people, I don’t really enjoy it that much. And I hate it when older boys walk past in the playground and say, ‘Hey, Wrong. Why don’t you play a real sport like footy, huh?’
I don’t love attention, but I don’t mind it if it’s the right type. And hearing the whooping and hollering of my friends puts a big smile on my dial.
Mr Simpson pumps my hand and gives me a certificate that reads, ‘Marcus Wright. State Finalist.’
I’m not a finalist, I’m a winner, I think, but I don’t say that into the microphone. Instead I say, ‘Thanks a lot. It was a tough match but I took it one point at a time and, yeah, I just got there in the end.’
A few claps.
<
br /> I could say more but I don’t want to look like I’ve got a big head. I just need to come up with a closing line. ‘Umm … Go Siena!’
Kids cheer because that’s the name of our school. Not that I was playing for our school at the state title, I was playing for myself, but it wouldn’t have sounded good if I yelled, ‘Go me!’
When I shuffle off stage the bell rings for lunch which means I have a handball game to dominate. But first I need some advice about tuckshop and there’s only one person to see about that.
My friend Matthew.
Because I’m not moving as fast as usual, by the time I reach him he’s already halfway along the tuckshop line. I have to go for a low percentage play.
I tap the shoulder of a Year 9 girl behind him. ‘Can I cut in? Please?’ I give her my best smile, the one I usually reserve for the tournament director when I arrive late and am in danger of being forfeited.
She looks up and to the left, thinking. ‘Only if you sign my hat.’
That’s something I don’t hear everyday. Still, if it works I’ll run with it. ‘No worries’
I sign my name on the inside brim. It makes me feel important.
‘Cool’ she says. ‘Now if you get really famous, I can sell it on eBay.’
Matthew laughs. ‘It’s tough at the top, isn’t it, mate? Not that I’d know.’
‘Hey.’ I say, ‘you did win the school donut-eating competition a few years ago.’
‘Yep. The bad old days. Although looking back, they weren’t all that bad.’
Matthew used to eat so much he looked like a jam donut, but now he’s a lot fitter and healthier. He’s not as fit as me, of course, but he does know a lot more than me about food.
‘I need advice,’ I say.
‘Doesn’t everybody.’
Kids are always getting advice about food from Matthew. His nickname’s ‘The Tuckshop Kid’.
I tell him my problem. ‘My muscles feel tight as the strings on Andy Roddick’s racket and I’m thirsty all the time.’
‘Probably dehydration.’ he says. ‘How much you got?’
‘Six bucks.’
‘Hmmm.’ He thinks for a second. ‘Milk will rehydrate you even better than those overpriced sports drinks. so I’d go for a large chocolate one. If you can stomach it, your best bet is an egg and salad sandwich on wholemeal bread. Egg for protein. wholemeal for energy. and salad because it tastes bad and I want to laugh at you.’
‘Thanks, Matt.’
‘Anytime, Wright.’
While I’m talking to him. there’s something else I’d like to find out. ‘Hey, how’re things going with Kayla?’
Kayla is Matt’s on-again, off-again girlfriend. Last I heard they were off-again. which I can’t say I’m totally unhappy about.
Dad says I’m not allowed a girlfriend until I’m top 100 in the world. ‘Too much of a distraction.’ he reckons.
I nearly always do what Dad says. But I’d make an exception for Kayla. She’s sweeter than the sweet spot on my $300 racket.
‘Well … ’ says Matt.
Just as he’s about to say more. the line moves and it’s Matt’s turn to order.
I’ll have to find out later.
Chapter Eight
‘You should be scared. Wright. Real scared.’
I laugh. My doubles partner Jimmy has the most positive attitude in the world. I’ve beaten him 9 times in a row in tournaments and about 99 times straight in practice. but before we play he always tells me that I’m in big trouble.
Because my periodised program says today’s session is only a light hit. we don’t play a practice match but do various first to 11-points games. Jimmy suggests we start with a cross-court forehand game.
I grin. expecting nothing less. Jimmy’s forehand is his best shot.
Mine’s usually not bad either, but today it doesn’t feel right. I become aware of my right arm. which is strange. I’m left-handed.
What should my right arm do after I hit the ball? I think. Does it tuck into my right hip or catch the racket above my shoulder?
I haven’t thought about this since I was about 10 years old. And it’s funny, once I become aware of my right arm, I can’t stop thinking about it. It’s like when someone tells you to stop thinking about pink elephants.
This is stupid, I think. after I hit another one into the net. I just won a state title where I hit about 50 forehand winners. My right arm didn’t worry me then.
After a 10-shot rally I shank one wide of the centre line. Jimmy pumps his fist.
Damn. I’m 9-4 down.
It seems like there’s always a pink elephant to fight on the tennis court. During the first few rounds of the state title I had trouble tossing the ball up straight on serve, and had to catch about every third one and say. ‘Sorry, mate.’
Then in the quarter-final my right knee started clicking every time I leaned forwards ready to serve. It was annoying, but it must have taken my mind off my ball toss because I never had a problem with it for the rest of the tournament.
Granddad says that I just like to create hurdles for myself, which could be true. A year ago when I learnt how to jump the net I hurdled it about a hundred times, imagining that I was winning Wimbledon, until my right toe clipped the tape and I landed flat on my face.
But what Granddad really means is how I often play badly against people who aren’t as good as me. I seem to be more worried about whether my strings are the right tension or if my over-grip is wrapped tightly enough or if my underpants feel ‘lucky’. But just when I look like losing. I seem to be able to concentrate hard enough to pull out the victory.
Which is what I need to do right now.
After he wins another point, Jimmy calls out the score a bit louder than he needs to. rubbing it in. ‘Ten-four, little buddy.’
I put my right-arm thoughts to the back of my mind and focus on the ball.
Hit it heavy and deep. Heavy and deep. Wait for the error.
I finally find some rhythm and Jimmy misses a couple.
10-7.
I work him wide and then flatten one out down the middle, drawing the error.
10-8.
We have a monster rally and three times he has me on the ropes but I keep clawing the ball back until he misses a shoulder-high slow ball that’s harder than it looks.
‘Fight!’ I yell, getting in his head.
10-9.
Most opponents would be angry at themselves for messing up five match points, but Jimmy never gets angry. He’s also good at putting on a brave face. ‘You’re not getting out of this one. Wright. You might have stolen a state title but you’re not going to steal a victory over Jumpin’ Jimmy!’
I walk to the back fence, catching my breath. Stolen a state title? What’s he talking about? I won it fair and square. Well, with a bit of help from the umpire.
Tugging at both sleeves. I get my mind ready for the next point. I’m the state singles champ. Jimmy’s only reached one final where he was killed. By me. I can do this.
I pull a ball out my pocket and feed it. The first few shots are supposed to be hit steadily to get the rally started, but Jimmy tries to surprise me by whacking the ball hard straightaway.
But I know him too well. I’m ready.
With rhythmical steps and bent knees. I get in position quickly, shorten my backswing and contact the ball nicely out in front. using all of his pace and adding some of my own. It comes off sweet as sugar.
Jimmy is caught on the back foot and pushes the ball back. soft and slow. I run in and set my feet in a semiopen stance, ready to launch myself at the ball.
And then it happens again.
Don’t miss!
This time I try to ignore the voice. I hit the shot aggressively.
Too aggressively.
It goes two-and-a-half centimetres out.
‘Yes!’ Jimmy can’t believe his luck.
My shoulders slump as I sigh in disappointment. Even though it’s just a meaningless
practice game, losing is no fun no matter when or how it happens. And it’s even worse when you fluff an easy shot.
We have a drink and Jimmy says. ‘I knew I’d win. No one beats Jumpin’ Jimmy 148 times in a row.
‘What’s this Jumpin’ Jimmy business?’ I say. ‘You can’t even clear the net.’
‘Can too.’
‘Go on. then. Do it.’
He takes a long look. sizing it up. ‘Nah. I want to save all my energy to beat you again.’
I use one of Granddad’s favourite sayings. ‘I’m glad you won that last game. It will make my next victory over you even sweeter.’
He smiles. ‘Sure, Wright. Your backhand might be as good as Djokovic’s but you’re still in trouble.’
As I walk back onto the court I think of how easily I could have lost the state title, just like I lost that game to Jimmy. Then a strange thought squirms into my head. I almost lost the state title and Granddad got sick. What would’ve happened if I really did lose? Would he have died?
I shake my head and focus on the job. bouncing the ball on the ground with my racket six times, for luck.
Soon the game is over. I win 11-4.
‘Let’s play another one.’ Jimmy yells. ‘And this time you really are in trouble.’
I laugh.
But that weird thought about Granddad dying doesn’t go away. Every now and then — usually after an unforced error — it buzzes around my head like a mosquito.
Chapter Nine
Mum picks me up from practice and on the way home she tells me that Granddad is out of hospital and feeling good.
‘They think it was just dehydration,’ she says.
I remember touching the trophy six times. Maybe it really did help?
When Dad gets home from work he quizzes me about practice. ‘Did you win all of the baseline games?’
‘I whipped him in the backhand cross-courts — 11-4, 11-7.’
‘Good. How about the forehand?’
‘Umm. I beat him 11-9.’
‘Eleven-nine! What happened?’
You can see why I told Dad a little lie. If I said I lost I’d never hear the end of it.
