The Trophy Kid

by Pat Flynn

  The breath I’m about to take catches in my throat. How could he know that? Can he look at my face and tell that I’m crazy?

  I shake my head. Hard. ‘I don’t know what you’re on about, mate. I’m not like you and Kayla. I’m … normal.’

  I want to take that last bit back. It came out wrong.

  Matt steps forwards and I think he’s going to grab me again. But he doesn’t.

  ‘Withers was right.’ he says. ‘Your shot was a double bounce. But you already know that, don’t you?’

  He walks off and I feel like I do when I lost to Geoff Rushton, the best 17-year-old in Victoria.

  The score was 6-0, 6-0.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Granddad stands across from me at the net, his racket tucked under an arm. I straighten my strings as I listen to him explain the next drill.

  ‘It’s called “Thirty smashes”,’ he says. ‘The keys are to point your right hand up at the ball, use crossover steps to get back quickly, jump off your left foot using a scissor kick, and swing fast and late.’

  I look up. ‘Do you want me to dance the Macarena as well?’

  He takes a ball out of the metal hopper and volleys it at my leg.

  But I’m used to his tricks. I jump out of the way.

  He smiles. ‘Good footwork.’

  He picks up the hopper and starts walking away from the net, before turning. ‘By the way,’ Granddad says. ‘Now the drill is called, “Forty smashes”. Ten extra for being cheeky.’

  I should have held my tongue. I know this drill. It’s as tough as algebra.

  Setting the basket on the baseline, Granddad takes out a ball and hits it high into the blue sky. I scuttle back like a crab, leap into the air, and smash the ball at one of the red cones that have been sprinkled around Granddad’s side of the court.

  I miss.

  ‘Don’t watch your shot. Run back in!’ says Granddad.

  I sprint forwards and touch the net with my racket, only to see another ball flying over my head, ready for me to chase and smash again.

  After twenty smashes my chest is burning and my legs are like dead weights. My shots aren’t living up to their name — they’re more like pats than smashes.

  Granddad yells. ‘Come on! It’s five-all in the third set. Pick it up!’

  I do. Even though drilling is repetitive, tiring and challenging, it’s a part of tennis that I love. Shot after shot where I don’t have to think about anything but how and where to hit that yellow pill. I also get to see the end result straightaway. In or out. Success or failure.

  Pshhht. A ball smacks into a red cone which goes skimming across the court.

  ‘Nice shot!’ Granddad yells.

  Drilling is also fun because Granddad is often on the other side of the net, encouraging me.

  He hits another lob and although my muscles are screaming to stop, I don’t listen to them. I skip back and leap higher than ever, defying gravity for a split second while I hang in the air and snap my racket at the ball.

  It shoots off with a ping and then makes a pop as it hits another red cone — which flips over like a pancake.

  Granddad laughs. ‘A good way to finish.’

  We walk to the net and I lean on it, sucking gobfuls of air.

  ‘Well done’ he says.

  ‘Thanks’ I wheeze.

  ‘You’ll be ready for Wimbledon in a few years.’

  I remember something. ‘Hey … Grand … dad?’ I’m still puffing.

  ‘Yep.’

  ‘What does that meet with triumph and disaster thing mean?’

  ‘What do you reckon?’ he asks.

  ‘Ummm … ’ I think about it as I walk to the umpire’s stand to grab my drink bottle, but I’m still not sure. ‘Dunno.’

  I squeeze the water bottle and miss my mouth. My shirt gets wet, although you wouldn’t notice as it’s already soaked with sweat.

  Granddad laughs. ‘Lucky your aim’s better on the court. I’ll give you a hint.’

  I listen.

  ‘The best match I ever played, I lost.’

  I’m not sure what the hint is but I’m sure there’ll be a good story behind it.

  ‘When was it?’ I ask.

  ‘1956. Quarter-final of the New South Wales Open. I was playing Mal Anderson and it was leaked by a reliable source that whoever won the match would get the last place on the ‘57 Davis Cup squad. We were both nervous as kittens’ He chuckles.

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘Well, Mal was solid as a rock, like always, and broke my serve twice to go up 5-2 in the first set. The thing is, I’d played Mal a few times before and never got near him. He was quick as lightning and his backhand was a brick wall, which didn’t suit my serve, being a molly-duker and all.’

  As well as both being tennis players, Granddad and I have something else in common. We’re both left-handers.

  He continues. ‘I remember saying to myself, “Well, the set’s over so you might as well go for it. You’ve got nothing to lose, old son.” And blow me down if everything didn’t start going in!’

  He smiles and shakes his head like he still can’t believe it. ‘I won the first set 7-5 and was up 5-2 in the second. It was the best I’ve ever played in my life, hands down. Half-volley winners, aces, topspin lobs — no matter what shot it was, it felt easy.’

  My eyes widen. ‘What was it like?’

  He spins his racket around his finger. ‘Amazing. The ball was as big as a pumpkin and my mind and body were best mates. I’d tell myself where to hit the ball and then I’d do it. Every time.’

  I dream of feeling like this in a big match. I have to sweet-talk and threaten my body and even then it only seems to listen about half the time.

  ‘Did you win?’

  ‘Well, you had to give it to Mal, he never gave up. And he was always thinking, the bugger. I served for the match at 5-3 but he changed tactics. He started floating his returns back with no pace.’

  ‘But that’s a lot easier than having the ball whacked at your feet.’

  ‘You’d think so. But until then all I’d done was react to Mal’s great returns. Now I had time to think. Too much time. I had match point, but lost it, and ended up going down 6-4 in the third set.’

  ‘So close!’

  ‘I know. I was devastated. When I missed the last smash I pulled a ball out of my pocket and was about to launch it out of the stadium. Reckon I could’ve hit it all the way to Kings Cross, I was so angry.’

  ‘Did you?’

  ‘Nah. Handed it to the ballboy and told him to keep it. Then I walked to the net and shook Mal’s hand. The best man lost today, he said. A real gentleman he was, that Mal.’

  Granddad takes a ball out of the hopper and taps it in the air using the edge of his frame. After five perfect hits he catches the ball on the strings.

  ‘Next year Mal made the Davis Cup squad and toured the world’ he says. ‘I stayed home and got a job, while Mal won the US Open. Couldn’t have happened to a nicer bloke.’

  ‘But that could’ve been you! If only you won that match.’

  ‘You could be right. But I’m glad I lost.’

  I can’t believe what I’m hearing. ‘Why?’

  ‘After the match I wanted to get the hell out of there, but a mate came ‘specially to watch me so I put on a brave face and had a chat. Then something happened that I’ll never forget.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘He introduced me to a girl he knew. She said she was impressed with how I handled myself on the court so she wanted to meet me. A real good sort, she was.’

  ‘What was her name?’

  ‘Jillian.’

  I screw up my face, trying to remember where I’ve heard that name before. And then it comes to me. ‘Grandma?’

  ‘Yep. If I won the match I would’ve been surrounded by officials and we never would have met.’ He plays with his wedding ring. ‘Instead, I lost and met the love of my life.’

  We’re quiet for a bit and
I remember Grandma. She was my favourite person in the world, spoiling me rotten with freshly baked Anzac biscuits and handmade quilts. She was kind, loving and a little bit silly.

  But then she was gone and it might have been my fault. I wish I could tell Granddad about that night but I can’t. I push the thought away.

  Granddad looks at me. ‘A loss teaches you more than a win ever can. Not just about tennis, either. If you can lose and handle your emotions then you’re a sportsman. And that’s what Kipling’s talking about in the poem. A sportsman knows how to handle winning and losing, and that’s what I want you to be. Not just a tennis player, but a sportsman.’

  I bite my lip, thinking about what he said.

  ‘Sometimes,’ says Granddad, ‘I wish you’d lose more.’

  I look at him, surprised. ‘Really?’

  ‘Well, not really.’ He smiles. ‘But remember that good things do come out of a loss. If I didn’t lose that day, you would never have been born.’

  That spins me out. I was born because Granddad lost? Does that mean my career is cursed or blessed? Besides, I didn’t think anything good came from losing. So far it’s only led to sleepless nights and Dad giving me a hard time.

  Granddad must see the confused look on my face. ‘I’m not saying go out there and lose on purpose. Heck, I love watching you win. I’m just saying don’t be scared of losing. Don’t let it rule your life.’

  I bite my lip and look down at my $200 tennis shoes. They didn’t cost a cent because being state champ, I get ten free pairs a year.

  I want to tell Granddad that it’s too late, that winning already rules my life.

  I open my mouth to speak. ‘Let’s do another drill.’

  He narrows his eyes and studies me for a few seconds.

  ‘Sure.’

  Chapter Fourteen

  Getting to sleep has become as tough as playing a five-set match against Rafa on clay. Tonight I’ve done:

  ■ Three sets of six clap push-ups

  ■ Three sets of twenty-four sit-ups

  ■ Three sets of six lunges holding 2.5 kilogram dumbbells in each hand

  ■ Three sets of six repetitions of the phrase, ‘I can. I will. I must.’

  ■ Three sets of six flicking light switches on and off

  ■ Three sets of six touches of my 36 trophies.

  If that isn’t bad enough, a few times I lost count so I had to do the set all over again.

  At state squad tonight I played a practice set against Jenna. I had to bounce the ball six times before each serve, and if the last bounce didn’t feel right, I had to bounce it six more. That’s probably why I won. Jenna was bored to death.

  I should be asleep by now but the rituals haven’t relaxed me like they usually do. My mind is on overdrive, thinking about my racket bag underneath the bed. This is what it’s saying:

  The strings in your rackets are crooked.

  If your strings are crooked you’ll have no control over the ball and you’ll lose the New South Wales State Title.

  If you lose the New South Wales State Title, Granddad will die.

  Have you ever been lying in bed and suddenly wondered if the door to your house was locked? And then thought that if you didn’t check it, you’d wake up in the middle of the night to find someone standing over you with an axe?

  Well, that’s what my life has become, except the axeman won’t chop off my head, he’s not that fair. He’ll chop off Granddad’s.

  I don’t want to get up and straighten my strings. I want to sleep. But I know that if I don’t obey the thought I’ll be nauseous and awake half the night, worrying. Because if I don’t do it and something bad happens to Granddad, it’ll be my fault. It’ll be like I killed him.

  I slide wearily out of bed, turn on a light that will take at least six times longer to turn off, and pull out my racket bag. It has three compartments and I unzip the middle one, pulling out a shiny, almost-new racket.

  The strings aren’t exactly crooked. But they’re not perfectly straight either. At least, not according to my mind.

  After ten minutes of pushing and pulling, I’m finally happy with how they look.

  But my stomach falls when I realise something.

  I have six rackets.

  By racket number three my fingertips are red raw.

  But I can’t stop.

  Racket number five has a split in a top grommet and one of the main strings won’t line up absolutely straight.

  But it has to.

  My fingers are leaking blood now and my insides are a tight ball of panic and pain. My head becomes heavy and feels like it belongs to someone else. It’s like the trophy presentation when I floated outside my own body — I’m awake in a dream world, except it’s no dream. It’s a nightmare.

  Finally, I get the strings straight, and take out the last racket.

  I look at it.

  My head aches and I feel faint. If I don’t take a break, I’m going to pass out.

  I force myself to stand and walk to my desk, where I have a sip of water. In my odds-and-ends tray is a business card, and I reach down and pick it up. The bottom edge of the white card turns red from the blood on my fingers.

  This reminds me of watching a video in Health and PE class today. It was of a baby being born and had its fair share of blood. The teacher said it was to educate us about new life, but I reckon it was to scare the girls into never having sex. The lady was pushing and screaming but this creature wouldn’t come out of her.

  Students were covering their eyes and squealing in pain — even though they were only watching.

  But then as soon as the baby was born the lady wasn’t hurting anymore. She looked happy, even though the baby was crying.

  Every fibre of my being wants to go back to bed and straighten the strings on the last racket. But then the baby will still be inside me.

  I go to the bathroom and wash my fingers and face. I wipe the card with a tissue.

  All I want is for my life to fast-forward a month. I want to win the NSW State Title, I want Granddad to be okay, and then I want me to be okay.

  But what if the rituals and thoughts don’t go away? What then?

  I leave the bathroom and hesitate. It’s left to my room. Right to the spiral staircase that leads downstairs.

  I remember what Kayla said. How could I have a good life when I was only thinking about myself? I needed help.

  Soon, Kayla is going to say if she likes me. But how can anyone like me when there’s a part of myself that I hate?

  I’ve always been one to figure out my own problems, to fight my own battles. But this is like World War Three.

  I go right.

  Dad is working late tonight and Mum is curled in front of the TV. She’s drinking something hot, steam rising from her mug.

  ‘Mum?’

  ‘Yes, darl.’

  ‘Can you do something for me?’

  She tilts her head back, a questioning look on her face.

  I hand her the business card. ‘Could you give this guy a call? Please?’

  Her eyes flicker from my face to my fingers and I know that she knows something is very wrong. It’s probably because I’m not trying to hide it anymore.

  And then the pressure of the last few months suddenly pops like a new can of tennis balls and Mum’s holding me in her arms and stroking me and telling me not to worry.

  ‘Whatever it is, baby, it will be okay.’

  I like being called ‘baby’ and I feel safe and the next thing I know I wake up to the front door opening, my head on Mum’s lap.

  Dad’s home.

  ‘What’s going on?’ he asks.

  I sit up. ‘I want to tell you and Mum something.’

  ‘What?’

  I’d like to tell them about Grandma but I’m not ready. I don’t know if I ever will be ready for that.

  ‘I need … ’ I hesitate.

  ‘What?’ asks Dad. ‘A physio? A chiro? A masseur?’

  ‘No. I need
help.’

  Chapter Fifteen

  My parents and I sit in a large office. There are comfy chairs, framed certificates sitting on top of bookcases filled with hundreds of books, but what I’m most impressed with are the tennis photos on the wall — one in particular.

  It’s Malcolm Fox with his arm around the shoulder of a player named Andre.

  I look at the real-life version of the man. Well, not Andre, but Dr Fox.

  He has frizzy black hair which is greying at the sides, but he looks fit enough to run around the court for a few hours. His hands are resting behind his head which makes the muscles in his shoulders pop out of his white business shirt like plums.

  He’s looking at me, too. ‘Your mum said it was your idea to come here. What would you like to talk about, Marcus?’

  I think for a second. ‘Well, I reckon I’m going crazy.

  He doesn’t laugh, which is a good start.

  ‘Hmmm,’ he says. ‘Why’s that?’

  ‘I’ve started doing weird things, like touching my trophies six times before I go to bed’

  ‘Okay. Anything else?’

  ‘Yeah. I bounce the ball six times before I serve, I stretch my toes six times when I drive past a billboard, and I flick the light switch on and off six times before I go to sleep.’

  There’s a moment of silence before Dad breaks it. ‘Do you wipe your bum six times when you go to the toilet?’

  ‘Bill! Stop it!’ Mum’s not happy.

  ‘Come on, Helen,’ says Dad. ‘I’m just trying to lighten the mood.’

  ‘It’s probably not the right time,’ Dr Fox says, looking at Dad.

  ‘Sorry,’ Dad mumbles.

  Dad didn’t really want to come here, but Mum put her foot down. The fact that Dr Fox is a sports psychologist helped convince him. Dad probably hopes I’ll become mentally tougher on the court.

  ‘Are you doing these things for a reason?’ Dr Fox asks me.

  I nod.

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘Well, I’d rather not say. It’s pretty stupid.’

  ‘Try me.’

  ‘Okay.’ I take a breath. ‘I think that if I don’t do the routines, I won’t win the New South Wales State Title and … ’