by Pat Flynn
I move deep behind the baseline and hit off the back foot, which any tennis coach will tell you is not the best way to hit a powerful shot.
I’m not after power. Brushing up the back of the ball like I’m trying to slap a mozzie that’s landed in my left ear, I whip up a topspin lob that sails over Jett’s outstretched racket and lands close to the line.
The umpire puts his hand out flat, to indicate the ball is in.
The crowd claps and my nerves dissolve.
Game on.
The first set is a corker.
In junior tennis, most points end with an unforced error, but in this match it seems like either Jett or I have to come up with a winner to get the score. He does it with his serve and volley, mostly, and I use my topspin forehands and backhands to move him out of court before flattening out winners down the line.
It’s like Granddad said, the better he plays, the better I have to play, and I’ve never felt more focussed. My eyes follow the ball like it’s the best looking girl in the world. Like it’s Kayla.
The set goes to a tie-break and neither of us blinks until he double-faults at 5-6, handing me the set in a gift-wrapped package. He chucks his racket into the side fence and gets an official warning.
I reckon he better schedule another appointment to see Foxy.
First set me.
Second set weird.
The feeling I hated most over the last few months was when my mind seemed to separate from my body. It would come out of nowhere — a stabbing sensation behind my eyes would make my head heavy and I’d get sucked into the darkness of my own mind like it was a black hole. Next I’d be standing beside myself, watching, or other times I’d be still in my body but seeing the world out of focus, like in a fog.
This would scare the hell out of me — my palms would sweat Gatorade and my breaths become short and sharp.
In other words, I’d panic.
Since I’ve been doing the relaxation exercises with Tina the out of body experiences have pretty much gone away.
Until now.
It’s early in the second set and I slice a backhand approach shot up the line. Jett whips a cross-court passing shot and hits it clean as spring water, the ball dipping and fizzing centimetres over the net.
I have almost no chance, until everything starts happening in slow motion, like someone has pressed a button on the remote.
As I go wide for a low forehand volley I almost do the splits and, believe me, I’m no dancer. I hit a drop volley winner.
The crowd goes crazy.
‘Great shot!’ yells my dad.
For once, he isn’t exaggerating. It was the best shot of my life.
At different times during the set, one part of me watches another part come up with the most incredible shots I’ve ever hit. I finesse a drop shot from behind the baseline that spins back into the net, pull out a ridiculous behind-the-back reflex-volley winner, and chasing down a lob I go for a between-the-legs slap shot which flies past an open-mouthed Jett.
He drops his racket and pretends to pull down his pants. I don’t take offence because:
A. He’s smiling.
B. I’d pull down my pants too if he did the same thing to me.
The thing is, I can’t even take the credit because it’s not me. It’s like the spirit of Federer has entered my left arm and all I can do is enjoy it while it lasts.
It’s the polar opposite of when I was stressed. This time separating from my body isn’t something to fear. It’s something to marvel.
At 5-2 up, I know I’ve got him. Jett is still playing well, it’s just that I’m playing better. I hit two slice serves on the line and then casually flick a half-volley winner to go up 40-0.
Three match points. The title is practically mine.
Which is why I walk to the net and say, ‘Jett. Could you come here, please?’
He hesitates, which isn’t entirely unexpected, and behind him I can see the confusion on Dad’s face. I’m sure he’s thinking, ‘You’ve mixed up the score, Marcus. You have to win another point before you shake hands.’
I grimace. Dad’s going to freak out when he sees what I’m about to do.
Jett stands in front of me, a guarded look on his face. What I’m about to say goes against every competitive fibre in my body and I think about changing my mind, but know I can’t.
‘No disrespect to you, Jett. It’s been a great match. But I’m forfeiting.’
He doesn’t move.
‘You win.’ I hold out my hand. ‘Thanks for playing.’
He doesn’t shake but looks at me suspiciously. ‘What are you talking about?’
‘It’s hard to explain … ’ I try to find the right words but it’s not easy. ‘There’s something I really need to find out, and if I win this tournament, I never will.’ I run a hand through my hair. This is harder than I thought. ‘I know it doesn’t make any sense but you’d be doing me a favour if you took this match.’
‘I don’t want to win this way.’
We face each other in an awkward silence. I’m sure the umpire is very confused.
Then Jett shrugs. ‘But I s’pose you gotta do what you gotta do.’
He reaches out and shakes my hand firmly. We meet each other’s eyes with respect.
‘It’ll never happen again,’ I say. ‘I promise.’
‘Good.’ He smiles. ‘Next time I want to beat you fair and square.’
Chapter Eighteen
The deep blue sky is lined with wispy white strips. On the horizon, a billowy cloud is building, like a herd of fluffy, dirty sheep. It might storm.
But it might not.
Right now it’s perfect for tennis. Warm with a slight breeze to cool things down, but not enough wind to wobble the ball around in the air.
I’m working on groundstrokes; more specifically, finding a speed that I can rally with that is powerful but still consistent. The sweat is just starting to break through my skin, glistening on my arms and legs. The only sound I hear is the shuffling of feet and the pinging of the ball off polyester strings.
‘C’mon! Move!’
And the occasional yelps of Granddad.
Before, tennis was something to perfect so I could win. I didn’t so much enjoy it as endure it. Don’t get me wrong, I did love it. But it was the love a two-year-old has for his cat. I gave it too much attention, worried that it could run away at any moment and leave me with nothing.
Now, I’m enjoying tennis for what it is — exercise with a shot of adrenalin, a chance to challenge myself to stay relaxed under pressure, a chance to maybe travel the world one day and make a living.
But despite all of this, today I’m playing like a dog. The goal is to make ten balls in a row into the target area and I keep getting stuck on six.
I hit a forehand into the middle of the net and Granddad cuts off the drill with a chop across his neck.
We stop for a drink.
‘You must be having a growth spurt or something,’ he says. ‘You keep catching the ball late.’
He’s right. I’m three years late. But better late than never.
‘Do you miss Grandma?’ I ask.
He looks at me, surprised. ‘Every single day.’
‘Me too.’
There’s a pause. I use it to build up my courage.
‘Best person I ever laid eyes on’ Granddad adds, toying with his wedding ring. ‘I’m lucky I got fifty good years, but I’d trade anything for one more.’
Guilt stabs at my chest like a sword.
‘I need to tell you something,’ I say.
He waits.
‘Do you remember the night she died?’
He shrugs. ‘Bits and pieces.’
I remember it perfectly. Grandma was not long out of hospital but she seemed sicker than ever, coughing and out of breath. She and Granddad were staying with us but Dad said I wasn’t allowed to see her so she could rest. This frightened me.
I jog Granddad’s memory. ‘You were in the
lounge talking to Mum and Dad, and I kept getting out of bed, wanting to check that everything was okay.’
He looks up and to the left, thinking back. ‘Yeah, I remember. I think you felt the worry in the air.’
I stumble on. ‘After a while, Dad got angry and told me not to leave my room again. But I did.’
He pulls his chin back, surprised.
‘I snuck into Grandma’s room to check on her. She was breathing quickly and I held her hand. I remember thinking how small it was.’
Granddad nods. He knew her hands better than anyone.
‘Then everything stopped.’
He’s confused. ‘What do you mean?’
My voice becomes shaky. ‘Her breathing. Her fingers squeezing mine. Everything.’
There’s silence until a crow on the fence lets out a cry.
‘You could have been mistaken.’ Granddad says. ‘She might have gone to sleep and passed on later that night. You were only … what? Eight?’
‘Ten. And I had my first aid certificate. I know what I saw.’
He nods and I can tell he believes me.
‘What did you do?’ he asks.
‘I crept back to my room. A few hours later I heard the ambulance show up. When Mum knocked on my door, I wasn’t surprised.’
‘Why didn’t you say anything … ?’
My fog-free sunglasses are misting up so I take them off and am dazed by the brightness of the sun. I close my eyes.
‘Too scared, I guess. I was supposed to be in my room.’
It’s still bright so I cover my eyes with my hands. ‘I keep thinking that maybe it’s my fault that she died. Seeing me might have stressed her out, like Dad said.’
‘No, Marcus. She was dying no matter what.’
‘How do you know? Maybe I sped it up — ‘
‘No.’ His voice becomes firmer. ‘I can show you her last lung scan. They had more spots on them than a leopard. She never smoked a day in her life but for years she worked in a bar where lots of people did. The cancer took hold and wasn’t letting go.’
I don’t say anything. No one ever told me she had cancer. I just thought she was really sick.
Granddad lays a hand on my shoulder. ‘It was her time. Understand?’
The sun disappears behind a cloud and it feels like a sharp knife has been cut out of my chest.
‘Yep.’ I nod. ‘I do.’
We go back on the court and play a baseline game.
‘I get the whole court.’ says Granddad, ‘and you get half.’
Before I can tell him that’s unfair he feeds me the ball. I’m not ready so I miss the first shot.
‘One-love’ he says.
I shake my head, but there’s a little smile on my face. A determined smile.
I’m glad I experienced these last six months. I’ve learnt that nothing is certain and I’ll never have total control over my life. If I played Rafael Nadal tomorrow it wouldn’t matter how many times I counted to six or touched my drink bottle, he’d still win.
I’ve accepted that bad things will happen, like losing tennis matches and losing the girl of my dreams.
Last week at the shopping centre my heart nearly leapt out of my throat when I saw Kayla. Then, just as quickly, it sank to my wobbly knees.
Her fingers were wrapped in the hands of another boy.
I tried to disappear behind Mum but they saw me and yelled out and came over to say hi. They asked Mum if I could go with them to the food court while she did her shopping and when she said yes I couldn’t exactly say no.
Matt lined up to buy drinks while Kayla explained.
‘I like you heaps’ she said, glancing at me in short, sharp bursts. ‘But Matthew and I still have something between us and I need to find out what it is. That’s what I came over to tell you that day but we ended up talking about other things.’
I nodded. ‘I feel stupid.’
She put a hand on my arm. ‘Don’t. You’re really special to me.’ She smiled. ‘And Matthew thinks you’re the bee’s knees so you have to hang out with us. Lots.’
Matt came back with the best banana smoothie I’ve ever tasted. He’s a hard bloke to hate. And after hanging out, against all my competitive instincts, it actually felt okay to see the two of them together.
Matt better not slip up, though, ‘cause I’ll be waiting.
I’m the one who’s slipping and sliding right now, however, because Granddad’s got the ball on a string and he jerks me around the court with slice and dink shots like he’s the operator and I’m the puppet.
‘You need to battle harder’ he says, after shooting out to an early lead.
I hit a deep backhand that gets him on the back foot which I follow up with an angle winner. I’m fighting, all right.
I’m fighting to accept that people close to me won’t live forever. I need to remember that I’m lucky to have known Grandma rather than be sad about her all the time. She wouldn’t have wanted that.
Hopefully, one day I’ll even be able to say the ‘D’ word without cringing. The one that rhymes with breath.
Although I’m not ready for it, I know that even Granddad will die one day.
‘Gotcha!’ He hits a drop shot winner and laughs like a little kid.
But I don’t think it’ll be today.
‘Seven-four!’
I keep focussed but it’s not a fair fight. With only half the court to work with I can’t run him around much and have to hope he misses.
‘Yes!’
Granddad never misses. He hits another drop shot winner to finish me off.
Far out! I’ll never hear the end of it.
We shake hands.
‘So how’s it feel to lose to an old man?’ he asks.
‘It’s a disaster’ I say. ‘But … ’
‘But what?’
I give him a wink. ‘I’ve met with triumph and disaster. I’m going to treat those two imposters just the same.’
His wrinkled face breaks open and he squeezes my shoulder. ‘You’re a sportsman.’
My chest puffs with pride.
Acknowledgments
The following books were helpful in my research for
The Trophy Kid.
Helping Your Child With OCD by Pedrick Fitzgibbon.
Too Good – The Scott Draper Story by Scott Draper
with Suzi Petkovski and Michael Fox.
Life In Rewind by Terry Weible Murphy
with Edward E. Zine and Michael Jenike, M.D.
First published 2010 by University of Queensland Press
PO Box 6042, St Lucia, Queensland 4067 Australia
www.uqp.com.au
© Pat Flynn
www.patlfynnwriter.com
This book is copyright. Except for private study, research, criticism or reviews, as permitted under the Copyright Act, no part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any foram or by any means without prior written permission. Enquiries should be made to the publisher.
Typeset by Peripheral Vision
Cataloguing in Publication Data
National Library of Australia
Flynn, Pat
The Trophy Kid
For primary school age.
I. Title.
A823.4
ISBN 9780702238406 (pbk)
ISBN 9780702238055 (pdf)
ISBN 9780702258114 (epub)
ISBN 9780702258121 (kindle)
