Lucky Loser

by Yolanda Wallace

  “I played Stuttgart and Rome and won a grand total of three matches. I’m tempted to ask the tournament organizers in Madrid to use one of their special exemptions and give me a wild card into the event even though I missed the entry deadline, but what’s the point? I’ve played great going into Paris and lost early; I’ve played lousy beforehand and made the semifinals. Whatever happens happens. I’ve come to terms with it. The clay court season and I have a love-hate relationship. It loves to punish me and I hate to see that part of the calendar roll around. Maybe I should take a page from your book and wait for Wimbledon.”

  “Talk about jumping out of the frying pan into the fire.”

  Clay was the most forgiving surface to play on, but the long matches tested players’ endurance. The French Open was played on slow red clay topped with a layer of crushed brick. After the two-week event ended, weary warriors had less than a month to prepare for their next test. And the next test was a stern one.

  Wimbledon was a different animal from any other tournament. The event’s physical challenge was daunting enough. The only major played on a living surface, Wimbledon’s grass courts changed from year to year and even—depending on the weather—from day to day. By tournament’s end, bad bounces wreaked havoc on rallies and bare patches made footing treacherous. At Wimbledon, where one court was nicknamed the Graveyard of Champions, the old saying that it was better to be lucky than good never applied more.

  Despite those obstacles, at Wimbledon, the tennis itself was the easy part. Waiting out the rain delays, dealing with the backlog of matches caused by the dodgy weather, and being hounded by Fleet Street’s numerous tabloid journalists was the hard part. Waiting hours—and sometimes days—to complete a match was tough enough. Throw in inflammatory headlines in the newspapers, inane questions in the press conferences, and unscrupulous reporters lurking in the shadows trying to manufacture controversy for the sake of a story, and it was tantamount to mental torture.

  “Are you going to be able to play Wimbledon this year?” Laure asked.

  “I’m going to use the qualifying tournament at Roehampton to see if I’m well enough to compete. If I qualify for Wimbledon, I’ll play. But I’m not going to take a wild card. I don’t want any handouts. Injury or no injury, I want to earn my spot.”

  If Sinjin wasn’t accepting any of the spots set aside for promising young players and older ones attempting comebacks, that meant the Rainbow Brigade wouldn’t be reuniting any time soon. Sinjin had cut back on her doubles the past couple of years to protect her balky knees. Laure rarely played doubles at all so she could concentrate on singles. Her singles ranking was in the top ten, but her doubles ranking was so low she and Sinjin wouldn’t be able to enter the Wimbledon doubles tournament without qualifying. Laure couldn’t afford to waste energy playing the quallies. Not when she had only one more shot at winning the Ladies’ Plate.

  “Your ranking isn’t high enough to earn you direct entry into the singles? You’ve won two tournaments this year.”

  “Those were on the challenger circuit, where I had the distinct pleasure of calling my own lines, stealing fruit from the hospitality suite, and boarding with any generous family who would take me in because I couldn’t afford a hotel room.”

  “What happened to your endorsement contracts?”

  “I still have deals for racquets and strings, but my clothing company dumped me in April because I couldn’t get my ranking back into the top fifty. A ‘cost-cutting measure,’ they called it. I was barely able to walk earlier this year, let alone win tennis matches. As for training, forget it. All I could do when I wasn’t playing was manage the pain. After a while, even that wasn’t enough. The tendonitis in my knees started getting worse, not better. I wanted to wait until the off-season to do something about it, but the way my body felt, there was no way I would have been able to make it to the off-season in one piece. Then I heard about PRP.”

  Laure grimaced again. PRP therapy was effective. Its recipients swore by it, but it sounded positively barbaric. During the procedure, doctors drew vials of patients’ blood, separated it, and injected platelet-rich plasma directly into the affected tendons. Even if the treatment worked wonders as advertised, the thought of someone sticking needles into her knees gave Laure the creeps.

  “For a while, I thought my career was over,” Sinjin said. “It still might be, but at least I’ve given myself a chance. If the therapy works, I might be able to play for five more years. If not, you could see me in the broadcast booth in a couple of months.”

  Laure remembered all the late-night Skype sessions. “Or in the coaching ranks.”

  “No way,” Sinjin said with a wink. “Tennis players are too hard to deal with. Haven’t you heard? They’re all divas and drama queens.”

  “Speak for yourself. I’ve never caused my coaches any sleepless nights.”

  “I would tell you to pull the other leg, but neither one is feeling too good right now.”

  “Are you taking anything for the pain?”

  Sinjin moved around on the bed as if she were trying to find a more comfortable position. “There’s a list of acceptable painkillers I could take, but I don’t want to risk failing a drug test. You know how the rumor mill is. Even if the screw-up was the doctor’s fault and I had a valid medical reason for taking what he gave me, I’d never be able to clear my name.”

  When Sinjin changed positions again, Laure fluffed the pillows under her knees. “How bad is the pain?” she asked, taking note of the fine sheen of sweat on Sinjin’s forehead.

  “On a scale of one to ten, it’s about an eleven. My doctors warned me that the sites of the injections would be sore for up to a couple of weeks. They also said the ‘discomfort’ I felt prior to the procedure would worsen after it due to the increased fluid and pressure in the area. They conveniently forgot to mention the pain wouldn’t be just a little bit worse but exponentially so. Some days I feel like an animal caught in a trap, tempted to chew my legs off in order to make the ache go away. But if it gets me back in the top twenty, I’m willing to bite the bullet.”

  Laure sifted through the get well cards on the bed. Some were from players. Most were from fans. All were from the many women who had shared Sinjin’s bed over the years. Laure reached for another card. The illustration on the front of the card depicted Snoopy and Woodstock wearing headbands and tennis whites, vintage wooden racquets in their hands. The handwritten message inside the card read, If you wanted to avoid losing to me yet again, my love, there are easier things you could have done—Viktoriya. Laure held up the card. “Has she come to see you?”

  Sinjin snorted. “Why would she?”

  “You’ve been friends for ten years. You were lovers for—”

  “We weren’t lovers. Sex was a game for her. A way to get under my skin off the court so she could control me on it. I’m taking a page from your book. As long as I live, I will never sleep with another player.”

  “I’ll believe that when I see it.” Laure tossed the card back on the pile.

  As a rule, she didn’t date players, their coaches, or their trainers. The tour was too small and life was too short. She preferred to limit the drama to her matches and keep it as far away from her personal life as possible. Two ultra-competitive people in the same household didn’t work. Mireille had helped her learn that lesson firsthand. Everything was a contest. Even sex felt like a race. Who could make who come faster. Who could hold out longer. She was ready to live life at her own pace. She was done with competing.

  “Did you know Viktoriya hired David away from me?” Sinjin asked.

  “Your coach? Viktoriya’s number one in the world. Why would she change coaches?”

  “Because it gave her a chance to screw with my head like she always does. When David called to tell me he was jumping ship, he said she told him I wasn’t going to be using his services anytime soon and she didn’t want his skills to go to waste.”

  “Are you looking for a new coach? I know Roger
Federer played without one for a while, but he was a special case. His wife’s a former player so he could talk strategy with her and he had enough people around him to put someone else in charge of making hotel reservations and booking departure times for his private jet. Who’s going to do that for you?”

  “The last time I looked, I was using public transportation, not private planes.”

  “You know what I mean. Who’s going to handle the day-to-day stuff while you’re grinding it out on the practice court?”

  “I’ll cross that bridge when I come to it. The first thing I have to do is find out if I can play. If I can’t, the point is moot. If I can, I’m thinking of reaching out to Andrew Grey. He discovered me when I was a kid. He knows my game better than anyone. Even though he’s retired now, I might be able to talk him into some kind of temporary arrangement until I can figure some things out.” Sinjin picked up Viktoriya’s card and flung it across the room. “Talk about rubbing salt in the wound.” She ducked her head to meet Laure’s downcast eyes. “I think this is the part where you’re supposed to say, ‘I told you so.’”

  Laure squeezed her hand. “I’ll wait until you’re back on your feet. At the moment, it’s just too easy.”

  Sinjin pulled away. “It’s just a matter of time, you know. As soon as I’m healthy again, the groupies will come flocking back. And I’ll welcome them with open arms.” She smiled as if the statement were something to be proud of.

  “Were you really thinking about quitting?”

  “Not by choice. I fought tooth and nail to become a professional. I wasn’t about to throw it away at the first sign of adversity. Out of the millions of people who play tennis, there are only one hundred who play it better than I do. For a while, that number was even smaller. With a bit of luck and a lot of hard work, it can be again. Tennis has been a part of my life for as long as I can remember. It’s something I’ve done day in, day out for twenty years. It’s all I’ve known since I was five years old. I’m a tennis player. That’s all I’ve ever wanted to be. That’s all I know how to do. I won’t give up my identity without a fight.”

  Laure could feel Sinjin’s fire. How long had it been since she’d felt the same spirit burning inside her? “I wish I had your passion.”

  “You do.”

  “I did once. It’s gone now.”

  Sinjin sat up straighter. “Don’t tell me you’re thinking about retiring.”

  “I’m no longer thinking. I’ve already made the decision. This is my last year on tour. You may have thought I was joking when I said I should trade tennis for winemaking, but I was serious.”

  “But you’re still in the top ten. You’re number seven in the world. Why would you retire now?”

  Sinjin sounded incredulous that Laure would walk away from the game when she was still so close to the top, but she had reached the end of her string.

  “I’m twenty-seven years old. Twenty-seven used to be the prime of a tennis player’s life. Now it’s the time to start thinking about life after your playing days are over. There’s only one way for me to go from here and that’s down. The game’s getting faster. The players are getting bigger. I’m never going to be any taller than five-eight. It’s harder for me to generate power than it is for you Amazons.”

  “Have you told anyone?”

  “Just you and my parents. I don’t plan on saying anything to anyone else until after I’ve played my last match. It’s going to be so hard knowing every time I walk into an arena could be the last time I play there. I don’t want the extra pressure of everyone else knowing it, too.”

  Sinjin seemed more upset by the prospect of Laure’s retirement than she did. She wasn’t surprised. Sinjin was the most competitive person she had ever met. She hated to lose at anything, whether on or off the court.

  “Why now?” Sinjin asked.

  “I’ve won three Grand Slam singles titles, I’ve been ranked number one, and I’ve made more money than I could ever hope to spend. What’s left for me to do?”

  “Win the French Open?”

  “Like that’s ever going to happen.”

  Each May meant agony for Laure as she struggled to win matches at the only Grand Slam event she had never claimed. Her career-best finish at her country’s national championship was a semifinal when she was nineteen. She had lost to eventual champion Justine Henin, the diminutive player who won the title four times in a five-year span. Laure hadn’t been past the third round since that memorable run, succumbing time and time again to the pressure of playing in front of her hometown crowd.

  She had finished the previous year as the fifth-ranked woman, but her ranking had recently dropped two spots as she wavered between being satisfied with her career and hungering for more. Her breaks from the tour were becoming longer and more frequent as she began to devote more of her time to the property she owned in Saint Tropez. When she wasn’t maintaining her vineyard, she was using its bounty to add more bottles to her extensive wine collection.

  “When your avocation gives you more satisfaction than your vocation, that’s a telltale sign it’s time to exit stage left.”

  Sinjin fingered the stylized fleur de lis on the bottle of Beaujolais. “In one way or another, we’re all chasing perfection. Most of us never achieve it, especially in sports.” She sounded uncharacteristically introspective. Then again, she’d had plenty of time to think. “There are worse things you could do than spend your life trying to make the perfect bottle of wine. If you need help stomping grapes or taste testing the finished results, you know where to find me.”

  “I might take you up on that.”

  Laure tried to imagine harvesting next year’s crops with Sinjin at her side. The image was almost laughable. City girl Sinjin would be bored silly on the vast pastoral estate Laure called home. In less than a day, she’d turn tail and run back to South Beach. Play hard and party harder was her motto for a reason.

  “I can’t believe you’re retiring,” Sinjin said. “What are you going to miss most?”

  “Not the travel, that’s for sure. If I never see the inside of another airport after this year, that’s fine with me. I’ll miss all the people I’ve met. All the friends I’ve made, present company included. Friends like you are what I’m going to have problems letting go of, not the lifestyle.”

  “We’ll still see each other, won’t we?”

  “All the time,” Laure said with more conviction than she felt. She had never met anyone who loved tennis as much as Sinjin did. For Laure, practicing and playing were work. For Sinjin, they were more like play. Laure hated the constant travel, but Sinjin seemed addicted to it. If her body held up, she probably wouldn’t stop playing until someone pried the racquet from her cold, dead hands. When Laure put her own racquets down at the end of the year, she had no idea when or if she might pick them up again.

  “I hope you’re hungry. Stephanie’s making her world famous paella tonight.”

  “World famous, huh? Sounds like I picked the perfect day to visit.”

  Sinjin reached for the bottle of wine. “Beaujolais goes with seafood, doesn’t it?”

  “Beaujolais goes with everything.”

  Sinjin swung her legs to the side of the bed. Laure helped her to her feet. In obvious pain, Sinjin took a cautious step forward and wrapped her arms around her neck. “I’ve missed you.”

  “Same here.” Laure returned Sinjin’s hug. “Hurry back, okay? The tour isn’t the same without you.”

  “Come January, I’ll be saying the same to you.” Sinjin leaned on Laure for support as they slowly made their way to the dining room.

  “You won’t even know I’m gone.”

  “Bullshit. I’m going to be lost without you. The highlight of my career is winning the U.S. Open doubles title with you. You’re my claim to fame.”

  “Do I get a medal for that?”

  “More like my eternal gratitude.”

  “If that’s the best you can do.”

  “Bitch.” Laughing
, Sinjin took a playful swat at Laure’s shoulder.

  “That’s a sound I haven’t heard in far too long,” Stephanie said. “Laure, I may have to keep you around.”

  Laure’s eyes flicked from Stephanie to Sinjin and back again. “There’s nowhere else I’d rather be.”

  Qualifying

  Sinjin resumed training three weeks after the procedure. Her first practice session was both exhausting and frustrating. She shanked so many balls she felt like a weekend hacker instead of a seasoned pro. But there was good news: the pain she had felt for the past eleven months was gone. Had she found salvation in time to take advantage of it or had she missed her opportunity?

  “Dig, dig, dig!”

  Grunting with exertion, her body bathed in sweat, Sinjin fought against the resistance band that was holding her back. The workout was sheer torture. God, how she had missed it.

  The day before, Laure had won the French Open. Watching the tearful scene on television, Sinjin had sent her a congratulatory text message. Laure’s response? Now it’s your turn.

  To take her turn, to claim her sport’s Holy Grail and win Wimbledon in front of her countrymen, Sinjin would have to start from the bottom and work her way up. Was she up to the task?

  Her trainer, clutching the ends of the giant elastic band wrapped around Sinjin’s waist, hung on for dear life as Sinjin dragged her around the practice court.

  “Ten more steps!” Kendall Worthington called out. “Make them count! That’s it. Five, four, three, two, last one. Time!” When Kendall let go of the resistance band, she and Sinjin tumbled laughing to the ground.

  Sinjin remained where she landed, her muscles and lungs burning too much to move. Kendall recovered first, then reached down and pulled Sinjin to her feet.