Lucky Loser

by Yolanda Wallace

  In Miami, Chandler had entered her third-round match with Sinjin looking past it to a quarterfinal showdown with Blake. Like the Williams sisters, the Freeman sisters hated playing each other. The ratings for the matches were always off the charts, but so was the emotional turmoil they experienced before, during, and after the clashes. For Chandler, having to defeat her sister in order to win a tournament, maintain her ranking, and keep her sponsors happy put an entirely new spin on the term sibling rivalry. At the end of the day, she and Blake were family. Between the lines, she was supposed to put family ties aside. Sometimes she was able to do so. When she was in the zone, the familiar face she saw across the net belonged not to her sister but a nameless opponent. Most times, though, she saw the big sister who had protected her, taken her under her wing, and taught her how to be a pro. Chandler led their head-to-head meetings thirteen to twelve, but Blake, better able to suppress the emotions that churned up whenever she played her sister, had won the last three matches.

  Chandler had seemed almost grateful when her loss to Sinjin in Miami had prevented another set-to with her sister. That was the upside. The downside was the win had given Sinjin confidence. It had taken away Chandler’s edge, the intangible advantage most top-ranked players had when they faced off against lower-ranked ones. That edge usually earned the higher-ranked players at least three games before play even started. Without her edge, Chandler was meeting Sinjin on an even playing field. And Sinjin had home court advantage.

  Everyone watching seemed to sense Sinjin’s self-belief start to grow. Where was the player who was always down on herself? The one whose game fell apart if she missed a shot or a call didn’t go her way? That player had ceased to exist. In her place stood a woman who finally looked ready to go all the way.

  In a hole despite being in a groove on her first serve, Chandler delivered a one hundred twenty-eight mile an hour ace down the middle. “Yes!” she shouted as if she had just reached match point.

  On the next point, Chandler hit her biggest serve of the day. The speed gun flashed one hundred thirty-two. Sinjin’s return was nearly as fast. Stepping into her forehand the way Andrew was always begging her to, she won the point with one swing.

  The shot also won her the set. She easily held serve in the next game to stretch her lead to 2-0 and went on to claim the first set 6-4.

  *

  The dominant serving evident in the first set continued to manifest itself in the second, neither player able to earn more than two points on the other’s serve in a game.

  After Chandler held at love to go up five games to four, the fourth time in as many games that the server had held without sacrificing a point, Laure got a sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach. Now was the time when Chandler normally made her move. When she snatched victory away from someone who seemed to be closing in on a win.

  Sinjin hadn’t been broken in the match—hadn’t even faced break point—but if she lost her serve in the next game, it could cost her the match. Sinjin had fought so hard the whole tournament, her play improving by leaps and bounds each day. She seemed to be peaking at just the right time, but would it be enough?

  “Well, well, well,” her mother said. “Look who’s here.”

  “Who?”

  Her mother pointed toward the north stands. “Third seat, fifth row.”

  Laure counted seats until she located Viktoriya. Dressed in a tight-fitting T-shirt that said, “It’s Good to be Queen,” she seemed to be scouting her next opponent. Laure suspected she had something else in mind.

  Viktoriya was safely through to the finals while Chandler and Sinjin struggled to decide who would join her. Chandler was too mentally tough to be shaken by Viktoriya’s presence—or her studied calm. Was Sinjin?

  *

  Chandler and Sinjin had reached the business end of the set, the stretch of games that separated winners from losers. In order to make the leap from competitor to champion, Sinjin would have to find a way to quell the nerves that always seeped into her body when a set reached its crucial stages.

  Her twelfth ace helped quiet the voice in the back of her head. The one that tried to convince her she couldn’t defeat Chandler two times in a row. Her thirteenth ace shut the voice up for good.

  She raced through her service game to pull even at five-all. Chandler was just as precise on her own serve and quickly reclaimed the lead at six-five.

  During the changeover, Sinjin took a couple of sips of water and quickly downed an energy bar. She wouldn’t feel the protein-laden snack’s effects right away, but if the match went to a third set, she would have the boost she needed. If she had anything to say about it, though, the match would end well before the energy bar kicked in.

  She was out of her chair and on the service line before the chair umpire called time. Anxious to cross the finish line, she cautioned herself not to get there too fast. If she got too far ahead of herself, she would be mourning a loss instead of celebrating a victory.

  She fell behind love-thirty, but before the crowd could get too anxious, served her way out of trouble and sealed the game with an unreturnable serve.

  “Six games-all,” the chair umpire said. “Tiebreak. Miss Freeman to serve.”

  The crowd yelled encouragement to both players. Most fans shouted for Sinjin to win in straight sets. Others, wanting a repeat of the thrilling first semifinal, begged for more tennis. Both players were eager to give the crowd what they wanted. While Chandler lived for the drama of a third set, Sinjin wanted to win the match as clinically and dispassionately as possible. With Viktoriya waiting to play the winner, there would be more than enough drama in the final.

  *

  Though she loved the view from the Royal Box, Laure hated the close quarters—and the expectation that those seated there were supposed to cheer equally for both players. She forced herself to downplay her reactions to each point Sinjin won in the tiebreaker in order to comply with the unwritten rule.

  “If this is anything like the set, we could be here all day,” her father said. “Back and forth until someone finally breaks.”

  “That isn’t going to be the case today. Whoever gets to set point first will take it. Either the match will be over in two sets or it’s going to three.”

  She hoped Sinjin would be the one who reached set point first. If Chandler won the second set, she had the game and the mystique to steamroll through the third.

  When the players reached five points-all, the crowd’s cheers grew in intensity. Everyone knew how important the next point would be. The winner would hold either set point or match point.

  Chandler stepped to the line and served a bomb down the middle of the court. The ball looked as if it had landed just beyond the service line, but the linesperson called the ball good. Set point, Chandler. Half the crowd screamed in delight, the other half in despair. Laure felt her palms begin to sweat.

  Sinjin raised her hand in the air as if she were a student asking to be called on by her teacher. “Challenge.”

  The crowd, soaking up the drama, applauded the move.

  “Miss Smythe is challenging the call on the center service line,” the chair umpire said. “The ball was called good.”

  The challenge system was instituted two years after several egregious line calls cost Serena Williams her U.S. Open quarterfinal against Jennifer Capriati. The system was a hit with the fans and most of the players, who were allowed three incorrect challenges per set with an extra one thrown in during a tiebreaker. If a player argued a call and was proven wrong, she lost one of her challenges. If she was proven right, she kept her challenge and the point was replayed.

  Some traditionalists disliked the encroachment of electronic line calling into the historic game, bemoaning the fact that the removal of human error lessened the number of controversies that brought much-needed attention to what had become, for some, a niche sport. Where would tennis be, they wondered, if not for John McEnroe’s infamous tirades over missed calls? The more emotional players
liked the fact that they could put a point behind them instead of stewing over it until it cost them a match.

  Whatever their stance on the challenge system, it hadn’t taken players long to learn to use it to their advantage. Some players disputed calls even when they thought the linespeople were correct. In those cases, the challenges were not made to correct an error but to disrupt an opponent’s rhythm, ruin her concentration, or give her time to think.

  Sinjin didn’t get to use the challenge system often—the equipment was so expensive it was reserved for the show courts, venues where her matches were rarely scheduled. If she won this challenge, the ace would be ruled a fault and Chandler would be forced to hit a second serve on a crucial point, not an easy feat even for someone with her steely nerves.

  The system operators played their part. When matches were close, they waited an extra few seconds to cue up the replay in order to add to the suspense.

  Laure eyed the replay screen, willing the graphics to move. Finally, the system went into action, an animated ball slowly mirroring the flight of Chandler’s contested serve. The ball landed less than an inch behind the service line. A roar went up when Out flashed on the screen.

  “Second serve,” the chair umpire said. “Miss Smythe has four challenges remaining.”

  At five-all in the tiebreak, the percentages dictated Chandler had to take some pace off her second serve to insure she got it in the box. She could be bold and go for a big second serve, but would she take the risk when the stakes were so high?

  Sinjin settled into her service stance. Laure hoped she wouldn’t blow her opportunity.

  Make this count.

  Chandler threw in a kick serve to Sinjin’s forehand, her weaker wing. The ball sat up, begging to be hit. Sinjin obliged by rifling a wicked crosscourt return. Some fans whooped, thinking the point was over. Chandler’s dazzling foot speed allowed her to get to the ball with ease. Her two-handed backhand was hit with just as much force as the shot that preceded it.

  Laure looked on anxiously as Sinjin and Chandler played the kind of extended backcourt rally normally reserved for clay courts. The point reached ten strokes. Then fifteen. Then twenty. The crowd gasped in awe as both women chased down shots that looked like sure winners and returned them with interest. On the thirtieth stroke, Sinjin hit a backhand so sharply angled Chandler nearly had to climb into the stands to retrieve it. Chandler got the ball back but barely.

  Laure leaned forward. Sinjin finally had an opening. All she had to do was slide the ball down the line and the point was hers.

  *

  Sinjin thought Chandler, unwilling to concede the point, would race to cover the ad court. Not wanting to get burned by Chandler’s speed, she played it safe and hit the ball behind her.

  Too winded to sprint to the ad court, Chandler stayed home. The crowd groaned as Sinjin hit the ball right to her. Chandler cracked a forehand that instantly put Sinjin on her heels. Sinjin scrambled for the shot and threw up a defensive lob to give herself time to get back into position. Chandler hit an overhead as hard as she could. Sinjin chased the ball down and threw up another desperate lob.

  Chandler had Sinjin on the ropes but couldn’t put her away. Sinjin retrieved smash after smash as she fought to stay in the rally. Chandler grew visibly frustrated at her inability to end the point. She finally eschewed power for finesse. Circling under the ball, she angled an overhead deep in Sinjin’s forehand corner.

  Chandler left her deuce court undefended. Spotting the opening, this time Sinjin made sure she didn’t miss. The forehand was the hardest she hit during the match, the courtside speed gun measuring it at ninety-four miles per hour.

  Match point.

  Sinjin arched her back and roared at the sky. “Yeah!”

  The crowd applauded lustily for several minutes, the respite giving each player a chance to catch her breath.

  *

  “Quiet, please,” the chair umpire said. “The players are ready.”

  Laure waited for Sinjin to turn and look her way. They had locked eyes as Sinjin celebrated reaching match point, but Sinjin had quickly turned her attention to the next point.

  “Good,” she said as Sinjin continued to maintain her focus. “Don’t think. Just grab the ball and serve.”

  The chair umpire repeated her appeal for quiet. The crowd eventually complied.

  Sinjin stepped up to the service line and began her routine. She bounced the ball three times, caught it in her right hand, and tossed it in the air.

  Chandler looked uncertain. Should she defend her backhand or her forehand? Sinjin’s kick serve to the ad court was her best serve, but she had hit only a handful of them all day, preferring to pick on Chandler’s forehand or crowd her body. At crunch time, would she turn to her bread and butter or continue to mix it up?

  Chandler guessed right but didn’t get her racquet on the ball. Ace number seventeen took Sinjin to the Wimbledon final.

  *

  Laure led the assault in the locker room as a group of players showered Sinjin with champagne and beer. The foam-filled bath usually occurred after a player won a title, not before. Sinjin didn’t fight the break in tradition. Then again, she didn’t have a choice. She was ambushed the instant she walked in the room.

  “At least one of us made our date,” Laure said, giving her a hug.

  Sinjin wiped champagne out of her eyes. “Someone had to carry the flag for the Rainbow Brigade. Are you going to stick around for the final or are you going to yell at the TV screen like my grandparents?”

  Laure gave Sinjin another hug. “I’ll be right here. There’s no way I’d miss the biggest party this country has seen in years.”

  “I hope I don’t ruin everyone’s good time.”

  Sinjin felt Viktoriya before she heard her, her sixth sense alerting her to the danger that lurked behind her.

  “Is this a private party or can anyone join?”

  The other players fell into an uneasy silence but formed a wall behind Sinjin, offering her their unspoken support.

  Viktoriya smirked. “Then I’ll be brief. It looks like I got what I wanted.”

  “Be careful what you wish for,” Sinjin said. “It could come back to haunt you in the end.”

  “I doubt that. I wish you the best of luck on Saturday. I’ll try not to embarrass you too much.” Viktoriya turned and left the room.

  The other players slowly drifted out, leaving Sinjin and Laure alone.

  “Look at me.” Laure turned Sinjin to face her. “Tonight, you’re going to enjoy this win. Tomorrow, you’re going to buckle down and prepare for Saturday. Viktoriya isn’t the reason I lost today. I am. Despite all the head games she played before the match, I still had a chance to win. I simply didn’t make the shots when I needed to. That’s my fault, not hers. Don’t make the same mistake I did. Don’t underestimate your abilities and overestimate hers. I believe in you. I know you can win on Saturday, but it won’t matter if you don’t believe in yourself.”

  The Final

  “All set.” Kendall squeezed Sinjin’s left ankle as she pressed the last piece of protective tape into place. The layers of gauze and padding weren’t meant to protect an injury but prevent one.

  Sinjin flexed her toes and took a couple of tentative steps to make sure the bindings on her feet were tight enough to do their job without restricting her circulation. Then she sat and pulled on her socks.

  The past forty-eight hours had been a whirlwind. Filled with interview requests, photo shoots, and other demands on Sinjin’s time. The moment—the reason for all the hoopla—had finally arrived. The Wimbledon final was just minutes away.

  “What’s the plan?” Laure asked.

  “I’m going to slice her to pieces. Backhand slice. Forehand slice. She’s tall so I’m going to keep the ball low and make her bend as much as possible. By the time the third set rolls around, she won’t have any legs left.”

  “Do you think it’s going to three sets?”

  “St
raight sets. Three sets. I don’t care if we play for one hour or three as long as I’m the one holding the trophy when we’re done.”

  Kendall, Stephanie, and Gabrielle wore hand-lettered T-shirts. When they stood next to each other, the message on their shirts read, “Go, Sinjin, Go!” Laure, in a lightweight Armani pantsuit, felt overdressed.

  “Good luck.” Kendall extended her hand to Gabrielle, signaling they should leave. The locker room was practically overflowing with people. Kendall guessed—correctly—that Sinjin wanted time alone before such a big match. She and Gabrielle left to take their seats in the Friends Box.

  “I have to go, too.” Laure gave Sinjin a hug. “Play for yourself today, not anyone else.”

  Sinjin grabbed her hand. “Stay a little longer?”

  Laure checked her watch. Her parents were safeguarding her place in the Royal Box. She needed to be in it before the Queen arrived. In a virtual murderers’ row of dignitaries, she had been assigned the seat to the immediate right of Queen Elizabeth and her husband Prince Philip, who would occupy the place of honor in the middle of the first row. To their left, the prime ministers of England and Australia. Dozens of former champions were also in attendance. Martina Navratilova, Billie Jean King, Chris Evert, Margaret Smith Court, Steffi Graf, and Evonne Goolagong, to name a few.

  Security was as tight as the players everyone was waiting to see.

  Laure squeezed Sinjin’s hand and sat back down. “I can spare a few more minutes.”

  She hoped Sinjin’s nerves wouldn’t get the best of her. Her hands were shaking so badly she could barely tie her shoes. She abruptly sat up straight.

  “What’s wrong?” Laure asked.

  “I feel like I’m going to throw up.”