Lucky Loser

by Yolanda Wallace

  Laure relaxed her grip. “That means you’re ready. Before the U.S. Open final, you were laughing and joking like it was just another match. This isn’t just another match. Your legacy’s going to be on the line. Play like it. This is your moment, not Viktoriya’s. Don’t let her or anyone else take it from you.”

  Sinjin nodded resolutely.

  Stephanie sat on Sinjin’s other side. “I have something that should make you feel better. Do you remember this?” She reached into her purse and pulled out a keychain with a miniature replica of the women’s singles trophy attached.

  “Where did you find that? I thought I lost it years ago.”

  “I nicked it from you while you were packing to leave for tennis camp. I’ve been carrying it around ever since. It’s been my good luck charm. Now it can be yours. Do you remember what Mum used to say?”

  “‘This might not be the actual Ladies’ Plate, but one day, you’ll get to hold the real thing.’”

  The hair on the back of Laure’s neck stood up as she felt another presence enter the room.

  “Today’s the day,” Stephanie said. “I love you, sis.”

  “I love you, too.” Sinjin’s hands were steady as she slipped the keychain into her pocket.

  “I’ll see you out there.” Stephanie gave her a quick hug before she left to join the crowd in the buzzing stadium.

  Laure took Sinjin’s right hand in both of hers.

  They were quiet for a long while, absorbing the enormity of the moment. Win or lose, Sinjin’s place in history was secured. She had backed up her appearance in the U.S. Open final by advancing to the championship match at Wimbledon. She was a Wimbledon finalist. No one would ever be able to take that away from her.

  “A couple of days ago,” Sinjin said, “you told me you believed in me. You said I needed to believe in myself. Thanks to you, I’ve found that belief. But there’s something I believe in even more. Us. No matter what happens out there today, I know you’ll be here for me. I was an arse for not realizing it before now. I’m sorry if I—”

  Laure placed her fingers over Sinjin’s lips. “Three years ago, you asked me a question. Do you remember what it was?”

  Sinjin screwed up her face in concentration as she searched her memory banks. Her face lit up when she found what she was looking for. “Forgive me yet?”

  Laure kissed her. “Ask me after championship point.”

  *

  After Laure left, Sinjin took a moment to compose herself. Her adrenaline was pumping so hard she could barely breathe. She pulled the keychain out of her pocket and ran her fingers over the intricate design. The raised inlay had worn down over the years, the gold plating rubbed off in several spots. Despite the trinket’s battered appearance, it held undeniable power. She could feel its energy coursing through her as she held it. The real Ladies’ Plate bore the engraved names of every women’s champion since 1884. In a matter of hours, either she or Viktoriya would add her name to the list.

  Laure had told her to play for herself. For once, Sinjin didn’t take her advice. She squeezed the keychain and slipped it back into her pocket. Then she closed her eyes and lifted her head toward the ceiling. “This one’s for you, Mum.”

  She grabbed her racquet bag, shook hands with her old friend the locker room attendant, and followed an official to the holding area. Viktoriya, fashionably late as always, arrived shortly after. Her white tennis dress looked as crisp and cool as she did. Sponsors’ patches lined both sleeves of her warm-up jacket. Sinjin’s sleeves were unadorned.

  “The tournament referee will be with you in a moment,” the official said. “He’ll be able to answer any last-minute questions you may have. Good luck to both of you.”

  “How did you sleep last night?” Viktoriya asked after the official left. “Each time I play a Grand Slam final, I can’t sleep the night before. I play these matches all the time, but it’s been a while since you’ve made it to this stage. Three years is a long time between finals. I can’t imagine the butterflies you must be feeling.”

  “My butterflies and I are fine. Thanks for asking.”

  Viktoriya’s confident smile faltered for a fraction of a second. The moment was brief but long enough for Sinjin to register it.

  “How’s Laure? If I’d known I was sending her into retirement, I would have taken more time to enjoy the moment.”

  Sinjin smiled to counteract the spike in her blood pressure. “I’ll give her your regards. If you ask me nicely, I might even save a place for you at our table at the Champions Ball.”

  Viktoriya rocked back on her heels as if she had been dealt a staggering blow, but she quickly regained her equilibrium. “Ah, Mr. Bloom. It’s a pleasure to see you again.”

  Tournament referee Alan Bloom returned Viktoriya’s effusive greeting. “The pleasure, as always, is mine.” He turned to Sinjin. “Miss Smythe, congratulations for making it this far. You’ve managed to perform a feat no one has been able to pull off in over thirty years: you’ve compelled Her Majesty to attend a championship match.”

  “Glad I could help.”

  “Let’s give her a show to be proud of, shall we?”

  Alan gave each player a bouquet. In the championship round, the ball kids carried the competitors’ racquet bags onto the court. The players didn’t schlep anything heavier than an armful of flowers.

  “At the insistence of His Royal Highness the Duke of Kent, the Club abandoned the tradition of bowing to the Royal Box many years ago unless the Prince of Wales or Her Majesty the Queen is in attendance. With that said, I hope you’ve been practicing your curtsies. When we reach the baseline, we will turn and face the Royal Box. The ladies will curtsy, the gentlemen will bow. After that, it will be business as usual. Any questions?”

  “Just one,” Viktoriya said. “What time should I arrive tomorrow?”

  A few hours before the men contested their final on the last day of the tournament, the women’s champion traditionally held a photo op for the press. Viktoriya’s question let everyone know she fully intended to be the one posing with the trophy in the heart of London.

  Alan coughed into his fist. “The, um, time and location for that event have not been determined as of yet. My office has your contact numbers, Miss Vasilyeva, as well as yours, Miss Smythe. We will inform all necessary parties when the information becomes available. If you’ll follow me, please.”

  He led the players down the stairs. Before walking through the door that led to Centre Court, Sinjin looked up at the plaque affixed to the top of the doorway. The plaque contained a quote from the famous Rudyard Kipling poem “If,” the work that urged the reader to meet with triumph and disaster and treat both impostors the same. Sinjin reached up and touched the plaque as so many others had before her.

  “Wait here a moment,” Alan said. He consulted his watch, waiting until precisely two p.m. to send the players on their journey. “Please proceed.”

  Viktoriya took the lead. Sinjin followed her into the bright sunshine. A roar went up as soon as the crowd got a glimpse of the players. Viktoriya waved her flowers over her head like an Olympian on the medals stand. Sinjin, fighting to keep her emotions under wraps, acknowledged the cheers with a similar but more subtle gesture. Then she shot a glance at the Friends Box. Viktoriya’s friends and family occupied the second row. Gabrielle, Kendall, Nicolas, and Stephanie sat in the first. Sinjin had provided tickets for Andrew and her grandparents, too, even though she knew all of them would be too anxious to use them. Her grandparents were home waiting for her call. Andrew was probably pruning his roses or pacing in front of his TV.

  At the baseline, the players, ball girls, tournament referee, and chair umpire turned and paid their respects to the Royal Box.

  *

  Laure, seated between her mother and the Queen, joined the rest of the fans as they gave Sinjin and Viktoriya a standing ovation.

  “We might be in trouble,” her mother whispered as the players shed their warm-up jackets. “I don’t th
ink favoritism is allowed in the Royal Box.”

  “Then it’s a good thing we’re not royalty.” Laure watched Sinjin, Viktoriya, and the chair umpire pose with the little girl who had been selected to conduct the pre-match coin toss. Viktoriya won the toss and elected to serve. “How does she look?” Laure asked as Sinjin jogged to the baseline to begin the ten-minute warm-up. “Does she look nervous to you?”

  “No,” her mother said, “she looks like she belongs here. You and I are the ones who could do with a change of venue.”

  Laure looked around the Royal Box. She tried to count the sea of famous faces but gave up after the number reached fifty. Agents from MI-5, ready to repel any potential attackers, occupied the aisle seats. To her right sat Billie Jean King and Martina Navratilova, the two women who shared the record for most Wimbledon titles with twenty. To her left, Australian Prime Minister Samantha Ogilvie and British Prime Minister Julian Firth discussed fox hunting with Prince Philip. Queen Elizabeth and Laure’s father, meanwhile, were conducting a spirited comparison of the Kentucky Derby and the Royal Ascot Derby at Epsom Downs. Laure had no idea her father was a horse racing fan.

  The Fortescue charm strikes again.

  *

  Before the first ball was struck, all things were possible. The match that followed could be a blowout, a classic, or just another routine contest.

  Sitting in her chair waiting for time to be called, Sinjin tried to focus on the present instead of the past. Don’t think about history until you’ve made it. Until then, this is just another match. And the woman who looks like the Queen, she’s just someone’s grandmother.

  She looked around the stadium. British, Russian, and even a few Nigerian flags flew everywhere. Hundreds of fans held up homemade signs and posters rooting on their favorite players. In the stands below the Friends Box, a group of shirtless male fans had the letters of Viktoriya’s name painted on their chests. Sinjin felt like she had fallen asleep and woken up in the middle of a World Cup match. She hadn’t seen such an enthusiastic Wimbledon crowd since Goran Ivanisevic and Patrick Rafter contested an epic rain-delayed men’s final in 2001. Playing on a Monday afternoon in front of a crowd composed of more Generation X-ers than club members, Ivanisevic had triumphed 9-7 in the fifth set to claim his last career title and his first Grand Slam.

  Sinjin didn’t know if her match with Viktoriya would stand up to the Ivanisevic-Rafter match in terms of drama and excitement. Relatively few matches could. When her match was over, she hoped that she would walk away with her first Wimbledon title.

  “Time,” the chair umpire said.

  Veteran official Helen Rhys had been granted the honor of umpiring the women’s final. Sinjin was pleased with the selection. Helen was one of the good ones. She supported her linespeople on close calls but wasn’t afraid to correct a clear error. Firm but fair, she never tried to interject her personality into a match the way some umpires did. With her, there would be no controversial calls or ill timed overrules. She ran a tough ship, which encouraged players and linespeople alike to be on their best behavior.

  After completing their last-minute rituals, Sinjin and Viktoriya took the court to another round of deafening applause. Analysts were torn on the importance of the first set. Some said winning the first set was crucial to Sinjin’s prospects; some felt Viktoriya needed to claim it in order to keep the crowd at bay. Some said Sinjin needed to keep her nose in front to have any chance at all, while others said Viktoriya could easily come from behind.

  Viktoriya looked across the net, trying to stare Sinjin down. Sinjin returned her glare. Viktoriya’s plan to rattle her had failed. Unlike most of their matches, this one would be decided on the court, not in the locker room.

  Viktoriya prepared to serve. Because of her height, she could lean into the delivery the way few other female players could. The shot routinely reached speeds unprecedented in the women’s game. In addition to serve speed, she possessed machinelike consistency. She had been nearly flawless in the semifinals, missing just four first serves in the second and third sets combined.

  Though she had watched only one of Viktoriya’s matches during the tournament, Sinjin knew from past experience Viktoriya was going to be hard to break. She didn’t expect to get very many opportunities. When they came, she would have to make the most of them—something she had not been able to do in their previous match-ups.

  “Miss Vasilyeva to serve,” Helen said. “Play.”

  Sinjin stood a foot behind the baseline, giving herself room to cut off the angle and time to make the return. As she always did before a big match, she tried to send a message from the very first point. If she won the opening salvo, she told herself, she would win the match. She won the first point with a textbook backhand volley, but Viktoriya rallied to win the game. Viktoriya extended her winning streak to six consecutive points by taking the first two points on Sinjin’s serve before Sinjin steadied herself to pull even at one-all.

  After shaking off their early jitters, they both settled down and put their game plans into effect. Sinjin sliced her ground strokes so finely they barely cleared the net. Viktoriya, meanwhile, used topspin to keep the ball deep as she tried to pin Sinjin to the baseline.

  Viktoriya reached break point in the sixth game, but Sinjin fought it off with a good serve and an even better volley. Sinjin earned a break point of her own in the next game, but Viktoriya prevented her from taking the lead by threading the needle on a backhand passing shot that found the millimeter of space between Sinjin’s outstretched racquet and the sideline.

  “Sí,” Viktoriya shouted when her shot landed in the corner.

  As the set got tougher, Viktoriya’s exhortations grew louder. Sinjin, continuing to play well within herself, stayed mum. Tired of the mind games and backbiting, she wanted to settle her differences with Viktoriya once and for all. And she wanted to do it where it counted—between the lines. To do so, she needed to keep her head clear of the interference that crept into her brain whenever Viktoriya crossed her path.

  At five-all, Viktoriya missed an easy forehand, her bread and butter shot. She yelled at herself in Russian, giving voice to the growing frustration she must have felt at not being able to put some distance between them. Excluding the match against Laure, she had trounced all her opponents in the tournament, losing an average of three games a match. But this wasn’t just another match. This was the final.

  After another error, the crowd prepared itself for one of Viktoriya’s infamous tantrums—colorful tirades that had become YouTube staples—but she steadied herself and closed out the game to pull ahead six-five.

  Channeling Arthur Ashe, Sinjin closed her eyes during the changeover. She tried to picture herself winning the next game and the tiebreaker. As Laure loved to say, if she could dream it, she could achieve it.

  She took the first step by winning the twelfth game at love.

  “Tiebreak,” Helen Rhys announced. “Miss Vasilyeva to serve. Both players have four challenges remaining.”

  The first twelve games had been an extended warm-up. Now it was time for the real match to begin.

  *

  Laure didn’t subscribe to the theory that said the first set didn’t matter. The set was already an hour old and had yet to be decided. After fighting so hard for so long, whoever lost the set would undoubtedly have an emotional letdown in the second set, meaning whoever won the first set would most likely win the match.

  At nine points-all, the players changed ends for the third time.

  “Careful. I need that hand to sketch with.” Laure pried her mother’s fingers apart, breaking the death grip she had applied to her forearm.

  “Sorry.”

  Laure wasn’t immune to the tension. She felt like a violin string that had reached its breaking point. In a few more bow strokes, she might snap in two.

  Both players had reached and lost multiple set points. No, that was unfair. In the superbly played tiebreaker, points were won, not lost. Unforced errors wer
e a rarity, winners plentiful. The crowd leaped to its feet after nearly every point as the players carved out impossible angles, hit offensive shots from defensive positions, and turned the set into an instant classic.

  “Three guesses as to which match is going to be shown during next year’s rain delays,” Laure’s mother said after Sinjin chased down a lob, overran it, and, out of desperation, hit a between-the-legs winner past the startled Viktoriya. “And the first two don’t count.”

  “Neither will this set if Sinjin doesn’t win the match.”

  *

  Sinjin tried to slow her racing heartbeat. The closer she came to winning the set, the farther away the finish line seemed to be. She tried to remain positive, but each set point that slipped through her fingers dented her confidence a little more. The pep talks she gave herself no longer had the desired effect.

  You can do this.

  She struggled to convince herself the words were true. Though she had never beaten Viktoriya, their matches had always been competitive. The razor-thin difference between them was Viktoriya’s unshakable belief in herself. Her belief that no matter how many spectacular winners Sinjin hit, she would hit one more. The belief was innate, not manufactured. It had made her a champion—and prevented Sinjin from becoming one.

  Belief, paired with three cold-blooded winners, helped Viktoriya secure the first set.

  “Vamos,” she shouted, directing her celebration toward the group of men who had her name painted on their chests.

  “Uno más,” they shouted back. One more. One more set and the title was hers.

  Sinjin shook her head disconsolately as she sank into her chair. Her first lost set of the tournament was a heartbreaker. She wouldn’t have minded so much if she hadn’t come so close to winning it. In her head, she replayed the points that had cost her the set. If given a second chance, she didn’t think she would have played them any differently.