by Fox Brison
“Be fair, David,” I chided, “my opponent deserves at least some credit, her backhand was far trickier than we realised.” I began drying myself with a slightly greying, but surprising soft, towel.
“Don’t give me that crap,” he said sharply. “You should’ve wiped the floor with that girl and you know it. I hope you haven’t forgotten our agreement?”
Wincing at the sudden, and eager, glint in his eye, I was curter than necessary when I replied, “No, David, I remember. Now if you don’t mind, I’d like to get dressed?”
I owned a long list of regrets and not far from the top was the devil’s deal I’d signed at the start of my comeback season as an ‘incentive;’ failing to make it into the world’s top one hundred by the end of year rankings would result in an off season sojourn babysitting spoilt eight year olds at David’s tennis academy in Norfolk. We’d been working together for six months and it wasn’t looking good, not for me anyhow. It didn’t appear I’d be booking a holiday anytime soon.
I’ll be lucky if I’m inside the top four hundred never mind one hundred at this rate.
“What was I thinking?” I muttered angrily whilst stuffing things hither and tither into my enormous kit bag. “Well?” I snapped. “Was there something else? I want to get home at some point today.” The very thought of our arrangement was souring my mood even more.
“Actually yes, there is something else.” David’s tone suddenly became solemn. “Finish getting dressed and meet me in the referee’s office. We need to talk.”
“Can’t we talk now? I don’t particularly feel like sticking around.”
“No, it’ll only take ten minutes.” He left with an ominous shake of the head.
“What the hell is up with him?” I briefly considered doing a runner. Ah bugger, after today’s debacle I don’t want to give him any more ammunition, he has plenty as it is.
Chapter 4
Georgia
I watched David through the window of the referee’s office for a few minutes. I didn’t know if I was trying to catch my breath or slow my racing heart, but I did know I needed to remain calm. It was something I’d worked on from a young age: keeping control; never letting anyone see they have you; concentrating on the game to the exclusion of a life; fixing on the ball. I could hear a faint echo from the past and I blocked it out. It wouldn’t do me any good listening to my mother’s voice, no matter how distant a memory it was. I needed to focus all my attention on my current coach.
However, my stomach plummeted into my bright blue Nike tennis shoes when I saw a myriad of feelings cross David’s face. Regret, nerves, pain, hopelessness; the only thing missing was loneliness and he would be the perfect poster boy for my emotions.
“Is everything alright?” I stood nervously in the doorway.
David raised his head and gave a smile. “Don’t look so panicked, Georgy. Come in and shut the door. You’ve not done anything wrong, unless there’s something I don’t know?” he asked with a raised eyebrow trying to put me at ease, and barked a short laugh when I quickly shook my head. Despite my shockingly poor form, I really was determined to get my career back on track and wouldn’t do anything stupid to endanger that. My party girl days were well and truly behind me; therefore it was early nights, a clear training schedule and no love life, unless you counted an ill-fated one night stand after a wedding. Those never counted, at least not in my mind. Everyone either got incredibly drunk, incredibly maudlin or laid at a wedding. I’d opted for the lesser of the three evils. “Do you want a cuppa?” David asked, interrupting my thoughts.
“Mmm, herbal please, if you’ve got it. I think I have a touch of indigestion.” I rubbed my chest. Although my earlier defeat was unpalatable, it was David’s unease which was the real cause of the acid bubbling in my stomach.
“Not surprising after that match,” he said. “Peppermint okay?”
That attitude helps. Not. “Yeah that’s fine.” I tried raising a smile but it was no use, I was just too tense. “So what do you want to talk about? If it’s how badly I played today I know it was totally unacceptable... I’ll do better, I promise, just don’t…” I wasn’t particularly religious but I was quickly sending a prayer skyward in the hope my goose wasn’t cooked. David was the only coach willing to take a chance on me when I decided on this comeback and I couldn’t afford to lose him.
“Don’t jump to conclusions, it’s not about today. Well,” David qualified, “not entirely. Just answer me one question, George. No tricks, no deals. Just one question. And answer it honestly. Do you want to be a winner? Do you really want to realise your potential?”
“That’s two questions,” I said, neatly sidestepping both.
“But it means the same. Do you want this, Georgy? Do you want it enough to give it your all?”
I took my time answering. When I first hopped back on this roller coaster I was prepared for the fact that the anticipation on the slow pull up to the top of the track would be hard on my nerves, but knew once the car slipped over the apex and gravity pulled it down faster and faster towards the ground, the ecstasy and the joy I felt as the wind whistled through my hair would make the roiling in my stomach more than worth it. Trouble is I’m nowhere near the top and I was now at the stage where even I was beginning to doubt my decision to return.
Hell, right now it felt like I’d forgotten to pull the safety bar down.
“I had no choice but to walk away once, David,” I said quietly. “Maybe I shouldn’t have come back, but I did and now I’m here I want to give it my best shot. At least then I…” I faltered because my words struggled to pass the melon sized lump in my throat. I tried to swallow, but it was impossible. Deep breaths, I whispered in my mind. Breathe through it.
David nodded, seemingly satisfied by my answer, weak and half-hearted though it was. “It’s an idea I’ve had for a while now, and with the grass tournaments looming I think it will do you the world of good.” As if it were choking him, he pulled the collar of his loose polo shirt away from his throat and gulped.
Twice.
My eyes drew forward into a frown. “Look spit it out, will you? The bloody suspense is killing me.” It actually wasn’t, it was the fear.
“I want you to see asportspsychologist.” He ran the last three words together hoping this might somehow elicit a favourable reaction to his request.
Like hell it did.
“No bloody way,” I hissed. “I’ve been to more shrinks than I can count and you damn well know how I feel about them.” I thought about hitting David in the face with my racket. At least it might improve my backhand, but resisted the temptation “I’ve had my fill of people playing mind games with me.”
Licking his lips nervously, David leant forward in his chair and kept his next words soft and gentle. “Georgy, look, you have the potential to be top ten easy, maybe even higher. I mean, you could thrash Laura Hargreaves and Thalia Dubois off the court the way you hit a tennis ball in practice, but something holds you back when you’re in a match situation and I’m at a loss as to why.”
“But if you’d just give me a few more-”
“Plus,” he continued without pause, stopping my protestations before they even began, “this sports psychologist is totally different to any you’ll have seen before. Their only concern will be helping you to get the best out of your game. Nothing else.”
“I’m not interested in rehashing my past, David, and you know it.”
“Georgy-”
“Damn it, coach! You’ve had your say, now let me have mine!” My voice grew more strident through fear. Fear he was going to dump my arse into the doldrums of the Land of Has-beens and Neverweres, fear a psychoprick would put a leash and collar around the neck of the self-loathing that clung to me like a parasitic shadow and drag it out for a walk. I quickly regrouped. “It’s confidence, that’s all. Once I get a few W’s next to my name there’ll be no stopping me, you’ll see. Trust me, David.” I replayed my words with a cynical laugh. I didn’t even
trust myself, so why should he?
“Georgy, we’re match point down and it’s our second serve. Losing is never fun, but for someone as talented as you it must be torture. Myers, the psychologist, has worked wonders with a couple of male players on the tour.” My shoulders were still tense and I was now mirroring David’s pose, sitting as close to the edge of my seat as he was, our knees practically touching. He continued in a quieter, more appeasing tone. “Please, give it ten sessions and after that, if you still think it’s a waste of time, we’ll go back to the drawing board and come up with plan C.”
“Ten sessions, tops,” I said half-heartedly, conceding defeat in the referee’s office just as easily as I had done on the tennis court that morning. “I guess I’ll try anything once.”
“That’s what got you into this mess in the first place,” David retorted sharply.
“David, do you want me to hit you?” I asked quite seriously and he held up his hands. “Promise me if this doesn’t work you’ll never mention psycho anything in the same breath as my name, okay?”
“You have my solemn word.” He eased back into his chair, relieved. He’d obviously been expecting more of a fight, but I’d run out of puff. Pulling himself straighter, he was evidently girding his loins for the next battle.
Great. Give him an inch…
“I’ve organised for you to have the next month off.”
Wow. Okay. I was not expecting that and my puff returned in double quick time. “A month?” I exclaimed. “You’re fucking kidding me!” I didn’t usually swear quite so much but my sainted coach was pushing every single one of my buttons today. “I know I’m not setting the world alight but four weeks!”
“You’ve been competing for six months straight, plus this way there will be no distractions. The priority is your sessions with Dr Myers. You’ll be back for the end of the clay court season, maybe even warm up with a few regional tournaments. This is not a vacation. I still want you training in the gym every day and working with a hitting partner.” He rooted around in his bag then handed me a large brown envelope. “Here you go, Dr Myers’ details. Your first appointment is four-thirty this afternoon in Cambridge.”
“This afternoon?” My question was barely a breath. He’d never expected me to get through the first round of this tournament, never mind win it.
Way to rub salt.
Chapter 5
Georgia
There were a lot of people milling about outside the tennis complex and I smiled and nodded towards the few I knew, but didn’t stop to chat. I wanted out of there so I could freely wallow in the quagmire of despair that was my career. Where the hell did I park? My vintage VW camper van normally stood out from the crowd and should have been easy to spot, it was, after all, lime green. The car park had been a lot emptier at eight am than it was now. Now, row upon row of luxury end cars were parked neatly, mocking my relic from a bygone era. However, it was mine and brought back memories of happier times, when my father and I would spend hours listening to his favourite eighties rock band whilst checking the engine for the next trip to the far reaches of the home counties.
I shivered, drenched in an unexpected wave of bitter loneliness that hit me hard. I took in a large lungful of air to try and obliterate the feeling, then walked purposefully towards the back of the car park. Even though I’d been half asleep when I arrived that morning I didn’t believe I would break from tradition, so chances were Kermit was lurking in a corner as far away from the main entrance as possible. Swerving to avoid a couple of kids, looking like miniature turtles running towards me with rucksacks fastened firmly to their backs, I accepted, with a wave, the apologies from their harried mothers.
Feeling perspiration tickling my t-shirt, I removed my sweatshirt and wrapped it around my waist. It was mid-March and England was in the middle of a heat wave, not that I was complaining (it made my early morning run a lot easier to climb out of bed for) I just hoped a nice Spring didn’t mean a wet Summer. The grass court season was without a doubt my best surface, but also suffered most from the whims of Mother Nature.
“She’s a has been. I don’t know why David’s wasting his time with her.”
“I’d be so embarrassed. She’s had her chance.”
My stride stuttered when I overheard a couple of girls talking. “Excuse me,” I murmured, swiftly brushing past them. One was my conqueror from earlier on that morning and the other was from David’s stable of hopefuls. “Do you think she heard us?” From the tone of her voice at least one of them had the grace to be semi-embarrassed.
“Who cares?” was the nonchalant answer.
I felt the sting of humiliation. I do, I thought to myself, I really do.
Eyes down, my head practically touching the ground, I saw nothing else except the grey concrete and my own feet as I hurried away as fast as I could. My eyes swam with tears because, in my heart of hearts, I knew they were right. I knew I wasn’t one of David’s hopefuls, I was his hopeless case and the only reason he had taken me on? I was a bloody good tennis teacher, much better than any he currently had working with him. World number one junior may not be a big selling point, but it was bigger than ‘champion in their own minds at Deluded High School.’ I quickly discovered my past was overlooked if a parent thought I could turn their little darling into a world beater. I had a waiting list for my services as long as my arm back in Cambridge; if I joined David’s academy as a coach his student numbers would explode, making him shed loads of cash. I shook my head angrily. Seriously, I need to get out of this bitchy mood before I see this bloody psychologist.
Finally, I spied Kermit guarded either side by two huge Range Rovers. His engine cranked into life on the first turn of the key and I eased the gear stick, gently, into reverse and backed out of my parking space. Another reluctant croak as I put him into first gear; I didn’t name him Kermit simply because of his lurid green colour! Adele’s voice blasted out of the speakers… ‘We could have had it all…’
“How bloody apt.” I scowled.
Chapter 6
Georgia
Cambridge is a city of culture, a city of learning. It is a city filled with an eclectic mix of old and new, of traditional and eccentric. Packed tight with narrow streets and historical buildings built of distinctive yellow or pink Ketton stone, it may have felt like a claustrophobic arrow slit window to the past, but to the flock of students who traversed its cobbled pavements, it was the pearly gates to their future.
I loved Cambridge. I had spent many an eventful night crawling from one bar to the next with Julia, following in the footsteps of Charles Darwin, Alfred Tennyson and Sylvia Plath. Okay, so maybe those luminaries didn’t spend their time visiting pubs until they drank the barrel dry, but I liked to think they’d enjoyed themselves whilst crafting an intellectual and creative legacy that endured through the centuries.
My second favourite place in Cambridge was the Backs, a picturesque area where several college grounds met the torpid river Cam. I loved to run along its length early in the morning, when the sun was barely above the horizon and a lingering mist curled along the river hiding the monuments to learning in its grey shroud. The long band of greenery, reminiscent of old country piles and their extensive parks, was a favourite walk for many of the students. I would marvel at the Bridge of Sighs beside St Johns, a covered stone bridge with large apertures reminiscent of church windows, or wonder at the timber Mathematical Bridge at Queen’s. I loved that one in particular. Constructed entirely from straight timbers, it appeared arched, defying logic and the eye. I liked the notion, that one thing could be made one way, yet look completely another.
It was amazing how a structure as innocuous as a bridge would mirror my life so perfectly.
And then of course there was my favourite place in the whole world, the Birdcage, the pub I owned in Prospect Row; a place that saved my soul and kept me busy when my life had little or no direction. A few months after my suspension started, I needed to escape, so escape I did, and I tra
velled the world visiting places synonymous with the lonely planet. Yet seeing the wonders of the world did little to relieve the loneliness that swaddled me, and being back home only magnified it.
I couldn’t seem to get away from the reminders of the life I could have had.
I was spiralling into a pit of depression until Julia finally chased me out of the house we shared, telling me to start living the life I did have. I thought at first a return to education might do the trick, and grew more positive after talking to someone at Queen’s College about the option of going there as a mature student. However, as I was mulling over the prospectus in my favourite café slash bar, The Hole in the Wall, I noticed a for sale sign.
The rest was history.
The Birdcage didn’t quite manage to fill the empty hole in my heart, nothing was big enough to do that, but it came close.
And yet today I hated Cambridge with a passion. I could feel the familiar caress of a panic attack creeping its way through the spring sunshine and taking root in my heart, in my lungs...
In my mind.
My mind was scurrying quicker than grey clouds during a violent winter storm, my nerves taking the pummelling the skeletal trees normally would. Fretfully, I pulled my long chestnut plait through the hole in the back of my white baseball hat and tucked the stray wisps behind my ears. Staring into the rear view mirror, into troubled blue eyes, I began to buckle under the weight of expectation heaped on my shoulders.
