If Rock and Roll Were a Machine (18 page)

Bert exited 395 South at
the Richland sign. Gleeful radio voices were forecasting temps in the sixties, maybe as high as seventy by Sunday. What a weekend to ride. Too bad Bert didn't have a motorcycle anymore. He followed the directions on the tournament flyer clipped to his clipboard on the seat beside him, and by God if he didn't wind up at the Tri-Cities Racquet Club. He'd never been on a trip by himself before. So far it was fun.

Bert checked in at the tournament desk and picked up his T-shirt. On the back was written in black
TRI-CITIES RACQUET CLUB PRO-AM
. He traded his car keys for a locker key and a towel. On his way to the locker room he passed a long table with pastries, apple and orange slices, and two big thermos jugs of juice. God, he thought, I get a shirt worth ten bucks, I can eat maybe five bucks' worth of breakfast now and tomorrow, there's pizza tonight, plus, I get to play racquetball—at twenty-five bucks this is cheap fun. Bert had forgotten for the moment that he would also be paying around forty dollars for the motel.

Bert had been dubious about the workout clothes his mom bought him. He'd found the Nordstrom box on his cot yesterday after school.
Two pairs of those shiny, tight knee-length pants, black and neon-blue, and two tank tops cut deep under the arms. He liked the pants, but he couldn't wear the tanks in public. A guy's got to have lats to wear tanks cut like that. Bert had lats, of course; they just weren't developed enough to show.

He wore the blue pants, which were so tight he didn't need a jock, and over them a pair of gold Thompson High PE shorts slit up the sides. He wore an old blue Lacoste shirt, faded and soft. His new Ektelon Quantus racquet was also blue. Bert knew he was going to get murdered in the tournament, but at least he'd get murdered looking good. He hoped, however, that he didn't look too color-coordinated.

Bert did get murdered in his first match. He lost 6–15, 9–15 to a guy named Dirk. Bert remembered the name because he repeated it. “Nice shot, Dirk. Jesus, Dirk, you smoked that one.”

Dirk was shaped like a giant ham and had a ham's low fat-content. And he hit the ball as hard as Scotty. He wasn't accurate and all he had was his forehand, but it didn't matter. A lot of times he hit the ball so hard, it bounced off the back wall to the front again before Bert could get to it. Bert would watch him set up, then sometimes before he could turn his head the ball would crack against the front wall and rebound past him.

Bert didn't play badly, he just didn't get a chance to hit many balls.
He was frustrated about that, but still it had been a fun match.

The loss dropped Bert into the consolation round. He checked the chart and learned that he played someone named Stone at three. If he won, he played again at seven. If he lost, the tournament was over for him.

After his shower Bert drove to a strip of motels. He was going to stay the night even if he didn't play in the morning. They all looked clean from the outside, so he stopped at the Blue Mountain Inn because he liked the name.

The girl at the desk saw Bert's bag and asked if he was a racquetball player. He felt like saying only time would tell, but this girl was cute and he didn't want to be a dink. The tag on her blouse said her name was Markie, but Bert figured he would be an even bigger dink if he called her by name. “Yes” was all he said.

He wrote a check for thirty-six dollars, the tournament players' rate, and grabbed his key. As he walked across the lobby he wondered if Markie worked late tonight. He saw himself returning still a little flushed from a tough win. Markie would be walking out. Their eyes would meet and she'd touch his arm.
Nine
¹
/
₂
Weeks
is playing on cable tonight, she'd say. Can we watch it together in your room? Naked?

“Good luck, Albert!” Markie called.

“Thank you!” Bert called back. Why didn't I get “Bert” printed on my checks? he asked himself.

Bert wondered if he would ever have the guts to make a move on a girl. He wondered further if fantasies as pathetic as his grew only in the semen-drenched loam of male adolescence, or if grown-up men also suffered this sexual yearning.

*  *  *

Sam Stone was a wrestler at Columbia Basin College, and everything about him was tough. Bert was even intimidated by his name. The timbre of his voice alone caused Bert to give thanks that racquetball wasn't a combat sport.

But Bert was tough too—at least his drive serve was. And Stone's backhand was wimpy. Bert took the first game 15–4.

Bert was ahead 11–6 in the second game when he began thinking how neat it was to be winning a tournament match. Stone, who was steaming like a rock in a sauna, tied it up. Each broke the other's serve at 14–14 until Bert choked and skipped a backhand.

Bert served first in the tie breaker because he had the most points in the two games. Tie breakers went to eleven. Bert was nervous. He tried to let the feeling go as Scotty had told him. He took a couple of deep breaths at the service line and thought of the nervousness floating away with his exhalations.

It worked. Or something did. And it wasn't just his drive serve again. Bert was all over Stone's returns. He pinched backhands into the corners, he rolled out a couple of forehands, he caught
Stone cheating up and went to the ceiling with shots Stone wasn't able to peel off the wall with his backhand.

Bert was stunned when it was over. “That was luck,” he said as they shook hands. “I can't play that well.”

“You play real tough, kid,” Stone said.

*  *  *

Bert would never have said it to anyone, but by that evening he felt like a tournament vet. He'd lost a match, won a match, and reffed a match. In an hour or so he would be finished for the evening, and he would eat as much pizza as he could choke down. He might even draw a short beer from the keg if nobody looked weird at him.

It didn't take nearly an hour. Bert won his evening match 15–2 and 15–10. When he checked the chart he discovered that tomorrow at ten he'd play in the consolation finals. The winner got a trophy. He'd seen it on display.

He listened to Thompson win its regional championship game through his headphones as he watched an open-division match after his shower. They'd beaten Sunnyside in a squeaker the night before. According to the radio announcer, Camille Shepard took a rebound with a few seconds left and flung it over his head into open court. Jackson caught up with it and laid it in. Bert had turned off his radio after the announcer began talking about Camille's triple-double. He had twelve rebounds and ten assists. Bert hadn't wanted to know the point total. Tonight they were blowing out Columbia.

Games were going on in
all the courts, but most people sat near the glass walls of court six watching the open match. Workout bags with rows of gloves fastened to their carrying straps and racquet handles protruding from inside were strewn thick as luggage in a snowbound airport. One of the tiny kids toddling around fell into a big open bag and began to howl. The bag's owner grabbed the kid and passed it through the crowd toward a set of outstretched arms.

Plastic cups of beer and pop were also passed, as well as pizza slices. Thin filaments of cheese hung from clothing, hair, and racquet handles like edible gossamer. All this needed to qualify as a picnic would be dogs jumping after Frisbees, Bert thought. Or one of these little kids getting stung by a wasp.

Bert's high spirits had sunk. His stomach was in a nervous froth about tomorrow's match, and he was ashamed of being jealous of Camille Shepard. He wondered if you could grow to become generous in your heart or if you had to be born that way.

Bert drank a lot of pop, but he didn't put away as much pizza as he'd envisioned. It was fun being with all the players and their families, but it would have been more fun if he'd known someone.

*  *  *

Markie was still at the motel desk, looking as unsullied as a new ball right out of the can. “How'd you do, Albert?” she asked.

“I did okay, Markie,” Bert replied. “I get to go back and play again tomorrow.”

“All right!” Markie said.

Bert knew it wasn't personal, but still he felt like thanking her for her interest. “Good night” was his response.

*  *  *

On the way to the club Bert began to wish Scotty would show up, but by the time he arrived he was glad no one who knew him would be there. It was the same feeling he'd had when he was little. He wanted his dad to come to his games, but he didn't want his dad to see him screw up. Bert's dad was always traveling, though, or too tired from having traveled, so he never saw Bert play.

The only person watching as Bert got set to receive the serve was the ref, a woman who had won a consolation final earlier. Bert's opponent was a slight man in his fifties named Angie Priano. He looked particularly distinguished in his tennis whites. Bert was moved to call him sir, but he didn't.

Angie had a good lob serve, but Bert was patient with it and his backhand was on. His drive serve was on too. Everything was on. Bert won the first game 15–9.

Bert served first in game two. He looked back to see if Angie was ready, then he looked up. The entire wall was filled with Thompson people. Camille was there, and Mike, Krista, Darby, and Sean. Bert saw a 35mm camera resting on the wall edge with Mark Schwartz's frizzy red hair like an explosion behind
it. The Hmongster was mounting a video camera on a tripod. Steve was there, and Zimster beside him, just high enough in his chair to see over the wall. Scotty stood on one side of the ref, and Rita on the other. “Zero serves zero,” the ref said.

Bert was a different player in game two. He played with desperation, rather than exuberance. Despair and joy are opposite emotions, but some of the behaviors they produce look almost the same. It's a subtle difference, and maybe only Scotty and Steve recognized it. Bert knew it too. He knew exactly what was happening to him, but he couldn't stop it. He hustled, he kept the rallies going. But Angie was the one with the touch this game, and he ended the majority of them. Angie was also the one with fifteen points. Bert had ten.

Ten points is a respectable score, but to Bert it had been a disgraceful performance. He walked out of the court and wanted to keep going. But there was nowhere to go. He had to be back in two minutes to humiliate himself again in the tie breaker.

Bert had only taken a couple of steps when Scotty wrapped an arm around his shoulder. Angie walked by breathing hard. “No coaching,” he said. He was smiling. “The kid's doing just fine.”

“My boy's unraveling out there,” Scotty said. “Time to take him in hand.”

Scotty told Bert to grab his towel and gave him a little push in the direction of his bag. They wove their way through the people sitting and
lying on the floor to the quietest corner. Scotty leaned against the wall. He put his hand on Bert's head and tapped him just lightly with his index finger. “Whatever's in there that does this to you, Bert,” he said, “it's time to let it go.” He withdrew his hand.

Bert was still sweating. He wiped his face again and looked up at Scotty.

“When you walk through that door this time,” Scotty said, “I want you to forget everything in your life but the racquetball you've learned. Give yourself to the game. Don't think about us watching, and don't think about your opponent. The competition ain't between you and him. It's between you and the game. You guys are in there to make the game more fun for each other.”

Scotty held Bert's head again and shook him just lightly. “Your opponent is that shit in your head,” he said. “Let it go, son.”

“I'll try,” Bert said.

Bert was up on total points so he had the serve in the tie breaker. He looked back to see if Angie was ready. He looked up at the ref. He looked at the people who'd come to watch him play. He turned back and looked at the blue ball. What he saw was himself as a little kid in his pre-Lawler days. A little kid playing sports and having fun. And doing both things well.

It took a few exchanges of serve for Bert to loosen up. He heard voices from above, he heard his own voice in his head. But the more he followed
that blue ball with his eyes and his body and his will, the more everything but the ball went away. And after a while the blue ball was everything.

He listened for the score, but he didn't hear it as a comment on his character. It was a comment on the game.

At 3–3 Bert felt loose and strong. He fired up his drive serve. He dropped the ball as he strode forward, his head low and his eyes locked, his arm rising with the stride, then coming down to meet the ball as his front foot planted. When he saw the ball pass the receiving line, he relocated and watched. Just like in practice.

But this was more fun than practice because somebody was there to hit it back. Sometimes. The ball was coming pretty hard, and Angie didn't return them all. When he did, Bert was there. He drilled a couple backhands cross-court that Angie didn't get near. The smoothness of the motion was like a dream. Or like something remembered.

At 9–3 Bert served to Angie's forehand. The ball caught the crack for an ace. “Lucky shot,” Bert said.

Angie smiled. The kid was hitting a lot of lucky shots.

“Match point serving three,” the ref announced.

Bert thought he might sneak another one by up the right side. But this was what Angie was expecting. He was set up, and he hit it cross-court. Hard.

Bert was after it, raising his racquet as he moved so he'd be ready to swing if he got the shot. He saw that the ball was going to hit the side
wall. And it was going to hit real low. He planted his front foot as he watched it hit, and he swung at the spot where he thought it would come off.

And he connected. The ball hit the front wall a few inches from the floor, and that was the match. It was a sweet shot. It had been as good a shot as Bert was capable of hitting. It was also lucky, but that didn't make it any less sweet.