Open Court (12 page)

The Cherry Creek Invitational is a six-day tournament with players from Colorado and the surrounding states participating. My mom drove me to Denver the first two days. I went without protest, but things were definitely wrong. Very wrong. I was making obvious mistakes. A missed serve here, a long return there—it adds up. The sum of it is
losing.

As my mom watched proudly in the stands
(
proudly
—gag!), I beat my opponents, but with tremendous effort. The scores were 6-4, 7-6 … I choked. Big-time.

On the third, fourth, and fifth days, Trent and his wife, Annie, drove me. I hoped having Trent close to me would spark my mind to its former ease. It didn't. Each match, against girls I'd beaten many times before, was a war. During changeovers, I gulped water like a fish. My feet were lead. This easy tournament was dismantling me.

Trent was clueless. He was so used to me winning that he and Annie skipped my matches in order to hobnob with other coaches and spouses. I knew he hadn't been watching because he was
congratulating
me on my wins.

On the day of the final we were driving on Highway 25 north to Cherry Creek. It was 6:30 a.m., the air outside was clear and dewy, the sun not yet bright.

I stared at the back of Coach's head: it was smooth like a river rock. That comforted me. Soothed my nerves. I've spent weeks of my life, months probably, staring at his head on the way to tournaments, and he's none the wiser. I don't want to suck at this game. I want to win, only win, and stare at the back of his head and be comforted.

Energy always encompasses Coach on the way to a
tournament. He's electric. Full of cheer. My theory is that sometime in his early life Trent wanted to be a player rather than a coach. Maybe in the car he believes
he's
the player—that's why all the cheer. His cheer is a fact rather than an emotion. The hulking relentless man is not emotional. I found myself wishing I could touch my fingers to his temple and capture the cheer. I wondered if it could be held in the palm of my hand as if it was a bird or a penny.

Annie turned in her seat, smiling.

“What?” I asked.

“Nothing.”

“Uh-huh, what?”

“Give her the present already,” Trent said.

“What present? What?”

“I don't know,” Annie said. “I should wait. This is a victory present; there hasn't been a victory yet.”

“A simple matter of time. Are you winning today, Hall?” Coach asked.

“Yes,” I lied. When did I become such a liar?

Annie was cool. Her skin was the same milk chocolate color as Trent's, but hers looked like velvet. She produced a plastic bag from the floorboard and handed it to me. “Hall, I can't wait for you to see this!”

I turned the bag upside down, dumping the contents
into my lap. And there it was. A cloth Swiss flag. Bigger than a beach towel. My mood lifted. I almost had cheer. “Annie—you didn't!”

“I did,” she said, all smiles. Trent watched my expression from the rearview mirror.

“Annie, Annie, Annie! This is so great. I'll hang it on my bedroom wall. Thanks, Annie!”

“No problem.” She turned to Trent. “Can't deny it, the girl's got good taste.”

“Not interested in her taste, interested in her
game.
“

“I'm
interested in your taste, Hall,” Annie said.

I don't see Annie much, only during tournaments. She's nice in a way that isn't like a mom but more like a friend. I never feel like a junior player when I'm around Annie. I feel like a pro.

The only sport Annie likes is shopping, and my tournaments give her great opportunities, especially the ones in different states. Nevada, Utah, Florida, Arizona: she's there, credit card in hand. Last February, when Janie and I played our one measly international tournament in Mexico and got slammed by our opponents (Janie by a German and me by an Argentinean), Annie consoled us with sombreros purchased from the hotel gift shop.

At smaller, local tournaments like this one she often
buys me Slurpees on the drive home and we discuss our crush on Roger Fédérer. He's a pro player from Switzerland. We call him King Roger because he rules the court like royalty. He's an all-court player who hits the ever-living guts out of the ball. If he's struggling, he keeps it inside, plays it cool, never lets his opponent see anything but strength. It's only after he's won a difficult point or game that he'll raise his hands overhead and let out a wicked roar of a yell. Only then is it evident he was unsure of the outcome.

In the blazing heat he wears zinc oxide on his nose and cheekbones to stave off the sun. I love it when he does that. He's a warrior, like me.

Annie calls Roger Fédérer luscious. Wisely, she says it only when Trent is out of earshot. I'm pretty sure she wants a Swiss flag for herself as well, but Trent wouldn't be too keen on that. Coach isn't the kind of man who wants his wife thinking other men are luscious.

“I bought Trent a Swiss Army knife at the mall and it sparked my imagination. I knew you wouldn't want weaponry, but I wanted to get you something with a Swiss theme,” Annie said, referring to the flag.

“Let it inspire you, Hall,” Trent said. “Be soaked in inspiration.”

“This is fantastic.”

“You like it, then, Chickadee?” she said.

“Like it? I love it!”

“Good.”

I got worried for a second. “And if I lose today?” I said, my voice cracking.

“Lose?” Annie said.

“Lose?” Coach said.

“You know, fail to win?”

“That'll be the day,” Coach said, shaking his head.

I felt ill.

Coaches aren't allowed to offer advice during a match. Instead they sit in the stands, recording the mistakes their particular player makes. Trent brought his notebook; it was the first thing he grabbed when he got out of the car. He planned on watching every bit of the final.

My opponent, from Utah, was Hanna Scott. I play her constantly. I beat her in the quarterfinals of the USTA National Opens and in the semifinal at the Copper Bowl, but she beat me the four tournaments before that. She's ranked higher, number two, in the Girls 14's.

Crowds love Hanna Scott. She's a vision. A beauty. Perfect blond ringlets of hair. Textbook ringlets. Angelic face. Great serve. Hard serve. Rich. Spoiled. Brat. Hanna Scott. Her name alone makes me cringe. The girl is
everything I'm not. Little Miss Perfect. Little Miss Popular. Hanna Scott. I want to break her racquet, render her helpless. Break her into bits and pieces, into spare parts. Dumb perfect curls. Stupid perfect face. Great serve. Amazing serve. Jealous of the serve. The bane of my existence, Hanna Scott.

Hanna Scott hates volley players. Sometimes if I rush the net shell choke and hit a bad shot. I prayed she'd be weak. Prayed that if I attacked the net she'd
give
me the points. I took my place at the baseline. The crowd clapped enthusiastically for Hanna Scott. They would.

Thump
…
thump
…
thump
… She won the point. Damn. She was better than I remembered, or maybe I was worse.

Thump
…
thump
…

Squinting, I could barely see the ball. It was invisible. No one else seemed to notice.

Thump
…
thump
…

…
thump… thump
…
thump
…

“Scott leads one game to love,” the umpire said.

I paused to wipe sweat from my brow. I studied my racquet strings, rearranging them slightly, desperate to find my rhythm.
Breathe,
I told myself,
breathe.
I tried to hit the angle. Open the court. Take the point. It backfired. She whacked it hard, whizzed it past me, for a winner.

…
thump
… “Agg!” I lost another point.

Bouncing up and down, I warmed my muscles, shaking tension from my bones.

…
thump
… Out!

It kept going badly: an unlucky streak of misery.

“Scott leads three games to love,” the umpire announced. Did he have to say it so loud?

We returned to our chairs for a changeover break.

Trent wrote furiously in his notebook. The crowd was fidgety and unimpressed with the lopsided match. They wanted blood; I was giving weakness.

“Time,” the chair umpire called.

I tied my shoe, giving myself an extra moment to think. What was I doing wrong? What command would Trent bellow? I closed my eyes and waited. I got a slight echo, but it was muffled and mixed, out of my grasp. My head ached. My guts void. My game vanished.

Should I attack the net? Hit to her backhand? Fear swelled in my muscles: between my shoulders and at my ankles. If I couldn't win a stupid Cherry Creek tournament, how could I hack it at a tennis academy like Bickford?
Trent, where are you?
I waited. Nothing. Pressure. Fear.
Speak to me, Trent, speak to me
…

The revelation rolled over me like a bulldozer.

Trent's voice was gone.

It was never coming back.

Ever.

“Time,” the umpire called again.

My head spun. My hands sweat from fear. I rocked back and forth at the baseline, awaiting Hanna's serve.

Trent's voice was gone.

It was never coming back.

Ever.

It was one thing to hate the thought of Bickford, to want to stay in Colorado and be a champion. It was something else entirely for Coach's voice to wither and die. Without his voice, I wouldn't be a champion
anywhere.
Suddenly Bickford Tennis Academy was the least of my worries.

Hanna bounced the ball. I swallowed hard.

As Hanna brought her racquet back, her grip was awkward. I could tell even across the court. She hit the ball…
thud
… then recoiled in pain. Her titanium racquet fell to the court.

My prayers were answered.

Hanna looked at the umpire. “I need an injury timeout,” she said, mouth hanging open in disgust.

“Three minutes,” the umpire called.

The staff trainer hustled courtside, barking for information. Hanna held out her thumb, as if to say,
Duh!
He
produced balm that reeked so much I could smell it the instant he unscrewed the cap. Hanna stared straight ahead, dead to everything except her desire to get back on court and beat the living daylights out of me.

Unsatisfied, the trainer strapped tape on Hanna's appendage. Everyone knows thumbs can't be taped. Thumbs have to be flexible to serve. To heck with Hanna Scott and her stupid thumb—now I had a chance to win. A sprained thumb can cause damage!

“Time,” the umpire called.

Hanna whimpered.

Thump
… She hit the ball into the net.
Thump
… Again, into the net.
Bounce, bounce, bounce
…
thump
… Into the net. She double-faulted, one, two, three, four times in a row. I won a game from her double faults. It was a miracle!

Thump
…
thump
… Out! When she finally got it over the net, it was out!

Come on, Hall,
I thought. All I had to do was get the ball over the net and Hanna's sore thumb would do the rest. What more could I ask? The game proceeded, with me winning one clumsy point after another. She gave up altogether and glanced at her parents in the stands.

“I can't play,” she said politely. “Hurts too much.”

The crowd voiced one collective
ooh
for Hanna Scott
and her brave effort. I exhaled. If one player can't continue, the other player wins.

“Three games to one, Hanna Scott retires. Hall Brax-ton wins,” the umpire announced, confirming.

The crowd gave me sparse applause. Technically I'd won, but everyone knew it was an ugly win. Hanna and I didn't shake hands at the net, what with her thumb and all. Just as well. I didn't want her congratulations. I felt like a total fraud.

As the officials prepared to hand me the trophy, I looked for Trent. As he closed his notebook, his eyes burned into me. I would pay for this display of my declining tennis abilities, of that I was certain.

The car ride home was less than fun. Apparently Trent thought I'd been trying to
humiliate
Hanna Scott. Since I'd beaten her at previous tournaments, Coach thought I was showing off at my opponent's expense—prolonging the match, delaying the points, in order to show up her tennis skills. He thought I'd been
pretending
to play badly! It didn't occur to him that expectations and his absent voice were crumbling my game. It didn't occur to him I sucked. Coach half watched the road and half craned his neck around to yell. His shaved head glistened with sweat. Sportsmanship was a big deal.

“Confidence is one thing, but arrogance is something else. I
never
want to see that kind of spoiled-brat behavior again. Are you listening, Hall?”

“Yeah.”

“Well?”

“I'm not a spoiled brat. I'm the least spoiled brat out there.” It was true. Spoiled brats packed the junior circuit. Some of them were such spoiled brats they threw tantrums when they didn't win.

“What would you call it, then?”

I looked out the window, letting the highway asphalt blur my vision. “I don't know.”

“You don't know?
You don't know?
Do you think Kim Clijsters became a top-ten player by having a bad attitude?”

“No,” I said weakly.

“Do you think Maria Sharapova won Wimbledon at seventeen, before she even graduated from high school, because she has attitude problems?”

“No.”

“Do you think your darling Roger Fédérer wins Slams over and over and over again,
making history,
because his attitude needs adjusting?”

I felt the fabric of my Swiss flag, refusing to feel guilty.

“You're out there to do your best, not taunt the other
players with mind games. When you're that much better than an opponent, you win quickly, not obscenely. What have I told you about winning graciously?”

“If you can't win graciously, you don't deserve to win.”

“Did you deserve to win today?”

I didn't answer.

His chest heaved.
“Did you deserve to win?”