On the main court, Nicholas* traded forehands with his opponent, whose high loops the freezing April gusts pushed unpredictably around the court. Eventually, if Nick could feel his hands and keep his discipline during the long rallies, he would whip those hands through—as quickly as Delaware had ever seen—and pummel a winner that the pasty boy across the net couldn’t touch. It was Greek god against high school nerd, almost literally. Nick’s father and uncle shouted in Greek illegal instructions from behind the fence to our potential state champion, and the public school’s diminutive top player played a soft game and wore Abdul-Jabbar-esque goggles.
I walked over from the adjacent courts where our two doubles teams were stampeding over more tennis fodder. My first year as head coach of my alma mater was starting well. This would be our third team win in as many contests.
John looked on in his windbreaker and sunglasses with his arms folded across his chest. Muscular and lean at forty, a veteran coach, he’d taken up a post behind Nick but far from his entourage of Mediterranean rowdies. “Perfect for Nick to play,” he said, referring to Goggles across the net, without diverting his attention from the point unfolding. “Especially this early in the season.”
“Building patience,” I said.
“He’s frustrating,” said John, eyeing Goggles. The court was a cauldron of frustration—a flurry of strokes and squeaks, and then Nick muttering, shuffling his shoes along the sanded surface without lifting his feet with each step, wondering why he had risked too much to win the point too soon. His mind churned, and I remembered what he once told me. “I don’t get rattled when I’m down or not playing my best,” he’d said. “I just have to remind myself that I’m better than the other guy.”
“How are we doing on the other courts?” a newly-arriving parent within earshot asked us.
“Winning,” John said, quietly. We’d barely lost a game on any of the five courts.
“Winning is just avoiding losing,” I said, and John smiled. “When I win I don’t feel joy. I feel relief.”
-----
Another day, another public school, the summer after my first coaching season. It is like a college campus. The spaces between each court have small angled fences to keep stray balls from interrupting the neighbors. The windscreen loudly proclaims CENTRAL YORK in block letters. I’ve been begging for one of these for our team’s courts to no avail.
I’ve arrived for the quarterfinals of what’s billed as the Pennsylvania Olympics. Dispatched my first opponent as if he were made of straw. Now the top seed, a teaching pro from Lancaster, Jared takes the sizzling court against me.
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I’ve arrived for the quarterfinals of what’s billed as the Pennsylvania Olympics. Dispatched my first opponent as if he were made of straw. Now the top seed, a teaching pro from Lancaster, Jared takes the sizzling court against me.
-----
“Out,” the smaller player called. There are no umpires in high school tennis, nor in most tennis anywhere. Players call their opponents’ shots in or out. No mere cost-cutting measure—to be sure, it’s a vestige of the sport’s gentlemanly beginnings, when amateur noblemen played by a code of honor and set tennis’s barriers of entry high enough to assure even a century later that private schools like ours would steamroll the Goggles of the world. Yet along with its grace and the technique blended with strategy to master it, tennis has this code—despite its outdated origins—to thank for making it a game of gentlemen rather than one of ruffians. You soon learn that winning, or avoiding losing, by deception doesn’t bring the same relief.
Nick looked up a fleeting moment. He eyed Goggles. It had been close, but surely just out. Then he started another point with a low, placid toss. The wind took one of Goggles’ shots within inches of the baseline. With a raised finger, the universal hand sign, our player watched it bounce to the fence. John’s eyes widened behind the shades.
“What?” Goggles called from afar. He was approaching the net for a better look, as if the evidence were laid out for inspection.
“It was out,” Nick replied, matter-of-factly. Goggles, with no recourse, stared a little longer before stomping to the baseline.
-----
Jared the Number One Seed mows me down in the first set, 6-0. His offense is too potent, and I’m mistiming routine shots because of how fast the balls are coming in. Their topspin hurtles them from the hardcourt, digging in for a split-second to gain power and then releasing with seemingly more velocity.
The second set, however, is a different story. I’m more used to the pace and in better condition. Jared takes the opportunity to develop his weaknesses. Still, he blasts me off the court on his serve, but my struggles to win on my serve succeed. Until 4-4, when he breaks me. His win now seems a formality.
-----
They played a few more points before Nick took the game. As the players prepared to switch sides, John walked up to the chain-link fence. Nick turned around to face him. “What was that?” John asked.
“What?”
“The line call.”
“Oh,” Nick didn’t flinch. “He hosed me on the last point. Said mine was deep. So the next one, I called it out.”
“But it was not even close,” John protested, incredulous. “You knew it was in?”
“Yeah, I was getting back at him.”
At this, John almost laughed. “Look, the ball’s in unless you know it’s out. If you’re unsure, it’s in. That’s it.”
When he got back to where I was standing, he recapped their discussion. “Dude, can you—” he started. My mouth was agape. “Have you ever in your life called a ball out that you knew was in? Inches in? And been brazen enough to tell your coach that? To not even come up with an excuse. Not even think an excuse is needed!”
-----
Advantage, Jared. It is match point. He serves to my left-hand side of the court. He hurls me like a yo-yo from one end of my baseline to the other, but I answer each question with speed and defense.
Finally one shot is too incisive. I lob it high but short. He pounces, camps under it, and whales an overhead smash. Down the line to my backhand. I won’t get there, and my tournament will be over.
I’m standing on the baseline as it approaches. But Jared’s overcooked it. He should have played it safe. Here it comes.
-----
Does a team take on the qualities of its coach? I believed so. And what did that say? In fury I stalked the courts as matches finished in our favor. All preseason we’d talked about the culture of the team and being ambassadors for our school. And my standard bearer needlessly undercut it all. Getting a call wrong under the pressure of competition was one thing, exacting misguided revenge on an inferior opponent quite another.
John and the team huddled around me. “Follow me,” I barked, leading them back onto the court. The sun was low and the wind bellowing. I was shivering. So were the boys, some of them sweaty from play, others frozen from watching.
“Line up.” They took their spots along the doubles alley on the court farthest from school. The public school team was leaving in clusters. Their parents gawked over their shoulders at the brilliant white uniforms at the edge of campus, and the six tennis courts adjoined side by side that they would soon traverse many times before they could go home to be laundered. We had won every court, and here we were.
-----
I track the yellow blur. It bounces near the baseline, but it looks long. Jared’s already approaching the net to shake hands.
Am I sure? It’s too close to call it out. No, it’s too close for me to lose this close a set. He should have left no doubt. But if it’s close, it’s in.
It’s one, two, three seconds now—squinting at the line—
But I’m pretty sure it’s out. Almost certain. I’m not going to give him the match on this.
But if you’re not sure—
-----
Off they went from sprinters’ starts. I walked among them, whizzing by me on all sides. “Hosed?” I shouted. “We take revenge on others by lying on line calls?!” Up and back they ran, bending down to slap a sideline, planting to burst in the opposite direction.
“That’s what you call sportsmanship?”
-----
“Out!” I bellow.
“Are you sure?” Jared makes clear this really means something far worse. “How far was it out?”
“An inch, two inches.”
I manage to see a few break points but never close them. He wins, 6-0, 6-4. We pack our things side by side and leave the courts separately, without exchanging another word.
-----
They finished. I looked upon them, these foreigners. “That will never happen again.” I snarled in a rage as they huffed and held their hands over their heads to open their lungs. “I swear to you, I’d rather lose a hundred matches than cheat an opponent like that.”
* The names are real, except Nick's.
Written for a magazine contest in September 2017.
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