Match Point

“To the victor go the spoils.”

Deuce, ad-in, deuce, ad-out, deuce again. The server readjusted her cap and felt that the fabric had soaked through with sweat. She had played from morning to evening and had borne the worst of the Floridian sun. The heat was a small price to pay. Nothing compared to when she strode onto that clay court sporting her favorite fuchsia-pink Nike gear; racquet in hand, with her family and friends cheering behind her, she felt like a gladiator. She could wrap up this match in two points. Her heart quickened with excitement.

The server bounced the ball three times at a steady rhythm – this was her ritual before every serve. After the third bounce, she cast the tennis ball upward and struck it with her racquet. “Out!” her opponent called. The server took out another ball from the pocket of her shorts and repeated the ritual. This time, her racquet caught the ball with a satisfying ping! A yellow blur zipped past her opponent. An ace! The advantage was the server’s once more, and that was match point: one more point to win.

She served again, and this time, her opponent returned the shot with a

strong backhand of her own. The rally was on. The yellow ball flew back and

forth over the net as the girls ran all over to chase it down. It’d be easy to make

a mistake now if she got too hasty, so the girl focused on keeping the ball in play.

An opportunity would present itself. Once she saw the ball come to her smoothly, she tilted her racquet upward on the contact. This was a trick she knew. The ball flew in a high arc. Her opponent backed up, but the ball was already too far away. It passed over her head and hit the back of the fence, rattling the mesh link.

Game! The girl’s parents clapped and cheered her name from the pavilion where they watched. She approached the net, met her opponent with “good game,” and ran into her family’s embrace. They showered her with congratulations and recounted the best moments of the match. In their eyes, their daughter was already the next Serena. She finished the last of her water and forgot all about the soreness in her legs. The tournament’s award ceremony would begin soon. To a twelve-year old tennis player, victory tasted like a slice of pepperoni pizza.

“Only one receives the prize.”

Deuce, ad-in, deuce, ad-out, deuce again. The receiver tucked a few unruly

strands of hair behind her ear. The braid that her mother had tied so neatly in the

morning had been gradually unravelling by the hour. It was now the final match of

the day, and the situation had turned dangerous. The girl’s opponent had pulled

ahead of her, and with this next game, she would win. And yet, they kept returning

to deuce. If only the receiver could score two consecutive points, she could stay in.

Was it even worth it? she wondered. Did she really want this match to go on longer? Her face was all red from running. On the bench, her water bottle was empty,

and so was her Gatorade. Her coach would tell her such thoughts are poison. She

couldn’t give up so easily.

The rallies had been long and hard. The receiver had charged the net for volleys and defended well with her backhand. She had fought at her fiercest, but she

was out of luck. Her opponent’s second serve flew fast over the net, too quick for

her to touch it. An ace! She couldn’t believe it. It had to be an ace! Then came the

final ball. The two players returned shot after shot until her opponent hit a lob over

her head. The girl stretched her arm as high as she could, but her Wilson racquet

couldn’t reach. The ball could have been as far away as Jupiter. It was over.

A chorus of cheers coming from the pavilion tolled her own defeat. Out of

custom, she shook her opponent’s hand and said the words without feeling: “Good

game.” After collecting her gear and empty containers, she trudged off the court to

where her dad waited for her by the fence. He told her she had fought hard in that

last game and that he was proud of her, but all the girl could think about was the

ball passing over her head. It hadn’t felt fair. She wished she was taller – it wasn’t

the first time she had blamed her height.

As father and daughter walked past the other courts, they could see a few

other girls and boys still playing as the red sun set behind them. Once their matches

wrapped up in victory or defeat, the junior tennis tournament would be over, and

the organizers would hand out awards and food. The young girl wished she could

just leave. Her shelf didn’t need yet another participation trophy.