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“Well done,” Gael said to me at the net in a thickly accented voice while shaking my hand. “Quarterfinals. You got this.”
“Thanks,” I managed.
Jason was practically jumping out of his skin. “You’re doing amazing.”
“I’m bloody fucking tired,” I said.
“That’s what happens when you play like the prodigy you are instead of tanking after one round.”
“Hilarious, mate,” I said, rolling my eyes.
In the Quarterfinal match, I played with the same serious (boring) style against the American, John Isner. Isner was nearly two meters tall, one of three giants in tennis, making him slow but with a killer reach. My usual ploy of acing my way through my service games fell apart; the bastard returned nearly everything. I was down two sets, and in danger of getting bounced if I lost one more. Frustration started to knock on the door—an old friend that always seemed to show up when shit got tough.
During the changeover, I flopped onto my bench. I started to take a long pull from my water bottle and instead hurled it sideways. It smashed into the side of the ump’s chair making a rainbow arc of water.
“Hey!” The ump bent over the side from up high and waved his arm at me, startled. The crowd made an ooh sound and I felt their energy—that had been solidly with me for the last few rounds—tense up.
Don’t let it fall apart now, I thought and remembered the peace I’d had on the lanai, in Daisy’s chair, her hands warm on my skin, her soft mouth on mine…
“That’s a warning, Mr. Solomon,” the ump said. “A generous one at that.”
“What?” I said, smiling and feigning surprise. “It slipped. I went to take a drink and the bottle slipped.”
The ump pursed his lips. “It did not slip sideways.”
But he grudgingly laughed, and I did too, and the anger loosened its grip on me and slunk away. For now.
Meanwhile, I had to change my strategy.
I didn’t stop trying to slam aces at Isner, but on every shot, I rushed the net to force angles or to drop shots lightly over to his side. I made the big man run for his life. It took another four-hour marathon, but I eked out a win.
I had one day to rest before the semis and thought for sure my elbow would be screaming. It wasn’t.
Daisy and her voodoo magic.
I hadn’t had a chance to talk to her in days. Between matches, I slept or worked out, trying to keep my energy up, and not paying any attention to what was happening in the other draw. I did interviews in the booth after my wins, and they all asked me the same thing:
“You’re playing like a real pro. What’s changed?”
I ignored the insult imbedded in the question, flashed a smile through the camera, to Daisy, and always said, “Don’t know. Magic, maybe.”
For the semis, I was running on fumes and I had to face Roger Federer, the #3 ranked player on the planet and the #1 most loved tennis player of all time.
“Fuck me sideways,” I said in the locker room before the match. “This is going to suck.”
“Do your best,” Jason said, unable to hide the nervousness in his voice. “Roger is—”
“A legend? Beloved by all? A GOAT?”
“All of the above,” Jason said.
“This is why I never let myself win so many rounds,” I said, forcing a smile. “So I don’t have to play Roger Effin Federer.”
Jason burst out laughing. “You know what, Kai? Given the way you’ve been playing this Open, if you lose to Roger, you’ll still have won in my eyes.”
“Jesus, mate, don’t cry on me,” I said and shocked my agent even more by hugging him. “Thanks, Jase. For everything. Now if you’ll excuse me, a legend of tennis is going to hand me my arse on a silver platter. Be right back.”
But Roger was having an off-day. It happened to everyone eventually, even the greats. He hit ten unforced errors in the first two sets alone, helping to put me up 6-4, 6-2. He rallied in the third, and most of that set was just he and I exchanging aces. Roger had one of the best serves in tennis (next to me) and his greatest strength was his unshakeable consistency. He got into a rhythm in the fourth and we were tied two sets apiece.
