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“Atta boy, Kai,” Jason muttered, and even submerged in a cloud of tension, I couldn’t help but smile at his pride, still clutching Antonia’s hand.
Like proud parents. We’re all rooting for you, love, I mentally sent to Kai. No matter what happens.
But Kai couldn’t make anything happen and suddenly the umpire was intoning, like a death sentence, “5-1, Finn.”
Two more points for Brad and it was over.
Jason held his face in his hands, but I jumped to my feet and realized the crowd had too. The entire stadium cheered and hollered for Kai.
“Please,” the umpire said in her calm voice, the tennis-equivalent of telling everyone to sit down and shut the hell up.
It took a few minutes but finally everyone settled down to watch Kai serve.
Come on, babe. You got this.
Kai put his body through the graceful, powerful motions, and the ball hit the centerline where Brad tried for it but couldn’t touch it.
“5-2, Finn.”
Kai served again; the ball hit the net for a fault. His face blank, he tried again. Ace.
“Who aces on a second serve?” Jason asked, laughing. “No one. Kai. That’s it.”
Now it was 5-3 and Brad’s serve. Kai returned, and again they fell into a rally that lasted shot after shot after shot.
With each successful hit, the crowd grew louder and louder until we were all on our feet. Kai was speed and grace on the court, racing for every ball, hitting with power and precision, and soon he was forcing Brad all over the court while he stayed relatively centered.
Brad stayed with him for nearly seventeen shots until his last hit the net and the crowd erupted.
“5-4, Finn,” the ump said while Antonia and I jumped up and down and took turns hugging and jostling Jason between us.
The ump got the crowd quiet, and Kai readied for Brad’s next serve. It was then I noticed the change in Kai. His expression wasn’t shut down in anger anymore but looked on the verge of smiling. He was two points away from Brad winning the Open, but he suddenly looked relaxed. Easy. He twisted his racket around and around, danced from foot to foot, focused but not tense.
Brad’s serve was a monster, but Kai got his racket on it. Brad hit back, a high, arcing shot that sailed over Kai’s head.
Kai raced for it; the ball bounced right at the baseline, and there was no time for him to position himself to get in front of it. Instead, he made a leaping shot, legs spread, and hit a backward ’tweener.
The crowd roared as somehow that shot landed true. Brad slammed it back, but he was rattled, and the ball hit the net. The stadium was deafening and grew louder as Kai, beaming now, raised his hands over and over, encouraging them to a frenzy.
“5-all.”
“This is happening. Is this happening?” Jason asked.
I had no answer, but we all held our breath again for Kai’s serve. Brad returned weakly and then Kai—that crazy bastard—looked right at me instead of at the ball and hit a no-look winner.
“6-5, Solomon,” said the ump.
“Sweet Jesus,” Jason said under the roars of the crowd. “Did he just…? Why?”
I was laughing and clapping and nodding, tears stinging my eyes. “He’s loving the game.”
Indeed, Kai was smiling wide, clearly enjoying himself. He pointed at one exuberant fan in the crowd, and while the serve clock was ticking, audibly asked her where to put his next serve.
“To his backhand?” Kai asked.
“Ace it,” the woman said.
Kai tipped his racket to her and took up position. The serve clock had three seconds and my heart was trying to crawl out of my chest. With one second to spare, Kai got the serve off.
