AllFreeNovel
Share Us
My ball skims the top of the net. It falls forward, hitting Auer’s side. The crowd erupts, applauding the stamina, the skill, the point. Even Auer claps his hand against the strings of his racquet, and I give him a tight smile.
Panting, I take my place back at the baseline as the scoreboard registers one point. I’m exhausted. All that effort for one point.
My first serve is a fault, and the linesman’s call echoes around the stadium as he confirms it. Behind me, the serve clock ticks down. I take a breath, steady myself and serve again.
Double fault!
Auer’s fans applaud my mistake and I try to get out of my own head.You can do this. This time, my serve is weaker, but it makes it over the net. Auer sends it sailing back with a driving backhand and I stumble to meet it, scooping it up underneath my racquet. It hits the net. Another point gone.
Another serve. I try to ace him, and fail. A stupid decision so deep in the fifth. A softer serve only means Auer will use his backhand, and he does. I try to meet it with a forehand—weaker but a little more precise—and aim for the back corner, crosscourt. In what can only be described as an absolutely mad act, Auer intercepts it in midair and slices the ball down the line. It hits the far back corner, mirroring exactly where I’d hoped my ball would land. The absolute ease with which he hits the shot makes my shoulders sag. What’s the point anymore? I’llneverbe at his level.
The set point ticks over. Auer’s now in front. Only two games lie between him and the title.
I look up to Papa in the player’s box. He’s literally on the edge of his seat, resting his chin on his hand. He looks deep in thought, anxious. He mouthsAre you okay?
Nodding, I re-tape my bandages. I put on an extra pair of socks to cushion the blister on the bottom of my foot and stand, testing the padding.
I’m so wrecked. So sore and defeated and aching. I could call it now, and it would be done.
Eight points and you finish this match with dignity and pride, I tell myself even as my body protests.
I shove the bloodied bandages into my pack, ignoring thewhir-clickof a camera behind me. Injury porn. The media loves it. They like to know how we suffer and hurt for our passion. Like gladiators.
Pejo Auer waits for me, grim-faced and focused, and it feels like I’m facing my executioner. There are no mind games here. It’s just one player outplaying another. He sets up his serve, sweat dripping down his angular nose, and sends it flying across the net. I hit it back, and without moving, Auer digs down and sends a forehand straight across the other side of the court. It bounces past before I’ve even taken a step. An excellent shot. And he didn’t move an inch.
For every point I claw back, Pejo gains two. He closes the fifth; now he’s two games ahead. The crowd is going wild for him: the reigning champ; one of the best of the game; the person people come to these tournaments to see. I wonder if they’d have the same energy for me if I were ahead. It’s hard enough to fight your way to the final, and it’s even harder when you’re facing a crowd favourite.
Auer takes a deep breath on the other side of the net, and I know that he’s trying to steady his nerves, to tell himself this game isn’t over just because he’s got a sizeable lead. That I could still come back and take this from him. Strangely, that makes me feel good. It’s nice knowing your opponent still sees you as a threat, even after playing tennis for five hours.
It’s his service game. He has all the momentum to convert this and win the championship. I tell myself to play like it’s just another game, but of course, it isn’t. Nerves get the best of Auer in the first point; he double faults. It’s an easy point for me.
Auer rolls his shoulders, stretches his head from left to right and then sets up to serve again. This time, it’s a stronger serve and the ball flies down the middle line. I hit it back, he returns it, I hit it back again. Neither of us backs down. Auer plays a drop shot and it lands close to the net. I manage to reach it, lobbing it back. It’s not the most refined shot but it’s the only shot I can make. Of course, Auer, the incredible freak that he is, rears up and spikes the ball back down. I fumble for it, but the ball hits the edge of my racquet and lands back in my court.
15–15.
Auer serves. Back and forth, back and forth, until my shoulder buckles from fatigue and I hit the ball into the net.
30–15.
It’s almost 1 am. The audience falls silent as Auer bounces the ball. Even I can hear thetap tap tapon the astroturf.
The ball flies past me before I can even comprehend it. Incredible. How does he still have enough energy?
40–15.
Pejo’s face breaks into a smile. It’s the championship point.
I’ve always wanted to experience this once—a grand slam championship point—and I suppose now I am. It’s just not for me.
I’ve thought about losing as much as I’ve thought about winning these past couple of days. I knew what I’d expect to feel when faced with a championship point—elation, nerves, that final serve of adrenaline, like when you’ve only got a mile left to go in a marathon. You push through because the end is so close.
The feeling of losing the championship was harder to pin down. I thought maybe I’d feel dread, loss, sadness. I’d feel that I’d let myself down, my team, my trainers. My papa.
But now, as I face down Pejo Auer on the championship point, I don’t feel any of those things.
I don’t feel bad at all.
A serve, a few hits, my ball lands just outside the baseline, and it’s all over. In the end, the championship point is a point like any other; there’s nothing special about how he wins it, no big rallies, no trick shots.
