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Three dots appear, indicating she’s typing again. But then they disappear. Reappear. I wait impatiently for the message to come through.
Phoebe:Can you meet me at the hospital tomorrow? I’m in the Parkville Ward @ Prince Albert. Level four.
Gabriel:Okay . . . I’ll see you tomorrow. Midday?
Phoebe:Sounds good, I’ll let my nurse know.
Phoebe sends me aGrey’s AnatomyGIF just as someone knocks on my bedroom door.
‘I ordered sushi,’ Papa says, pushing open the door and peering in.
Three words and my bad mood lifts immediately. I know Papa’s trying to make amends for the words we exchanged at the airport and his brutal training session earlier, and I’m a sucker for sushi.
He’s bought a veritable feast—we’re talkingtamagoand salmonnigiri,makiandgunkan. We load our plates and settle in front of the television.
The hotel television has a limited selection of channels: we can choose the cricket, a backyard renovation show, or a re-run ofKindergarten Cop. We chooseKindergarten Cop. The movie is almost finished—Arnie rescues the kid who climbed the tower to escape his abusive dad—though the plot is of no interest to Victor or Papa. They spend ten minutes talking about how Arnold achieved his physique.
‘It’s all about visualisation.’ Victor nudges me with his socked toes. ‘Arnoldvisualisedthat he could look like that, and so that’s what he worked towards.’
‘Don’t think Arnie would be much of a tennis player with that physique,’ I reply through a mouthful ofnigiri.
‘It’s about picturing the goals you want to achieve.’ Victor was never a tennis player; he worked at a small PR agency in Paris when he was assigned a new client—a little-known tennis player named Bernard Madani who’d had a handful of wins since turning pro and desperately needed to refresh his brand.
I stifle a groan. ‘You’re right. I’ve never imagined what holding the championship cup would be like.’
Victor tuts at my sarcasm.
‘Not that,’ Papa pipes up. ‘Visualise the championship point. The cup is nothing; it’s a ceremony. The championship point is the last point in the match when you stare down your opponent, and you will them to give up. Visualise that moment. Visualise what you’ll do when you’re tired and run-down and your opponent doesn’t want to roll over. When they’ve suddenly got fire again, but you’ve got nothing left to give. Think about how you’ll feel when you’re playing a five-set match into the early hours of the morning, and the championship point is the only thing standing between you and the trophy.’
‘Your father’s right,’ says Victor. ‘You have to have confidence that you can get to the end, and then push past it, even when your body doesn’t want to.’
‘Play could continue, and four more championship points could come and go before the match has ended,’ Papa continues.
‘Coffee is for closers,’ I parrot.
Papa leans over me to swipe the last hand roll off the plate. ‘Sushi is for closers.’
‘You know I had my eye on that,’ I mutter. The credits ofKindergarten Coproll across the screen.
Later, I curl up in bed and read more about Arnold Schwarzenegger’s training on my phone—his routine, his philosophy and diet. Of course, he was a professional body builder. His entire career was about aesthetics. I’m nothing like Arnie but I have to admit that Papa’s speech about visualisation and the championship point hit me harder than I expected, and now uncertainty swims in my gut like an eel. What if I face the championship point, and I’m not ready? What if I squander it, lose it, and can’t get it back? What if, at the last second, the championship is ripped from me? How do I face my player’s box? How do I face Papa? Myself?
I’ve won tournaments before, but the Australian Open is one ofthechampionships. A quarter of a grand slam.
It’s different.
For once, I wish there was someone I could talk to about this stuff other than Phoebe. She’s sympathetic, but she’s also a stoic. She’ll say stuff like, ‘That’s the way it goes’ and ‘Never let them see you sweat’. I wish I could text Lukas but anything we say to each other is filtered through the lens of tennis. He’s a friend but he also catalogues any insecurity he perceives and stores it until we meet on the court.
Tennis is as much a mental game as it is physical, and once your opponent’s found your weakness, and they’re under your skin, it’s hard to dig them out.
The Prince Alfred Hospital is like any other: clean polished floors that reflect the fluorescent lights, a lingering sickly sweet chemical smell, and polite smiles from busy staff. We’re directed to Phoebe’s room after they cross-reference her visitor’s list: it’s a private room in a far wing of the hospital designed for ‘people of note’.
Phoebe’s thumbing through a fashion magazine when Papa and I arrive. I notice a bouquet of red roses in a glass vase on her bedside table before I see all the drainage tubes creeping out from under her blanket.
‘Oh, thank god you’re here,’ she says, relief clear on her face. ‘Gabi, my phone fell on the floor fifteen minutes ago, and I don’t want to bother a nurse.Puh-leasecan you get it for me?’
Trust Phoebe to focus on the most important things. Shaking my head, I lean down and find the phone underneath her bed.
‘How are you feeling?’ Papa asks in heavily accented English. He doesn’t speak English as often as I do anymore, and it shows.
