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I win the second point after a quick volley and the third after I lunge for a shot that goes crosscourt. The ball barely skims the net but lands in his service box.
0–3.
O’Lachlan glares at me as he prepares to receive.
I give him a little half-smile as I raise the ball to serve, trying to get in his head. He returns the serve fiercely, too quickly for me to regain my form. I lunge forward to catch the ball, but I don’t get the right angle and it bounces off my racquet and into the net.
1–3.
‘Come on, Gabriel!’ someone calls from the audience. A smattering of cheers follows.
‘Quiet, please,’ says the umpire.
O’Lachlan wipes his brow on his sleeve as he hunches over, waiting for the ball.
When I serve this time, I’m ready for his vicious return. I pull myself back into position quickly, meeting his ball as he attempts to serve a hard backhand into my deuce court. I return the ball low and flat. He has no chance of chasing it.
1–4.
‘Goddamn shit,’ O’Lachlan mutters when he fumbles his first serve again. Whatever momentum spurred him to a tie breaker, it’s gone now.
Second serves are all about getting the ball in play; they’re more about accuracy than power. Try to ace your opponent on a second serve and you’re practically handing the point to them. This isn’t normal. In all our years on the circuit together, I’ve never known O’Lachlan to have so many second serves.
As predicted, O’Lachlan’s second serve is surprisingly soft. I hit it down his sideline, and he fumbles to chase it.
Finally, after thirty-one hellish minutes in this broiler of an arena, I ace O’Lachlan and win myself the third set.
O’Lachlan crumbles not long after. I blitz through the first game of the fourth set; then the second and the third. He wins a handful of points, but it’s clear he’s in a funk.
I play an ace to get to fifteen–love in the last game; a drop shot to thirty, a ball down the baseline to forty, and finally, O’Lachlan hits the net and I close out the match. As the crowd cheers, I hit the playing balls into the stands and collapse onto the player’s bench, heaving in mouthfuls of air as I fumble for my water bottle. A ball kid hands me a fresh one, icy condensation dripping down the plastic, and I take it with thanks.
Two days. I’ve bought myself another two days in Melbourne and fought my way into the third round.
I make my way over to my player’s box where Papa, Victor and Noah wait for me. Papa leans over the barrier to clap me on the back as I reach up to him.
‘Good play, Gabriel,’ he says, which is praise of the highest order.
I reach across him to take Noah’s hand, squeezing it. ‘Thank you for coming.’
‘You’re welcome,’ he says, emotion overwhelming his voice. ‘I’m glad you didn’t lose.’
I laugh because we both know what was at stake. ‘Me too.’
Papa nudges me and I let go of Noah’s hand. ‘Go get cleaned up. We’ll talk downstairs.’
I grab my gear and see Percy Jones step onto the court. These on-court interviews are a part of my contract, and while they’re not my favourite, I far prefer speaking to just one journalist than an entire room full.
‘Gabriel Madani, you’re causing a bit of trouble.’ Percy’s deep voice bounces around the arena. ‘You’re the fourteenth seed, playing like you’re the second or third seed . . . and you just knocked out the tenth seed. How do you feel about that?’
‘I’m just trying to play my best tennis under the conditions,’ I say. ‘I train a lot for the heat to prepare for this tournament, and I’m glad it’s paying off.’
‘You’re known for having a very quiet player’s box, but today it looked like you had a bit of support from a friend.’
My stomach churns. I’d thought no one would care about who was in my player’s box, but once again I’m reminded how eagle-eyed people can be—especially journalists; how eager they are to find a story.
‘Yes, a long-time friend from Australia,’ I lie. I can’t even look at Noah in the crowd, so petrified that my face will betray my real feelings and it’ll be unpacked on a Twitter thread. ‘I have been doing tournaments here for a while, but he’s not been able to attend a match until now. It is good to catch up with him.’
If I fumble through my words a little more than usual, while struggling to translate in my head, who cares? I’ve just played close to three hours of tennis. Blame it on heat exhaustion.
