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Coach Clay was teaching a small group of kids who looked about nine or ten years old. When he sent them off to get a drink, I quickly ran onto the court.
“We haven’t got a coaching session today, have we?” he asked.
“No,” I said. “Can I use a ball machine please?”
“Are you all right?” Clay’s eyebrows dipped down in concern, and I realized my face was fixed in a scowl. But for the life of me, I couldn’t force my mouth into a smile—that’s how mad I was!
I turned away, my chin twitching. I bit down my lower lip to stop it from quivering. I sounded squeaky and high pitched, “I need to hit some balls.”
“Hey,” Clay said, gently spinning me back around. “Taylor? What’s going on?”
“I just need to hit some balls,” I mumbled, not trusting my voice at all.
“Okay, you can go to court 3,” he said, “the machine is set up already.”
I flashed a smile and ran off just as his students returned. I adjusted the ball machine to hit forehands, and with each swing of the racquet I imagined Bianca Holbrun’s head. With my feet moving in little steps, I aimed my ball crosscourt to the baseline. When I emptied the machine, I started again with my backhand.
I noticed Coach Clay standing at the side of the court, and glancing around, saw his class had finished. He walked across to the machine and switched it off.
“Okay, I think you’ve well and truly pummeled those balls,” he joked. “Care to tell me what’s going on?”
“Apparently you can only wear Covington colors on court,” I blurted out, sounding both petty and petulant.
“In tomorrow’s game?”
“Yeah, so I can’t wear my headband,” I said, reaching up to adjust it. “It has to be maroon.”
“You’ve always worn it?”
I nodded. “It’s my lucky charm.”
“You don’t have a maroon one?”
I shook my head, my lips pouting sulkily. I was supposed to be looking forward to my first tennis match for Covington Prep, but now I was dreading it.
“Taylor,” Clay said, “I know what you mean. Routines, superstitions, it’s important to keep things the same. But hey, won’t you be wearing the Covington uniform? Isn’t that new?”
My shoulders slumped. Clay was right. The uniform was new to me, but in my mind that was different. I had to wear it, and to be fair, at tournaments I had several outfits that I rotated. “This is my lucky one,” I whispered.
“Yeah, I know it can be hard when you have something new or different. My brother is so pedantic when he plays.” He let out a chuckle. “He’s the type who has to have everything in it’s particular place. His water bottle, his towel folded tidily. His shorts ironed.” He winked, so I guessed he was exaggerating.
I smiled along with him. I could relate because I liked my water bottle to be placed neatly next to my bag, too, but it didn’t ease the rate at which my heart was beating.
“At the end of the day, it’s not going to be your headband, or your dress, or your shoes that makes you win or lose the game,” he said, and added softly, “Is it?”
Of course, Coach Clay was right. What you wore, or the position of your drink bottle had no bearing on how you played. I remembered when Joel Sosnowski had a meltdown in one of his matches. He’d missed an easy overhead smash and then flung his cap at the fence, blaming and cursing it. We’d all laughed about it later, but at the time his mistake was solely attributed to his cap! It was madness to think that way, but such were the mental demands of the sport.
I reached up and pulled my headband off. No, this headband didn’t have any magical powers that made me hit winners, but it was my connection to Mom. Sure, it kept my hair in place and the sweat out of my eyes, but it was more than that—with it I felt her energy, her spirit. Would I sound like a nutcase if I tried to explain that?
“My Mom gave it to me,” I whispered as I twisted it in my hands.
Coach Clay took me in an embrace, his hand patting my upper back. He pulled me along to the sports boutique. I didn’t even know it existed, but it was where you hired golf clubs or balls for the driving range, and it sold an assortment of golf and tennis clothes and equipment.
“Pretty sure there’ll be a headband in stock,” he said as he introduced me to the sales clerk, Gwyneth, a lady with blonde hair and perfect makeup who didn’t look like she would work in a shop. She found me a maroon one and took it out of the packet so I could try it on. It was slightly bigger than mine, so the tail was longer when I tied it up. I didn’t have any money with me, but Gwyneth said not to worry, that she would add it to my account. She checked my membership details in the computer, confirming my address and email and smiled kindly.
“Okay, go and hit some more balls, make sure it works okay,” Clay said. “And, Taylor...”
Clay thumped on his chest, a universal signal to fight hard. Mom often displayed it from the sidelines—urging me to play with heart, to dig deep. On some days, I was pretty sure she came away from my matches with a bruised chest.
