Volleying among the nightingales

This fact-based sports fiction zeroes in on a memorable semifinal match at the 1974 U.S. Open.

The Kid rolled out of bed, stood on the thin hotel carpet, and stretched to his full height. He could feel his nakedness – the over-conditioned air raised gooseflesh on his thighs – and a dagger of embarrassment hit home. A lifetime spent in locker rooms hadn't beaten the modesty out of him. He padded into the bathroom, where he caught his reflection in the mirror over the sink: small, black eyes, thin lips, a snarl of chest hair. He smoothed out an eyebrow. That was better.                                  

He stood under the shower for a long time. He felt guilty for using so much hot water, but he believed he could justify it if anyone complained. He needed his muscles to be especially loose. There'd be a lot of violent bending this afternoon. By the second hour, his right arm was going to ache from chopping at the grass time and again. He turned off the water, stepped onto the bathmat. After he dried himself off, he folded the towel with care and hung it back on the bar. He didn't like having a maid come in. How many towels does a man need in two weeks? One, that was the answer.

He climbed into his canary-yellow kit, pulled his socks high up on his calves, and surveyed himself again, this time in the full-length mirror behind the door. He couldn't tell if he looked old. He couldn't remember ever looking any different.

The Kid found his wife in the dining area, seated at a table against the back wall. Death Serves an Ace, an old mystery novel by Helen Wills, lay open in front of her. He'd picked it up for a deener at the used bookshop on Church Road just before the start of The Championships and perused it throughout the fortnight. Now, here in New York, the missus had decided to read it. He came up behind her. The smell of her neck – clean and slightly musky – opened his sinuses. Manna from Heaven. He put his hands on her shoulders, felt her stiffen in surprise. "Mornin'," he said. He started to knead her flesh, and she went with it, slowly rolling her head, leaning back to meet the pressure. Not able to help himself, he read over her shoulder:

"Irene!" Andrew exclaimed, and there was a moment of crawling silence. I wished fervently that I had the key for all this: the mutual hatred of the women, why Azarin was so conciliating to –

Bored already, The Kid's gaze wandered, fastening on a large freckle crawling out from under his wife's bra strap. He bore down on her shoulders. Little Miss Poker Face they called Helen Wills during her playing days in the 1920s. She must've been hard-pressed to maintain her famous countenance while reading reviews of this book. It was shonky from the very first page. Still, you had to hand it to her, he thought. She found a way to make money from tennis back when there was none to be had. He sighed. It was well past time for him to start thinking about how he was going to earn a living for the rest of his life. He would be forty years old in a couple of months. Too old to keep playing on the circuit. At one time he'd seriously thought about becoming an insurance agent. After all, he looked okay in a suit. He had a businessman's haircut. He blinked hard, willed away the idea. He supposed he could get a job giving tennis lessons, like Pancho at the Beverly Hills Tennis Club. That had to be the life, right? Sitting on the veranda with David Niven, watching Robert Stack's wife practicing her serve. Except he didn't have Pancho's personality. He couldn't imagine what he would say to David Niven.

"How're the boys?" he said.

"I didn't call, silly. It's three in the morning at home." The Kid's wife dropped her head forward. Her hair fell into the book's spine, blocking his view of Helen Wills's prose. The Kid was thankful for that much. He couldn't remember why everybody hated the women or why Azarin was so conciliating. It didn't matter, of course. It was just nice to be on the road with his wife, just his wife, with the kids back in Sydney with their grandparents. He moved his left hand up to the undercarriage of her skull and squeezed.

***

"Hey! Hey, Mister Hrooaahhrrrr –!"

The Kid didn't look up. He knew better than to encourage fans who yelled at him from across courts or plazas. He ducked his head and hurried for the clubhouse's back entrance. As he showed the attendant his badge and slipped through the door, he half-expected the fan to come barreling right in behind him – autograph-seekers were notoriously bold – but nothing happened. The doormen took their jobs seriously here in New York.

Straightening his sweater, he walked through the lounge toward the locker room. He poked his head into the common area. Empty except for the Swede, the long-haired wunderkind, staring at the television as if it had just snatched his soul. The Swede was young enough to be his son, The Kid thought. Turning away, he noticed that one of his yellow socks had already sagged into a bunch at his ankle. He wondered if he was starting to make a fool of himself by staying on the circuit. He shook his head. He was playing in the semifinals at Forest Hills. And where was the Swede? Gone from the tournament. The Kid knew he wasn't embarrassing himself. Not yet.

"Hey, Kid, how're ya?"

The Kid looked up, found Big John standing over him. John was smiling, as always. He looked like he'd just had a bangaroo. Tufts of hair stuck out behind his ears, his fat mustache was askew. Same old John. He stayed up late every night, knocking back the brown stuff, laughing too loud, keen for adventure. Nothing slowed him down, certainly not a big match the next day.

"Shoulda come out with us last night," Big John said. He threw a pretend punch.

The Kid glanced around, at the long wooden bench underneath him, at the rows of lockers. The room telescoped into the distance. How long had he been sitting here? He pulled himself to his feet, and Big John patted him on the shoulder. The huge hand thumped, and The Kid reached out to steady himself. His stomach plummeted. He knew it didn't matter if Big John had a hangover. He'd be as game as Ned Kelly. Always was.

John stared at him, a bemused look on his face. He wore a pink shirt over his signature too-tight white shorts. The ensemble somehow made him look even more manly than usual. He was a showman, Big John was, the John Wayne of the courts. He swaggered. He drawled. He laughed like a howitzer. Boom! Big John made The Kid feel small and insignificant. Of course, The Kid was small. As for whether he was insignificant – well, he figured that was a matter best left to the philosophers.

Last year in the semifinals, Big John beat him in three clinical sets and went on to win the tournament. The Kid got revenge at Wimbledon two months ago in the quarterfinals. Now they had the rubber match, again in the semis at the West Side Tennis Club. Despite it all, The Kid liked his chances. He could make the ball act like a hockey puck on this turf. Big John didn't like to bend low. Still, no one had to tell him that John was the favorite. John was bigger, stronger, younger. The defending champion. The only player who could beat the bratty American who would be waiting in the final. Big John had crushed Arthur and Tony on the way to this match while The Kid had struggled against lesser men, getting through on craftiness and poise.

"Gentlemen."

The Kid and John turned. Billy Talbert, looking uncomfortable in his official blazer, stood in the entryway. The tournament director motioned toward the stadium. It was time. Big John had shown up just minutes before they had to take the court. The Kid gathered up his racquets, and the three men stepped out of the locker room and turned a corner. Another man in a blazer held the door, and The Kid and John headed down the concrete tunnel, Billy a few steps behind.

The tunnel dropped them into a well of darkness before they turned another corner and stepped, blinking, into the open air and an explosion of applause. Fifteen thousand fans suddenly surrounded them, on their feet and cheering. It never failed to shock The Kid. For a moment, he felt like Elvis Presley. Big John, of course, always felt like the King.

***

The Kid had trouble focusing during the warm-up period; he kept sneaking peeks at the birds in the first row. The girls these days didn't have much use for bras, he thought. Certainly not on a warm day like this. He felt himself blush. Dear God, the things that went through his head! He slapped at the ball, then guiltily looked toward the players' box: he didn't see the missus. She'd come in late as usual; she'd tiptoe down to her seat during the first or second changeover.

I should enjoy this, he told himself, feeling the worry in the pit of his stomach. He had thought that Dallas in '72 – the world pro championship – was going to be the last big win for him. He'd broken down and cried in the locker room afterward, the only time in his life he'd shed tears over tennis. He had barely been able to stand during the fifth-set tiebreaker, but somehow he'd persevered. Red accidentally served right into his backhand at 4-5, and The Kid had just leaned into it, hit it low and true. Red went blank for the rest of the tiebreak. The Kid went blank after the handshake at the net. Fifty thousand American dollars for winning one tournament. A strange world.

That match had lasted three-and-a-half hours. He knew he wouldn't make it that long today. He was fit – he took his fitness seriously – but he was two years older now. Three-and-a-half hours was a long time. Especially against Big John's heavy shots. He had to beat him quickly.

The match started without The Kid fully realizing it. The ball zipped past him, and he trudged to the ad court. It zipped past him again. Now The Kid was serving, running, stroking the ball, lifting up onto his toes. Whole games went by in a blink. The Kid couldn't get a hold on the match; it slipped out of his grasp, scuttled away. Big John was dominating with his serve. The Kid felt like he was suffocating, like his head was being held under water. So much for enjoying himself. He squinted up through the heat dazzle to find his wife. She had finally made it to her seat: a vision in white, with big sunglasses perched on her nose. She looked like Jackie Kennedy. She nodded, urging him on. He thought about the first time she'd traveled overseas with him, for his first pro tour back in '57. A worrier just like him, she got herself worked up about the trip and ended up collapsing in the street the day before they were to depart. He almost had to postpone the tour – he should have postponed the tour. Sitting in the hospital waiting room, he'd wondered if he had made a mistake by turning pro, especially when he still had tournaments to master at the country clubs – especially the biggest tournament of them all. The ball flew past him again, and he flinched. First set to John.

Don't panic, The Kid told himself as he walked to the other side of the court. He'd needed that first set and he'd let it get away, but at least it went by quickly. His legs still felt fresh. He had plenty left. He plucked at the strings of his racquet, bounced them against the palm of his left hand.

Big John should have pushed hard at the beginning of the second set, but instead he had a bit of a walkabout, not uncommon for him. He started dropping his backhand short, and time and again The Kid knifed it into a corner and followed to the net for the easy put-away. The Kid felt confidence surge through him. He used his backhand to keep Big John off-balance. He used his forehand to back him up. Big John charged the net anyway – it was his only chance – and The Kid passed him. John started sliding around his weaker wing whenever he could. He crunched a few forehand winners that way, but it showed his desperation. He left too much of the court open, and The Kid made him pay for it. In the third game The Kid broke serve, the first break of the match.

When The Kid ran out the second set, Big John tilted his head back, as if trying to catch sight of the uncaring God up there in the sky. Seeing this, The Kid let himself smile inwardly. He knew it annoyed John that The Kid – the old man of the circuit – still gave him such a hard time in big matches. The older generation was supposed to give way to the younger one, that was a law of nature, but it wasn't happening here. The Kid kept showing up and making his shots. Big John probably didn't even feel young anymore. He'd been on the circuit for nearly a decade. Leaving God to His mysterious ways, John walked to the baseline. Readying to serve, he bounced the ball hard, over and over, pounding it into the ground like he was putting in a post on a Montana ranch. He swung into action. He was hitting the ball with anger now, hitting out on everything. The Kid knew this was dangerous. You didn't want Big John mad at you. And sure enough, John broke The Kid's serve right at the start of the third set – and then did it again for a 4-0 lead. The crowd applauded courteously: this was what they had expected, after all. Their foresight, finally, was being fulfilled.

Suddenly, it was The Kid's turn to grind his teeth and wonder what had gone wrong. He squinted across the net at John. He could feel the fury in his opponent's every shot. Big John didn't have any right to feel such pique, he thought. He couldn't possibly understand what it had been like for him and the other guys during their long years in exile. Big John had won his first Wimbledon in the last year of the old order and quickly turned professional. Just months later, the country clubs belatedly opened up to pros – as if Big John was the one guy they just couldn't live without. He'd gone straight from finishing school to the executive suite, with no suffering, no bounced checks, no all-nighters on the road. The Kid swallowed hard. Stewing over the unfairness of life wasn't going to do him any good, not right now. He needed to use his hardships to his advantage. He reminded himself that he'd once won a match on a court that was too short, with a concrete wall two feet behind the baseline. He'd won matches on canvas and wood surfaces that were as slippery as ice. Those experiences were valuable, and Big John hadn't had them. The Kid tossed the ball into the air, watched it rotate above his head. He swung and charged into the forecourt. He dug a half volley off his shoe and flipped it over the net. Big John started for it but immediately gave up.

That shot was exactly what The Kid needed. He could feel the blood surging through his veins. All at once, he believed he could do anything he wanted. He held at love for 1-4, then quickly broke Big John's serve with a flash of backhands. The crowd fell silent. It didn't know where to place its loyalty. Tennis fans had been pining all year for a match between Big John and the brash young American – the new Wimbledon champion – and if John won here it was sure to happen. But how could they root against The Kid? Like Old Man River, he just kept rolling along. He gave them all hope. They lived vicariously through the dashing Big John, but they actually believed they were The Kid.

Big John dropped his racquet on the ground, pecked at it with his foot. The set should have been his by now, but The Kid refused to let the sure-thing winners bang past him. The Kid scrambled and stretched, tossed lobs into the stratosphere, and ultimately made Big John lose points that were rightfully his. Big John didn't feel like the defending champion anymore. He was baffled, frustrated. He scanned the scoreboard: 4-5, back on serve. With two massive, angry swings, Big John went up 15-40 on The Kid's serve, double set point for a two-sets-to-one lead, but he couldn't close it out. A tiebreaker. The Kid served first, knocked a volley into the corner and never looked back, winning it 5-1.

Losing the third set deflated Big John. Returning serve at 2-3 in the fourth, The Kid kept his opponent in the backcourt with lobs and deep, penetrating groundstrokes, earning a break point. Big John put his first serve into the net and grumbled to himself as he returned to the baseline. The Kid eased into a crouch, rocked slightly. He recognized his opportunity: this was it, right here. There would be no Wimbledon trophy for him, not ever. He knew that. He should have won it his first time in the final, against the Egyptian all those years ago. The Kid was nineteen years old that day – he actually was a kid – and as fast as lightning. Dear God, his opponent seemed ancient to him then. Thirty-two! On match point, the Egyptian reached back to scorch a first serve but instead he poofed the ball over the net. The Kid watched it, stunned, and by the time he could get himself to move forward it was too late. He knocked the ball into the net. That awful moment was two full decades in the past, but he remembered it vividly: the ball fluttering over the net; his feet stuck in place as he realized what was happening; his long, desperate stretch; the pathetic ticking sound of the ball hitting the wooden frame. The Egyptian had tricked him one last time and taken the title. Now The Kid was the old man who had to come up with the tricks, the sleight of hand. It was the circle of life.

No, there would be no Wimbledon title, not ever. The brash young American had made that clear two months ago on Centre Court, contemptuously slapping away The Kid's every effort, barely breaking a sweat on his way to winning the final in straight sets. The Kid looked at his shoes. That was done and over, that Wimbledon, no sense rehashing it. He told himself there could be another Forest Hills trophy. Anything was possible as long as you kept fighting. Winning Forest Hills again would almost make up for his failure to punch through at the All-England Club. A United States national championship at thirty-nine years old! He chopped at Big John's second serve, sending the ball whipping like a Sidewinder missile. Big John bent for it, but his wrist went soft at the moment of impact. The ball plopped into the net. Big John angrily kicked at it. His leg swung around, like a dancing bear in the circus. That break was all The Kid needed. Big John would be useless from here on. The Kid finished off the set 6-3, booking a place in the Forest Hills final for the fourth time in his career.

He jogged forward, bounced his racquet on the net. Big John reached him a moment later, shook his hand and clapped him on the back. He said something, too, but The Kid could only hear a thin hissing, as if he were holding a seashell to his ear. He felt himself choke up and covered it by giving the umpire's hand a long, firm shake. He pretended not to luxuriate in the crowd's cheers as he collected his things. His wife waved at him as she inched her way toward the aisle. He watched her until she was bounding up the stairs. She'd have to go all the way around the side of the stadium to get to the players' lounge, but she moved fast when she was happy. The Kid turned and saw that Big John was already striding for the tunnel. By the time The Kid got his bag over his shoulder, his vanquished foe had disappeared.

Worried that he'd flouted etiquette, that he'd rubbed his friend's face in the result, The Kid hurried into the tunnel. Coming out the other side, he glanced down the hallway. He wondered if the doorman would stop his wife from coming through. They tended to be more diligent right after matches. He turned into the locker room, stepped around an official.

Big John stood at his locker with a hand on his waist, looking toey as he eyed the reporters surrounding him. Sighing, he cast about for excuses. "It looks to me like the guy who wins Dallas puts it all out there and can't get up for Wimbledon or Forest Hills," he said. "Next year I'm going to skip Dallas and prime myself for the two major titles."

The Kid was grinning as he passed by, and he dropped his head so his pleasure wouldn't show. Next year for Big John. There was always next year. The Kid didn't like to think about the future anymore. The brash young American, two decades younger and stronger, would be waiting for him in the final, but that didn't matter. That was tomorrow. Right now, The Kid was a winner, the best man he could be.

© 2014 Douglas Perry; an excerpt of this story was originally published in The Oregonian.