Seventeen
REACHING THE THIRD round of a grand slam is huge.
Reaching the fourth makes you someone. With a final ace, I had just become someone, and the crowd applauded as Sebastien Esser, the twenty-ninth seed, made his way off court.
He was no Marco Bicchieri, but a qualifier making the round of sixteen was news.
I’d already noticed an uptick in the amount of people pointing me out and coming by my practise sessions, and a crowd was now gathering near the player’s entrance waiting for my autograph.
But first, I had to suffer through an on-court interview.
Bag at my feet, I shared my thoughts on the match and how well I was playing, but just when I began to hope I might escape with only straightforward questions, she said, “There’s been a lot of talk lately about the expense of travelling with a team and how it’s unrealistic for many players outside the top hundred.
We’ve noticed your player’s box is always empty, so do you want to say a few words about that? ”
“Yeah, sure, I mean it’s just the way our sport works, right?
” I said, trying to suppress a smile at what Miles had started.
“We aren’t part of a team like in football, so no one pays us a base salary.
And the tour is such that you can’t have another job, you have to be out here playing week-in, week-out, working your way up into the bigger tournaments where the money is.
” I shrugged, painfully aware I had an audience, and that for once I was saying something that mattered.
“So yeah, it’s hard. It’s draining. In tennis you only eat what you kill.
If you don’t come out here and win then you don’t get paid, and every day, half of all players will lose.
Those are difficult working conditions and money doesn’t last long when you have to pay for everything. ”
“And is this a situation you would like to see remedied?” the woman asked. “I mean not just for yourself, since I think you’re well on your way to that, but more generally?”
“Of course. People say it can’t be done because it’s just the nature of individual sports, but I don’t think that’s true. And I don’t think we should settle for a sport where so high a financial barrier to entry—let alone success—means we’re missing out on a whole load of amazing players.”
The applause started before I’d finished and rose to a cheer, because I really had just said all that out loud into a microphone. So much for rocking no more boats.
“Well said,” the interviewer said over the ongoing applause, something that could have been genuine approval in her expression. “Matteo Russo, ladies and gentlemen! A big congratulations, Matteo, into the round of sixteen!”
Round of sixteen. Round of sixteen. The words kept circling my head like a broken record as I headed off the court. Sixteen men left in the draw and, in theory, they ought to have been the top sixteen players in the world. Instead, one of them was me. I looked at my phone.
Miles C
you’re amazing
Such simple words, yet for a moment I held my breath. Almost I didn’t reply, but Miles had never been chill about my lack of replies before and seemed unlikely to start now, so I said, no congratufuckinglations this time?
Miles C
nah, you deserved better than that today
Surely beating the 3rd seed was bigger though
i wasn’t talking about the match and you know it
So much for not rocking the boat again, huh?
Although I blame you for this one
i will not apologize. this is the matteo russo we all deserve
Unsurprisingly, the press conference went the same way.
A question or two about the match and then they asked my thoughts about how tennis could change, whether it should, and whose responsibility it was to fix it.
Since it wasn’t mine, I tried my best to brush through without saying anything momentous, until with a faint smirk, a reporter up the back asked, “So, do you plan to travel with a team in future?”
“Of course,” I said, frowning into the lights and clicking cameras.
“As soon as I can afford to. I know you’re trying to catch me out being hypocritical about my own personal ethics, but what use would it be to close the door in my own face like that?
It’s like on aeroplanes, right? When they say in the safety demonstration that you need to put on your own oxygen mask before helping others.
You can tell tennis players catch a lot of planes, huh?
” I added with a laugh, trying to ease a little of the tension.
“But privilege is a bit like that. It can’t be refused and who gets what opportunity is often out of our hands, the problem is that most people put on the oxygen mask then don’t help anyone.
They convince themselves they earned the mask through their own hard work and other people could have one if only they tried harder.
I’m not going to do that.” I shrugged, defensive, hating the way the silence in the press room seemed to suck words from me.
“So yes, you will probably see me travelling with a team in future. But I also want to do what I can to make tennis more accessible. Those things don’t have to be mutually exclusive. ”
A moment of silence followed, and I couldn’t tell if it was the good or bad kind.
“Matteo, you’ve been an advocate for change before,” someone else asked from the back of the room. “Is this what fans can expect from you going forward?”
“When else did I advocate for change?”
“Oh, I meant how you were the first player to come out.”
Because it was always about that. “Yeah, I’m gay and I admitted it because I didn’t want to lie about who I was,” I said.
“But that’s not the same as advocating for the whole tour to be gay, or whatever.
So, unless you think my existence is a political statement, or that having to acknowledge me is an imposition, then no.
I’ve never advocated for anything before now. ”
Another moment of silence hung and stretched, broken only by a few cleared throats and the panicked thudding of my heart. It was like Paris all over again. I was never going to get away from this, never going to be able to be just a tennis player no matter how well I played or who I beat.
Into the deafening silence, a facilitator called for last questions. The suffering would soon be over, and surely it couldn’t get worse.
“Yes, hi, I have a question,” a young woman in the front row said, lifting a hand. “Mr Russo, congratulations again on making it to the fourth round. Does the change in your ranking—up to eighty-four now in the live rankings—make a difference for the rest of your season?”
Eighty-four. Eighty-four meant not having to go through qualifying for any grand slam. Meant automatic entrance into a handful of masters’ tournaments. It was nothing to my highest ranking—I’d been at forty-one the day the car had hit me—but it was the sort of number I’d feared never seeing again.
“Mr Russo?”
“Oh, um,” I said, realising I’d frozen, the cameras clicking away in the hush of that awful room.
“Uh, yeah, I imagine it will make a difference. To be honest, I haven’t thought much about it, I’m just taking each match one at a time and when it’s over I’ll see where I’m at. After I sleep for a week first.”
That got some laughs, but it was all a numb buzz as I got to my feet and walked out.
IT WAS GETTING dark by the time I reached the apartment. I’d eaten at the tournament, but I was already hungry again and every ache in my body felt particularly raw as I climbed the creaking stairs, tennis bags banging against the walls as I went.
The lights were on and I found Miles sitting in what had become his customary spot – on the couch with my e-reader open to whichever gay romance had captured his fancy. I hadn’t dared look.
“You’ll be glad to know I didn’t break in this time,” he said, putting it down as I kicked the door closed behind me. “Katie gave me her key.”
“Oh, I just figured the lock was broken at this point.” I dropped my bags, the effort of carrying them the few extra steps to my room too much.
“Not broken, but I did have to order a new credit card.”
“You’re such an idiot,” I laughed, grateful for the light-hearted distraction. “I hope you explained that you needed a new one due to extensive breaking and entering.”
He grinned as he got to his feet, stretching.
“I did not. You did great today,” he added, coming around the couch to stand before me.
“Especially in the heat. I only spent an hour on the practice court and the humidity was crushing. Not that I minded watching you sweat. The way that white shirt clung to you was extremely distracting.”
“Ah, perhaps that’s why Wimbledon keeps the all-white dress code.”
“Just for me?”
“Just for you.”
Miles bent his lips to mine and murmured, “Perhaps I should push you in the shower right now and enjoy the effect up close.”
“While I would love to indulge you, this is my last clean shirt. I desperately need to do laundry.”
“No.” He planted a light, lingering kiss on my lips before straightening up. “You did desperately need to do laundry. I took yours with me when I went after practice. Can’t promise I got everything, but I washed what was in your bag.”
I stared up at him like he’d spoken a different language. “You did my laundry?”
“Yeah. I was going anyway, so why not? You all right? The press didn’t give you a hard time after that on-court interview, did they?”
Spoken like a protective brother who would have beaten them up if they had, and so I shook my head. “No more than usual. I’m just exhausted. Although exhausted is good because that means no overthinking, right?”
“Well, we can collapse on the couch and watch the night session. I’ll just stick something in the oven unless you want to order in.”