Chapter 2
Ten days earlier
Bits of light filter through the towel draped fully over my head—it’s my last-ditch effort to focus on closing out this match.
A bead of sweat slides down my lips, because apparently the towel creates a sauna effect.
Not my best idea in today’s heat, but I’ll try anything at this point.
Everything is on the line, and I can’t get in my own way here.
“Time.”
The umpire summons me to life and up from the bench. The towel comes off, the sun floods my eyes again, and everything rushes back to reality.
It’s the final round of qualifiers, the final set in this match, and I’m one game away from my dream—one game away from a spot in the US Open. No big deal.
I’m playing on the smallest court here, I think, but the three rows of bleachers are packed. Every pair of eyes is on me as I make my way to the baseline to serve for the match.
Breathe, Austin. Just breathe. And settle the fuck down.
I start my routine. Bounce, bounce. Bounce, bounce. Wipe mouth with wristband. Long inhale. Ball to racket, lift, and toss. The ball hangs above me for a split second as my racket dips behind my head and—whoosh—I attack.
The ball flies, speeding across the court, aimed right down the T.
My opponent, a six-foot-eight-inch giant across the net, jolts to the side to return the ball, but he can’t even touch it.
With that wingspan, he should be able to—those gangly arms could reach clear over the net to slap my face if he wanted to—but my serve has too much speed for him.
My beautiful ace is met with claps and cheers from the crowd. So far, so good.
The giant shakes his head in disbelief—in me or in himself, I’m not sure, but in tennis it’s usually lack of belief in yourself.
I can’t believe I lost that point. Always beating yourself up.
Always. It’s a battle in your head, in addition to the one against your opponent—a battle no one sees but you.
Move your feet. Why are you so slow? Put some spin on that ball, dumbass.
How could you miss that? How could you let everyone down?
Lovely thoughts I have all the time. But right now I’m doing a great job of keeping them on mute.
It helps when you’re winning.
“All right, Auz!” someone shouts from the stands.
It’s Mom, sitting off to my right, in a huge sun hat. I told her not to yell like that, because it breaks my concentration. I can’t get too angry, though. The crowd has been wild for this final set. If they can shout, why can’t she?
But now it’s getting to me. That singular voice, that singular sentence of encouragement, dives into the depths of my brain, and I’m thinking about Dad again, and wishing he was here.
Stop. Settle. Serve. You’re almost there.
I settle and so does the crowd, only the sounds from neighboring matches remain—grunts, sharp squeaks of shoes on courts, and the satisfying pops of balls colliding with strings.
I serve—smack into the net. And then I do it again. A double fault.
Because I’m a stupid piece of shit.
But despite this small setback, I’m still locked in.
If your mind is clear, if you can bury the doubts, if you can picture it—the point, the game, the set, the match—you can get there. And right now I see it as clearly as this spectacular sunset over Queens. I’ve been locked in the entire week, and I’m not stopping here.
I take a breath, and the thick summer air fills my lungs.
Let’s fucking go.
—
Ten minutes later, my older sister, Charlotte, plants her hands on my shoulders and shouts into my face, shakes me as hard as she can, can’t control her excitement. I’d be in the same boat if I weren’t so wiped from this slugfest.
“Okay, okay, Char. I’m shook enough,” I say, trying to calm her.
“I can’t believe you did it! I mean, I absolutely can, but oh my god!” she screams.
I have a celebratory hug with Mom, and Robbie grabs me next, his salt-and-pepper stubble scraping my cheek.
“You were so good, Austin. That was so good,” he says, beaming with pride. I beam right back. This is the reward for our hard work. This is what it feels like. “Hey, listen,” he adds, his tone shifting. “I think they’re setting up for an interview over there. Don’t sweat it, okay?”
“Yup,” I say after a groan. We’ve been out here almost three hours, and as happy as I feel, I’d love to be in bed right now, and not doing the single thing I hate most.
“This one isn’t piped over the speakers or anything. You’ll be fine,” he says. I turn to head back to the court, and sure enough, there’s a guy with a mic waiting for me.
A wave of nerves hits. I am not friends with interviews. I feel a weird pressure to be funny, to say something interesting. Meanwhile, I judge every word that comes out of my mouth in real time. I wish my performance on court could just speak for itself.
“Austin, hey. I’m Ryan. Give me another second here,” the guy says, with the voice, face, and backward hat of an entitled frat boy. He fiddles with the mic as a cameraperson positions himself off to the side—and then we’re off.
“Austin, congratulations on qualifying for the US Open. You played three grueling matches this week. How do you feel?”
“Honestly, I can’t feel very much right now. I’m pretty sure my legs are about to give out.” I laugh as if I’m joking, but a chair would be very nice right now. “In all seriousness, I feel great. This has been a dream since I was a kid.”
“Well, at only twenty, you’re one of the youngest men in the tournament this year—truly remarkable, and not far from a kid.”
“Tell that to my mom. She’s trying to kick me off her phone plan.”
His polite laugh doesn’t quite make it up to his eyes. This is going well.
“You came here with one of the lowest rankings—two hundred thirty-ninth in the world—and the odds were stacked against you. How do you think you pulled this off?”
Is this dude trying to fuck with me? All of what he said is true, but I feel like there were a thousand better ways he could have said it.
“Uh, I dunno. I just sort of did my thing. There were definitely a few times I had to problem-solve, adapt to everyone else’s playing style.”
“Well, you’re such a great all-around player—hitting big from the baseline, fast to the net, huge serve. I can see how that worked out for you.”
Ryan, finally a compliment. So kind of you.
“I’m sure your family and your team are very proud of you right now,” he continues. “And the world of tennis is proud of you too.”
“Oh yeah?”
“Winning this match and qualifying for this tournament makes you the first openly gay player to compete in a Grand Slam.”
“Male player.”
“Right, that’s what I meant—”
“Because there are many openly gay women. I’m not so special. This whole place is named after Billie Jean King.”
“Well, Austin, you are special in that there hasn’t been an openly gay male player in a Grand Slam in the Open Era of tennis. You’re in the main draw of the US Open. You’re making history today,” he says, and moves the mic to my face.
“Right…” I nod, not agreeing, just nodding.
“Is this something you’ve thought about?”
Honestly, I’m not surprised he brought it up.
It’s right there in plain English when you search my name.
Shout-out to Sam Owens, editor of my high school newspaper, and his shittily written article about a big junior tournament I won.
Freshman Hardy Comes Out Swinging. That one did not make the fridge.
A few websites, mostly gay outlets, published articles when I started to climb the rankings earlier this year.
I gave one of them a quote. So all of this makes me very openly.
But why do I feel unprepared for this question?
This guy is looking for a sound bite. He wants me to say something about how proud I feel, how important this moment is—but I’m ready for this interview to be over.
“Um…” I look around for some kind of acceptable answer. Robbie’s watching from the stands, arms crossed and quiet. “I do a lot more thinking about winning the next match than about making history, and that’s exactly what I’m doing today.”
I think Ryan can tell that’s the best he’s gonna get out of me. “Well, congratulations, Austin. Best of luck, and we’ll be watching you closely. I’m sure the world will be too.”
“No pressure there, Ryan,” I say with the last smile I can manage, and that’s the end of the interview.
I head back to my bench to gather my things. The crowd has dwindled now, dispersed to other matches across the grounds—or gone home, maybe, something I’m desperately hoping to do.
One by one, I pack my rackets. I used six of them for this match, strung tightly at sixty pounds.
I used every ounce of everything I had. I played my heart out, and I should be thrilled, but as I shove my last Wilson Blade into my bag, all I feel is annoyed, and I wonder why a stupid interview is throwing me off.
“How’d it go?” Robbie asks, with a funny look, meeting me at the exit.
“Good. Fine. Nothing to it,” I say, returning his stare. We hang there for a moment.
Robbie is one of the smartest people I’ve ever met, and he has a pretty good sense of the magnitude of what’s in store for me over the next two weeks.
Me? I have no idea.