Chapter 14 #2
“Yeah, Eriksson won Wimbledon four years in a row, and Volt finally found a way to take him down. He tore into him, picked away at every one of his strengths until there was nothing left—no flesh, just bones. The Volture,” he says like he’s finishing a ghost story.
“Also, he’s kind of scary and not very nice. ”
“You’ve played him, right?”
“Yep. Won every time.”
“Cheers to that,” I say, and our glasses clink.
“So, how’d you beat him?” he asks, circling back.
“Uh…”
“It’s okay. You don’t have to share your secrets before our match.”
Our match. There it is—our future, haunting us from around the corner. I force a final sip of beer down my throat. This is a problem to deal with later, and a thousand things have to go right for me to get there in the first place.
“One more round?” he asks, moving on.
“Okay, sure, but”—I point to my empty bottle—“I hate this.”
“Why?”
“Sorry if it’s one of your favorites, but I think beer tastes like carpet water.”
He holds his hand to his chest, feigning offense. “Order whatever you want, then,” he says, nodding toward bar.
“Uh, I’m not twenty-one,” I tell him, hesitantly. “And I definitely don’t look twenty-one.”
“They don’t give a shit here. They’ve never carded me. But maybe that’s because I have grays already.”
“You do not.”
“Look,” Diego says, removing his hat—my hat. He shoves his head toward me across the table, and he’s so close that I can smell his fancy hotel shampoo. “They’re in there. Touch it.”
Slowly, I follow his directions and lift my hand. His hair is thick and dark and smooth as I run my fingers through it. And sure enough, I spot a dozen or so gray pieces.
“How are you going gray this early?”
“A new one grows each time I lose. It’s how I track my record.”
I laugh. “Oh my god.”
“Okay, so, one more round.” He claps his hands. “I’ll get it. And don’t worry—I’ll find you something better. But you have to play Ping-Pong with me,” he says, gesturing to a rickety table in the far corner of the room. I guess he’s feeling better—or he’s good at masking how he really feels.
“Ping-Pong, huh? Didn’t get enough tennis today?”
“I love it, played so much growing up.”
“What do you call Ping-Pong in Spanish?” I ask.
“Ping-Pong,” he says, blankly.
“Makes sense.”
He stands abruptly, rocking the table. There’s a frenetic energy to his movements, which makes him seem younger than me even though he’s three years older.
“Okay, let’s think about your drink, then. Sweet or sour?”
“Sour. No—sweet.”
“Tequila or vodka?”
“Eh, I don’t know.”
“Bubbly or not bubbly?”
“Not bubbly. Is this a personality test?”
“Okay, I got you,” he says, and smirks back at me as he walks to the bar.
Yep. He’s got me all right.
—
Diego’s tongue peeks ever so slightly between his lips just before he winds up to serve. I’ve noticed it on TV before, but it’s funny to see it this close, in person. I wonder if I look equally stupid with whatever unconscious thing I do before my serve.
I don’t think this Ping-Pong table has ever seen this much action. The rubber on the paddles holds on for dear life as we smack the ball across the room. I’m about three feet from the edge of the table, almost against the wall, because Diego is hitting so hard.
You’d think he’d tone things down here, but the dude lives for competition, and his grunts follow each shot.
They’re quieter than they are on the court, but they’re there.
Is he grunting out of habit or does he think it’s funny?
Either way, it’s slightly embarrassing, and I take a sip of my drink to chill out.
This one’s a little better than the beer.
It’s a mezcal something or other, with a smoky flavor that kind of tastes as if I’m drinking his cologne.
Diego wins another rally, and shakes his paddle in celebration—just like he shakes his racket on the court.
He’s up 11–10 now, and serving, one point away from dive-bar Ping-Pong glory. He winds up, and there’s that tongue again. I zero in on it, sticking out the left corner of his mouth. He fires the ball across the table, and I slap it back like lightning. I was right where I needed to be.
He swings—misses. My point.
His serve again. This time his tongue sticks out his right side. That means he’s serving to my left?
He does. We exchange a few blows and it’s my point again.
Interesting. Is his tongue giving away his secrets? That could be useful. And, adjusting my pants, I wonder what else his tongue could do for me.
“Hangin’ in the game, Hardy!” he says, teasingly, but I also sense a slight frustration. Per usual, he really wants to win.
Diego doesn’t know it, but I give him the next three points. It’s late, I’m tired, and I think he deserves an extra win tonight, after the death of his dog that I said was a person too.
We’ve done a lot of talking tonight, and we walk toward my hotel in a comfortable quiet. After a few blocks, he turns to me. “I was gonna ask you earlier,” he says, his voice soft, hesitant, “but I didn’t know if…”
He pauses—for a while—and my world stops. I have no idea where this is going, but I know where I want it to go.
And my heart sinks at his question.
“How did your dad die? I wasn’t sure if it was okay to ask.”
Here we are again.
“Yeah. Yeah, it’s okay to ask,” I say, quietly. “He had ALS. He was diagnosed when he was forty-five, and he died four years later.”
“Oof,” he says.
Some people say, I’m sorry. They say, That must have been so difficult.
They talk about the ice bucket challenge.
They tell me about a friend of a friend who has ALS.
Had it. A neighbor told me my dad was in a better place now, with Jesus.
But out of all of the responses, “Oof” is really the only one that sums it up.
And then—Diego Cruz hugs me.
Right in the middle of the sidewalk in front of the Duane Reade. He wraps his arms around me and holds on tight. We stand there, bodies linked, for I don’t know how long.
He walks me to the entrance of the hotel, sends me off with a “Night, night, Hardy Boy,” and for many reasons, some happy, some sad, I cry myself to sleep.