Chapter 19
Right in the center of the racket is “the sweet spot”—and when you hit it, you understand why it’s called that.
It’s like the warm, gooey center of a homemade chocolate chip cookie, and the ball pockets in the strings like the racket is a trampoline.
It sits there for a split second, until my racket launches it across the court—wherever I want to place it.
When that happens, when I make perfect contact, it’s euphoric.
I don’t know what drug Diego has me on to reach this high, but every shot I’ve made in the past hour and a half is sweet. I’m chasing down balls I thought I could never reach. I’m hitting aces. I’m hitting winners. This match is mine.
Until it isn’t.
I’m up two sets when I feel it.
It started toward the end of the second one, I think, but it’s hard to know for sure: a slight change of pressure in my chest, an extra tightness, a strangeness in my lungs.
My shorts, drenched in sweat, stick to the hot plastic of the bench during the changeover. Slowly, I take a deep, controlled breath—in through my nose, out through my mouth. Shit, something’s wrong. Feels like air is barely going in.
I go for another breath. Why is this happening right now? I’m winning. I have nothing to worry about.
I’ve felt it before. It’s a symptom I know well, but that doesn’t make it any less scary. Breathing is a pretty important part of life, and when it starts to break down, I can’t shake the thought that death is near—because it is.
As I force another breath, air packs tighter and tighter into me, pressing uncomfortably against the walls of my body.
It needs to escape. And over the years, I’ve found that there’s only one way of getting relief here.
It isn’t pretty, but I’m out of options, and I’ve got less than a minute before the third set.
I swallow a huge breath, to try to push me over the edge, and I press my fist against my mouth. But it’s not quite enough. I take another gulp, and there it is.
It starts in my stomach, rumbles up through my chest, my throat, and unleashes itself from the dryness of my mouth—one of the largest burps I’ve ever birthed.
It’s gross. But it works.
And it must have been loud, because Dimitris, my opponent, sitting on the other side of the umpire chair, stops mid–banana bite to glare at me. He’s already pissed that he’s losing, and now I’m burping in his general direction.
I don’t even care, because it felt excellent, and I finally see a light at the end of the tunnel. I shrug at him and slump back into my chair, nervously waiting for what my body is going to decide to do next. And it’s not long before the pressure in my chest returns. Shit.
Another gulp of air, another burp, another dirty look from Dimitris. He mumbles to himself in Greek.
This time the chair umpire looks over too. “I’m good,” I say, waving him off.
I am good—I think. This whole scenario happens a lot. It just kinda snuck up on me this time. Gotta let it pass.
“Time.” The umpire calls us back to the match. I take a quick sip of water and make my way over to the baseline to serve.
Okay, we’re up two sets. Let’s take this home, and make it an easy one.
Dimitris readies himself on the other side of the net.
He’s ranked thirty-seventh in the world, and a few years ago he was in the top ten.
He was in the crop, following Eriksson, that was destined to be the next great thing but never quite leveled up to that height.
I think the furthest he’s made it was a Grand Slam quarterfinal.
That’s not nothing, but I’m feeling all right about winning this.
My first serve catches the net.
“Fault!”
The pressure in my chest tightens. I lift my hand to my mouth to let a little burp out, just a baby one—just enough to get me through a second serve.
I toss the ball again, slightly behind me, lining up a kick serve. The ball sails to Dimitris’s left—
“Fault!”
It was wide. A double fault, my first one since qualies. Fuck.
“Love–15.”
I pace over to the ad side to serve again. And the exact same thing repeats—a double fucking fault again. A wave of murmurs runs through the crowd. Robbie lifts his hands, silently asking, What’s going on?
“I don’t know! I can’t get it over the net!” I say to him, my shoulders at my ears.
Robbie pushes his hand down, trying to calm me. I take another breath. God, my chest is so tight.
“You got this. You got this,” Charlotte says beside him.
The tightness cranks to a new level, so much that I squat fully on the court, resting my hand on the ground, desperate to shake things up and get this out of my system.
The serve clock is ticking down. Everyone is waiting for me, wondering what the hell is going on, as I drown on dry land.
The umpire leans forward in his chair. I’m good, I signal again, standing.
And as I do, I unlock the big one. A deep and bellowing burp rattles out of my throat.
And this time—it’s in front of everyone.
Someone laughs from the stands. I look over in time to see Charlotte wince. Robbie does the same. I know guys. I know. It’s humiliating, but I’m the one living it right now. I’m trying to stay alive out here.
I get a few balls over the net with the serves that follow, but my game has tanked. Whatever high I was riding before is completely gone. And the crowd has been pretty much silent since Burpgate. Maybe they’re let down. Maybe they’re grossed out. Maybe they’re thinking about skipping lunch.
On my way back to the bench, I spot someone midway up the stands. Peter, the kid from my match on Monday, looking just as dejected as me. Great. I already feel like shit, and now I’m gonna let him down too? Anyone else’s day I can ruin?
But his face lights up when he sees me. He gives me a small fist pump of encouragement as I pass him. It’s subtle, and that makes it hit even harder. He means it. He believes it in his little heart. He believes in me.
I nod at him. It’s the middle of the afternoon on a workday, and his dad, next to him, probably moved mountains to get here, all so Peter could watch me. The least I can do is go down in a blaze of glory.
I grab a new racket during the next changeover, hoping a fresh set of strings will help me reset.
And as I head to the other side of the court, a huge cheer lifts out of Arthur Ashe Stadium and settles over our court.
I glance up at the stadium, towering above me.
Diego’s in there, and he must have done something big to earn that response. Things must be going well.
I like that we’re playing at the exact same time. In a funny way, it feels like teamwork in this lonely sport—just me and him conquering the world. I take a deep breath, and it goes in a little more easily. The pressure in my chest is fading.
“Hey!” Dimitris shouts across the net. He holds his ball in the air—Are you ready?—and I zero in.
Just enough to win.
—
My anxiety lifted fully in the fourth set, and the match was a smooth ride from there. And although I got past my burps, everyone else hasn’t.
“Austin, I have to ask you,” Erin Newtown, a former pro player, says after the standard congratulations, to start my on-court interview, “you had a few strange things coming out of your mouth toward the end there—can you tell us what was going on?” She moves her mic to my face.
“Oh, you folks could hear that?” I joke to the crowd.
“I think Arthur Ashe Stadium could hear it,” she teases. I chuckle. I’m feeling too good about the win to get upset, and there was no way they weren’t gonna ask me about this.
“Yeah, I don’t know…” I hold for a second, considering my answer.
I’m not sure how to spin this, and I’m in too deep to come clean about the actual truth.
“I think I had some bad food last night, and it was coming up in weird ways. The burping was helping there—but I know it’s kinda gross.
Sorry, everybody,” I say with a wave. “I’m a little weird. What can I say.”
“Well, you pulled off a huge win here, so—”
“So keep Austin weird, right?”
She laughs. So does the crowd. I look over at Char and Rob, shaking their heads.
“Sorry—that’s not original. Trademark credit to the city of Austin,” I add. “And if you think my burps are bad, you should have heard my sister when we were growing up. We called her the Lion. Roaring, earth-shattering burps.”
“Austin!” Charlotte shouts from her seat.
“Sorry, Char. You know it’s true.”
She covers her face with her hands as I turn back for another question. These interviews aren’t so bad as long as they steer clear of the making-history stuff. I’m starting to enjoy them.
“Were you named after Austin, Texas?”
“Rumor is, that’s where I was conceived, Erin, but we should keep this PG.” The crowd groans. Robbie shuts his eyes.
“We absolutely should, so I’ll let that be the last question.”
Fine by me.