Chapter Fifteen #2
His opponent had appeared on the screen and was now making the same journey Marcus had, along the corridor and up the steps.
Tomas Horvat was German, had cheekbones that could cut glass and looked so young that perhaps in another life he would have been lying on the sofa gaming while recovering from an all-nighter.
The crowd roared as he entered the court; strange that he was getting a much bigger reception than Marcus.
He was world number one, I supposed, a bigger name, so perhaps it made sense that hardcore tennis fans would be more excited to see him, but I still felt for Marcus.
And then I reminded myself that he was able to block all of this noise out – that he became selfish, ruthless, intent only on winning the game.
According to him, he couldn’t care less whether people booed or cheered, he was there to do a job, and carrying that out to the best of his ability was the only thing that mattered.
Both men began unpacking their bags. Marcus walked over to what looked like a chest freezer (if chest freezers were sponsored by Perrier) at the side of the court and pulled out several white towels.
There seemed to be constant movement in the crowds – latecomers arriving and struggling to locate their seats, others deciding that now was the perfect time to get up and use the bathroom.
Wasn’t all of this distracting for the players?
Once they’d warmed up, the umpire called them in for the toss. Marcus won and chose to serve.
‘He is sending an early message to Horvat,’ I heard Patrick say.
I presumed that the message was that he was not to be intimidated, but it was just a guess.
My phone buzzed again in my bag.
With two balls balanced on his racquet, Marcus took his place on the baseline, sliding one into his pocket and taking the other in his hand.
Horvat prepared to receive – he was right-handed like Marcus, which was good, because I’d learned that playing a left-hander threw up a whole other set of challenges.
There was a burst of slow clapping until the umpire asked everyone to be quiet and near silence fell over the stadium, although there was still a palpable, fizzing atmosphere in the air.
A duo of ball girls took their crouched positions at either side of the net.
Several rogue camera flashes popped and then all eyes were on Marcus as he bounced the ball (seven times, I counted) and tossed it into the air.
His first serve was deep and long, almost hitting the back line of the serving box.
Horvat returned it easily, sending it cross court to Marcus’s forehand.
Marcus whipped it straight down the line on to Horvat’s backhand – he, in turn, sent it sailing diagonally back over the net.
Marcus repositioned himself so that he could use his backhand to hit deep.
It must have been as powerful as it looked because Horvat sliced a clunky-looking shot into the net. Fifteen-Love.
Marcus served again – it went long. I knew he’d been working on his second serve with Patrick, so hopefully he was feeling better about it.
He went again, only just getting it over the net, but it was in.
Horvat returned long to the baseline. Marcus sent it across to Horvat’s backhand – he seemed to be focusing on that side, was this Horvat’s weakness?
Was this part of Marcus’s secret game plan?
Horvat had manoeuvred himself around so that he was there waiting on the forehand and he sliced it straight down the middle of the court.
Somehow Marcus must have anticipated where the ball would land because he was right there, using his forehand to send the ball into the now wide-open space in Horvat’s right corner.
Horvat charged across the court, hitting a diagonal shot to Marcus’s own right corner, putting him off-balance and way outside of the tram lines as he lunged to reach it.
He placed it in Horvat’s mid-court. A more controlled Horvat hit a sneaky drop shot that had Marcus charging into the net, sliding across the clay to scoop it up before it bounced a second time.
Horvat was waiting at the net to volley it straight back.
It looked like it was going to sail right over Marcus’s head, but at the last second Marcus spun around, reached for the ball and did a sort of backhand flick over his right shoulder at such a steep angle that Horvat had no chance of returning it.
The crowd roared. Thirty-Love. I whooped again, I couldn’t help myself.
And then I released the breath I’d been holding for the entire point.
Marcus was playing well, really well. If he carried on like this, he was in with a chance.
And I knew that he would be thinking the same thing and that this would give him the boost he needed to push on.
Marcus took the first set 6-4. Tomas beat him in the second, 7-5.
Sweat began to prickle at the nape of my neck as the players took a changeover break and we waited for the third set to begin.
Marcus was sitting with his back to us, glugging at water – he was already on to his third bottle – and then rubbing his face with a towel.
In a split second he had peeled off his top – several female members of the crowd wolf-whistled in admiration, but it was over in seconds when he grabbed another from his bag and pulled it on in one swift movement.
Then he threw the towel on the floor, did some hamstring stretches and ran back out on to the court, ready to begin.
Marcus took his position, taking a few beats to settle himself before executing what looked to me like a perfect serve. It was an ace, right off the bat. Dean pumped his fist next to me.
‘Yes, Marcus! Let’s go!’ he yelled.
Marcus held his serve in the first game.
As the set went on, neither lost their serve, with each man matching the other’s increasingly powerful shots stroke for stroke.
It was the best I’d seen Marcus play. Neither of them double-faulted and the aces came thick and fast. There was a different feel to this set – not so much slogging it out on the baseline and more coming into the net.
I wondered if this was due to fatigue, or whether one of them had purposefully changed tactics.
Less of the running back and forth and more well-thought-out shots that caught the other off guard, forcing them to make a mistake. It was four games all, then five.
Marcus prepared to serve. His first went in the net, his second went long.
Love-Fifteen. He shook his head, mumbling something to himself under his breath.
Keep calm, I willed him. Don’t lose your head, stay focused.
He served again, but it was slower than usual and Horvat took full advantage of that, slamming it straight to Marcus’s backhand so fast, it sailed right past him before he could even move.
Love-Thirty. Marcus slammed his racquet on the ground twice, his face twisted in frustration.
Fuck. This wasn’t good. I glanced across at Patrick, who was calm and stoic, no doubt trying to show Marcus that he wasn’t worried, that he had this, that it was just one point, two points.
Although points that, because he’d lost them, could cost him the game and then the set.
The crowd, who I felt had been starting to get behind Marcus, were looking distinctly unimpressed as he served again.
He seemed to have suddenly lost focus completely because the ball went into the net and he had to use his weaker second serve again, which Horvat took control of immediately with a sharp return to Marcus’s far right-hand side.
He lunged to return it, flicking it back across the net, but Horvat was there waiting for it and put it down the line.
It looked out from here, and Marcus clearly thought the same as he gestured to indicate that it was wide.
Suddenly, the umpire was out of his seat, jogging over to the line, crouching down to inspect the clay.
He called it in. Marcus went storming over to see for himself, pointing to something on the clay.
I couldn’t hear what he was saying, but his body language was clear – he was about to lose control and I didn’t think I could bear it after all the progress he’d made.
I got that he couldn’t be expected to change entirely overnight, that this was Roland-Garros, that winning this match was a big deal and he had enough skill, he was almost there, matching world number one Horvat shot for shot.
Maybe every point did count, but from what I’d seen, the umpires never, ever changed their minds after making a call, so what was the point in going on about it?
Marcus was still arguing, pointing at the clay, holding his head with disbelief and frustration, gesturing towards Horvat.
It didn’t look good. And as the umpire, clearly deciding he couldn’t continue bickering about the call indefinitely, returned to his seat, Marcus threw his racquet across the court, sending it skidding across the clay.
The crowd hissed and whistled. I bit my lip, finding it very hard to watch, perhaps even more so than the first time because I knew him now and I knew this wasn’t an accurate depiction of who he was as a person.
He looked like a bad loser, like a petulant child not getting his own way, and this wasn’t what he was like, not at all.
It was the pressure of the event, the disappointment with himself, this braying French crowd sneering at him from the stands.
I got it. And maybe I’d been expecting too much – perhaps this would be an interesting angle for my story, anyway.
A sort of one step forward, two steps back, as happened to us all.
Maybe my angle was that he was human and made mistakes like we all did.
It was just that, in his case, there were fifteen thousand people watching.
Somehow, against the odds – because when I’d seen him lose it before, his play seemed to disintegrate steeply from there – he held his game. At six games all, they went to a tie break.
‘How does this work?’ I whispered to Dean.
‘They alternate serves, two each. The first to seven with two clear points wins the set,’ explained Dean.
I nodded. As this was a Grand Slam, the match was best of five, so if Marcus lost this tie break he would be down two sets to one.
There would still be a chance, but was it possible?
Against the world number one, in this heat?
Would Marcus’s experience count for something, perhaps?
He’d played Roland-Garros ten times at least, whereas this was only Tomas’s third.
But then Tomas was on a roll – he’d taken the US Open title last year, Wimbledon the year before.
He knew what it took to win a tournament of this calibre.
And he didn’t look as tired as Marcus, which I supposed you wouldn’t when you were twenty-one and at the absolute peak of your fitness.
Tomas won the tie break and, eventually, the match.