CHAPTER 22 #5
I serve, and it’s a little slower. My shoulder burns unpleasantly.
Fernanda hits a clear return. I hit it back.
Her, then me, then her, then me, an endless, spinning point.
I don’t think I’m breathing. I’m certainly not thinking.
Fernanda and I run all over the court. At first, I try to count how many balls we’ve hit during the point, but I can’t keep track.
I feel sick, a stitch pinching my side. Finally, mercifully, Fernanda hits a ball too short, and it dies sadly at the feet of the net.
She stumbles, one knee hitting the court.
I put both hands on my thighs, racket skimming the ground.
11-10, Amy.
Fernanda uses the whole 30 seconds of the serve clock, dragging her exhausted body over to the line.
Aurelio leans over the railing. “Thirty-six, Amy!” I look up at him in confusion. “That was a thirty-six-ball rally!”
I blink at the number. I’m sure I must have played such a long point before, maybe in a juniors match or in practice, but I can’t remember. I blink blearily as Fernanda dribbles the ball across the court.
One more point, I tell myself. I just need to win one more point.
Fernanda has the advantage, being the attacker on serve. She knows I’m exhausted because she is too. Fernanda is nothing if not ruthless. She hits a wide serve, one that bounces high and off the edge of the court.
I’m too clumsy, too exhausted, too slow.
I trip over my own feet, hitting the deck. The ball flies past me. The crowd quiets, making sure I’m okay.
I’m fine, just a little bruised. My knee is frayed, some skin torn away. A tiny patch of blood blooms. I get up, wave gamely to the crowd.
11-11.
As the tiebreaker continues, my knee smarting, my head aching, my lungs begging for air, I wish that I were a quitter.
I could quit, and no one would know. This match has been going on for hours in the humid New York air.
The fans wouldn’t be any the wiser if I missed a ball by inches, let Fernanda win.
Every time I imagine that scenario, I wince. That would prove Beck right. He said I didn’t have the makings of a champion, and champions don’t quit.
So, I grit my teeth and keep playing. Fernanda does, too.
12-12, 13-13, 14-14, 15-15, 16-16, 17-17, 18-18.
I wonder deliriously what the record for the longest tiebreak is. Knowing the tennis world, it’s even longer than this one. Tennis players are gluttons for punishment.
It’s Fernanda’s turn to serve. She’ll get two in a row. So far, I’ve been able to keep it tied by breaking at least one of her serves. At this point, it has less to do with serve ability and more to do with who has enough energy to play without mistakes.
Fernanda dribbles the ball on the baseline. I tighten my bun, soaked through with sweat. I squat low, watching her breathe in deeply. I can literally see her shoulders rise and fall as she tries to control herself. I know the feeling.
She must find something within herself because she surprises me with the heat. I manage to get my racket on it at the last second, but it’s not a clean return. It lands way too shallow and soft. Fernanda leaps into action, hitting a cross-court ball I have no hope of returning.
19-18, Fernanda.
The crowd buzzes, wondering if this point will be the last. It’s muted though, because the pattern feels familiar. We’ve reached this spot dozens of times, but ultimately gone back to deuce, back to a tie.
I grit my teeth, breathe in through my nose. There’s so much I don’t want to inherit from Beck, but I’ll admit he made me tough. I channel his fierceness, his anger, his desire. It’s the best thing about him, when he uses it right. On the tennis court, it’s always right.
Fernanda readies to serve, steady and sure.
I watch her body language, anticipate where she’s going to send the ball.
I guess right, able to swing fully and send a bracing return back to Fernanda.
Her footwork is pure and beautiful, unwilling to give this point back to me.
She sends one to the corner, sends me chasing.
I manage to reach it, hitting a high defensive lob in the air.
Fernanda has always hated those high balls, awkward in her overhead slams. She watches it hesitantly, letting it bounce before hitting a regular return.
It essentially resets the point, puts us back on even footing.
She had a chance to hit the big overhead, to win it there, but she didn’t feel comfortable.
The ball goes back and forth and back and forth and back and forth.
I refuse to give. I refuse to break. I refuse, I refuse, I refuse.
I send a ball straight down the line, and I think I have her, but it must be a slower ball than I thought. She manages to reach it, sending a solid return back my way. I want to scream. I go back to the same spot, hitting it hard, willing it past her.
She’s surprised, standing out of position.
She raises her racket at the last second, awkwardly hitting the ball off the frame.
It’s not clean. It’s an ugly chip. The ball spins, and I track it in the air, heading to the side of the court where it should land.
Once it’s there, I’ll send one winner back to the opposite sideline, where Fernanda can’t reach it. I’ll win, once and for all.
But the ball doesn’t land where I anticipated.
It hits the top of the tape, the top of the net, slowing completely. I can see it happening, I can sense the loss falling at my feet. I race to the front of the court, hoping I can reach it, praying it won’t end this way.