Chapter 4 #3
Except, then, Leo starts to read Gabe’s drop shots a little more quickly in the third set.
He notices a crack in the disguise Gabe has been putting on them.
At three games all, neither of them has broken the other yet.
The crowd is getting behind him even more now, cheering louder each time he steps up to the line to serve, sensing that he needs an extra push to keep himself in this contest. A New York crowd, so loud you can practically reach out and touch the noise, always has the ability to influence a match.
If they want another set, they can will it to happen.
If they want more tennis, they can manifest more tennis.
Okay. He’s still in this. He’s still Leo Chambers.
He’s still a fifteen-time title winner. He’s still—
He gives away another break, putting Gabe up 5–4 in the third set, giving Gabe a chance to serve for a straight-sets win and a ticket into round two.
After Gabe wins the game with a devastating slice that barely jumped off the court, Leo looks at his box in total frustration, mouthing, “What am I supposed to do with that?” His team is seemingly out of answers, other than gesturing with their hands for Leo to lower his temper and raise his focus.
Considering the scoreboard, Leo feels it’s maybe a bit too late for that, and it only aggravates him more.
During the next changeover, the two of them sitting on their benches on either side of the ump, Leo peeks over at Gabe, who’s pulling on a new shirt, and it raises his blood pressure even higher.
Between his rising anger and the fact that he truly has nothing left to lose at this point, Leo starts ripping forehands and backhands harder than ever into both corners, and he’s got Gabe on a string now. He manages to take him to 30–all.
“Come on,” Leo says to himself, shaking a fist after the last point.
The fans’ cheers and whistles and claps reach a crescendo now, the entire stadium understanding that the next point will either be a break point for Leo or a match point for Gabe.
“Thank you,” the ump says, raising his voice to meet their volume. “Thank you, ladies and gentlemen. Please. Players are ready.”
The stadium is completely silent now except for the scuffing of Leo’s feet as he bounces from one to the other, waiting for Gabe to serve.
Gabe’s first serve careens toward Leo.
Leo pummels a forehand return.
Gabe hits a forehand and rushes the net.
Leo goes for another forehand.
Gabe hits a backhand volley.
Leo smacks a backhand.
The ball soars in the direction of Gabe, who pulls his racket out of the way to let the ball pass, and, from Leo’s perspective, it then diverges from its initial path, just marginally.
“OUT,” the system calls as the ball lands in the doubles alley.
The crowd can finally stop holding their collective breath and goes wild for Gabe, who’s just earned a match point.
“It touched his racket!” Leo yells over the noise to the ump, who’s just called the 40–30 score. “It tipped the top of his frame!”
This can’t be happening again, Leo thinks, all at once flashing back to the final point of his first match with Gabe, fourteen years ago.
The ump points to his ear, signaling that he can’t hear Leo over the noise. Leo jogs over to the ump’s chair, as does Gabe after he’s finished pumping his fist and notices that there’s a conversation happening between the two.
“Leo, I’ve already called the score,” the ump says. “We cannot replay the point.”
“Just watch the replay,” Leo argues, knowing this point should be his. “You’ll see the ball change direction!”
“It’s my call, Leo, and I didn’t see it. I’m sorry.”
“But the replay will show you that it—”
“What happened?” Gabe asks as he approaches them.
“Leo thinks your racket touched the ball, but as I’ve told him—”
“Whoa, whoa, I did not touch the ball,” Gabe says, shooting Leo a defensive look.
“Then why did it change direction? It tipped your frame as you brought your racket down. I saw it.”
“Gentlemen, we cannot replay the point,” the ump repeats. “It’s 40–30.”
They both ignore him. There’s murmuring across the stadium, the fans unable to hear what’s transpiring below.
“Leo, I wouldn’t lie about this,” Gabe says. “Get a grip.”
Leo steps closer to him, fuming at the attitude in Gabe’s voice. Leo needs to get a grip? Gabe needs to get a grip!
“Gentlemen,” the ump says more firmly now. “I will be forced to issue both of you a warning if this continues.”
There’s nothing left for Leo to say and, to be honest, arguing with an ump like this isn’t usually his MO—like his technical tennis skills, he also inherited his dad’s calm and collected nature on the court—so he turns and walks back to his side, spinning his racket furiously the whole way.
He begins bouncing again behind the baseline, waiting to see if Gabe can serve out the match, right here, right now.
The ball comes careening toward him. Leo swings with force. It soars across the net and for a moment Leo thinks he may have hit a winner, until he hears it. “OUT.” Like a punch in the gut, it lands just long. He feels the air leave his body.
It’s over. He lost.
“Game, set, and match: Montoya,” the ump declares. “7–6, 6–3, 6–4.”
Gabe shakes his racket, his right bicep bulging, and screams, “VAMOS!” at his team. And the crowd rises from their chairs, applauding, roaring. Peruvian flags wave in different sections of the stadium.
Letting out a heavy sigh, Leo walks up to the net to shake Gabe’s hand and, frankly, book it the fuck off this court. He braces himself, mustering what’s left of his energy to congratulate Gabe, and instead of his typical “Great match,” something else comes out.
“You’re welcome for that match point, asshole,” he says.
“Yeah, sure,” Gabe says, gripping Leo’s hand a little tighter now as they walk in tandem to the ump’s chair.
“I think we both know you tipped the ball,” Leo says, removing his hand from Gabe’s.
“I didn’t, but I guess you’ll just have to go cry to Daddy about it, huh?” Gabe shakes the ump’s hand and jogs over to his bench so he can wipe his face and step back onto the court.
“YOUR WINNER TONIGHT,” the announcer yells joyfully into his microphone, “GAbrIEL MONTOYA!”
The stadium roars again as Gabe walks in a circle, pumping his fist in every direction and pointing to the Peruvian flags that he spots.
Leo can barely watch. He’s fuming, visibly vibrating. He packs up his stuff in a hurry and walks toward the tunnel, ready to chill his muscles and his temper in an ice bath.
“AND LET’S GIVE IT UP FOR LEO CHAMBERS,” the announcer says.
A round of thunderous applause and whistles surrounds him, and he puts up a hand and mouths “Thank you.” Leo’s not just crushed to have another loss in his record against Gabe.
He’s also crushed to be ending another US Open bid—and this early in the tournament.
A round one exit? He feels like an idiot for thinking he could have won the whole thing.
It stings even worse when he remembers that he’ll be thirty this time next year.
Tess might be able to brush off age as simply a number in this sport, but it’s hard for him to do the same.
Right now, winning the Open at thirty feels like an impossible feat.
Roddick won it at twenty-one and, oh yeah, announced his retirement on his thirtieth birthday.
Leo’s dying to get into the locker room and find his way out of this anxiety spiral—perhaps with a good cry in the shower—but he stops to sign some tennis balls and hats for kids reaching their hands over the railing, and he tosses his wristbands into the crowd as souvenirs.
He hears someone shout, “We love you, Leo!” as he disappears into the tunnel.
He doesn’t know it yet, but tonight is the last time he’ll see the fans for quite a while.