Chapter 24 #2
For a moment, Leo wants to throw his racket to the ground.
The factors that separate brilliance from disaster in this sport are so minuscule—the slight tilt of a racket, a single step, the speed of a swing, a ball out by millimeters—it can drive a player mad.
But Leo decides to keep his racket in his hand and breathe through it.
There’s applause from the crowd, but it doesn’t reach anywhere near the octave they hit for Leo.
He glimpses Sascha’s smug grin, as if he believes he’s already won the whole thing.
Leo needs to move on from this set as quickly as possible.
He was playing better toward the end, and the next one is a chance to steal the momentum.
He’s not going anywhere yet. He makes his way over to his towel box so he can dry off and talk to his team before set two begins.
“Reset, LC,” Brian says. “You’re winning the longer points. Be patient. Don’t go for the big shot too soon. And don’t be afraid to show him more variety in the next set. You can’t let him stay in his rhythm.”
He’s listening to Brian, but he’s staring at Gabe. All he wants to do is climb up to his player box and hug him and kiss him and tell him how relieved he is to have him here.
Gabe stares at him intently for a moment, then winks.
“How did you do—” Leo starts to ask.
“I’ll tell you later,” Gabe says.
“But how are you even—”
“I’ll tell you later!” Gabe shouts.
To his surprise, Johnny, who’s always encouraged Leo to play within himself, tells him, “Use the crowd. They’re here for you, not him.”
“Remember to really put your legs and hips into that drop shot,” Gabe adds. “Yeah?”
“Yeah,” Leo says.
He could stay and talk to Gabe for hours—about everything that’s happened this weekend, about where they go from here—but set two is waiting.
Every time Leo glances into the stands between points and sees a Pride flag waving in someone’s hands, it recharges him.
He typically keeps his eyes fixed to the court to avoid distraction, but he’s following his dad’s advice now, looking to engage with the fans whenever he can. And they’re loving it.
When he gets into a twenty-one-shot rally with Sascha, using every inch of the court to get him moving, he doesn’t miss this time.
He goes for a down-the-line winner again, this time with his backhand, and the ball glides perfectly into the corner, gliding right past Sascha.
Leo doesn’t just go for his usual clenched fist afterward, but turns toward the crowd and waves his arms up and down, signaling them that he sees them, he hears them, and he wants more.
They give it right back to him, raising their voices even louder, raising their hands in the air, giving him all the adrenaline he needs to take this second set.
And he does.
With an ace of his own, he evens the match.
“Game and second set: Chambers,” the ump says. “One set all.”
As he walks toward his bench to cool down, Leo wants the fans to continue heating up. He taps a finger to his ear, telling them to keep the noise going. Sweat dripping down his face, he takes a seat, looks to his box, and finds Gabe smirking at him.
Leo’s body is holding up, but he can tell that after two weeks of, frankly, emotional terrorism—not to mention, extreme physical exertion—his battery is running low.
He tries to slow down between points, go to his towel box as often as he can, conjure any kind of queer power from the Pride flags all around him.
But after winning the third set, his level drops slightly, and like a shark smelling blood in the water, Sascha takes the fourth.
This match is going all the way. A fifth and final set will decide it.
The things Leo would give just for Sascha to dip. Please, for fuck’s sake, just let this man’s level dip. But it simply won’t happen. He continues to play ruthlessly, patiently. Fortunately, so does Leo, even if his legs hate him right now.
Like a pendulum, the score ticks back and forth, each player holding their serve. The set inches toward its conclusion, and there’s nothing between them.
“Five games all,” the ump says after Leo secures yet another hold.
Steadying his breath, Leo picks up his towel and wipes his face as Brian shouts instructions down to him like a boxing coach talking into the ear of his player, a bloody and bruised man leaning back on the ropes of the ring.
“He keeps going down the T on his second serve,” Brian says, “because he’s missing the one out wide too often. If you get a look at a second serve, I want you to step in and cheat over a little. Punish that shit, LC.”
Leo nods and looks to his dad, who’s nodding, too.
In the next couple points, Leo still can’t find a way into Sascha’s service game. He’s hitting him with the one-two punch: a huge first serve followed by a winner to the opposite corner. There’s nothing Leo can do.
“30–love,” the ump says.
“Next one, LC,” Brian yells, clapping.
He breathes out. Reset. He watches as Sascha tosses the ball up. His arm comes down, and the ball comes careening toward Leo.
“OUT,” the system calls.
Finally. A look at a second serve. Okay. Step in. Cheat over.
Like clockwork, Sascha sends his second serve down the T, and Leo is ready for it. He rips a forehand and it whizzes by his opponent before he can even recover from his service motion.
“30–15.”
The next point, it happens again.
“Let’s go!” Leo yells after his bullet of a backhand.
“30–all.”
He sees Sascha talking angrily with his player box. A crack in the ice.
As his opponent steps back up to the line, Leo is feeling pumped up. He’s bouncing from foot to foot, spinning his racket, ready to return before Sascha even bounces the ball. He wants to get in Sascha’s head, show him that he should be afraid to send the next serve Leo’s way.
The two of them get into another rally, dashing from side to side, sliding into their shots, sneakers screeching on the court.
Leo isn’t thinking, only moving. With each ball, he inches closer to the baseline, then inside of it.
He’s taking control. When the next one comes to him, his instinct takes over—and he goes for it.
He sees that Sascha is deep behind the baseline now, and he sends a drop shot floating over the net.
Sascha sprints for it, but as he stretches out his racket, the ball hits the ground for a second time.
Leo launches his fist into the air and roars up to the heavens, “Come on!”
The fans are out of their seats, screaming and jumping. It’s a break point.
“30–40,” the ump says.
He doesn’t go to his towel box. He gets back into position, putting the pressure right back on Sascha.
When his next serve misses, Leo knows this is an opportunity he can’t miss.
A second serve on a break point. He steps in.
Sascha drags out his preparation, bouncing the ball several extra times.
Leo’s pressure is working. He’s in his opponent’s head.
Sascha will know that this second serve has to be good or Leo will return it with interest again.
The ball goes up—and it flies into the net. Sascha’s racket flies out of his hand and onto the ground. The fans fly out of their seats.
“Game: Chambers,” the ump attempts to announce, competing with the noise of the crowd, which has reached an earth-shattering level. “Chambers leads six games to five.”
A fist in front of his face, Leo stops and turns toward his box, straight-faced. He means business now. He’s about to serve for the championship. His mom is about to faint.
During the changeover, sitting on his bench, Leo stares straight ahead to maintain any semblance of concentration, a true feat given the volume of the fans, who are now singing along like a choir to Jay-Z and Alicia Keys’s “Empire State of Mind,” the song blasting in the stadium.
Leo feels like he’s breathing manually.
This is it.
The moment he’s worked for nearly every day of his life.
He’s a game away from winning the US Open. For his dad. For himself. With four more points, he could cement himself in tennis history. The dream that’s fueled him since he first picked up a racket at five years old. Would that little boy even believe it?
This is it.
“Time,” the ump calls.
Leo jogs over to the baseline, mostly because he’s forgotten how to walk, and nods to the ball boy to toss him the tennis balls. He feels for the newest ones, tossing one back to the ball boy. He steps up to the line, unable to hear himself think as the crowd grows wilder and wilder.
He bounces the ball five times. He tosses it up. His body explodes upward as his arm comes around. He sends the ball speeding out wide.
It’s an ace.
“15–love.”
He can barely feel his limbs.
He bounces the ball five times. He tosses it up. His body explodes upward as his arm comes around. He sends the ball speeding out wide.
It’s another ace.
“30–love.”
He’s blacking out.
He bounces the ball five times. He tosses it up. His body explodes upward as his arm comes around. He sends the ball speeding out wide.
Sascha smacks it back and it lands at Leo’s feet. He can’t position himself right and hits a mistimed forehand that sails wide.
“30–15.”
Okay. That’s okay. That’s fine.
He bounces the ball five times. He tosses it up. His body explodes upward as his arm comes around. He sends the ball speeding down the T.
Sascha whacks it into the net. “Fuck!” he screams, and he smacks his racket against the court. “Fucking piece of shit.”
Leo doesn’t know if Sacha’s talking about himself or Leo. He doesn’t care anymore. “40–15,” the ump says loudly. “Code violation, audible obscenity, Mr. Volkov.”
Sascha screams again, but Leo ignores him. Because it’s here. Championship point. He’s arrived at championship point.
He feels like he’s underwater.
He’s forgotten how to swim.
The crowd is feral.
His team shoots him almost psychotically encouraging looks and applaud with force to keep him amped up.