Open Court (17 page)

Millicent was better than she looked, even with the big butt. She tried rushing me: she bounced the ball exactly once before she tossed it, hurtling it at me. I'd
barely look up from the end of one point to find her in mid-toss again, serving as fast as she could to throw off my rhythm. She wasn't so much a great strategist as she was a Sherman tank.

…
thump
…
thump
…
thump
…

She hit a passing shot wide. “Out,” I called.

“That was in,” she said. “I could see it from here.”

“Wasn't. Out.”

“It was in,” The Chin called from the bleachers, taking her side. No way did he see that point. He kept his eyes on me to see what I'd do. What an amateur. Takes more than a bad call to shake me, stupid man.

“Fine, in. Your game. My serve.”

Thump … thump
…
thump
… Her point.

Thump
…
thump
…
thump
… Her point.

Thump
…
thump
…
thump
… My point.

Her point, her point. Her game.

“Shit,” I said under my breath.
Get it together. Win!

Millicent Mumfred twirled her racquet as though it was a baton and she was in a Main Street parade.

Thump
…
thump…

…
thump
…
thump
…

What to do? What to do? My brain was mush. In my junior career I'd learned a catalog of ways to win points, games, matches. Though I'd recited them aloud this
morning, I couldn't conjure up one successful shot. The flogging I'd experienced at Cherry Creek was happening again. What type of player was I without Trent's advice? Should I …

Stay at the baseline?

Hit a passing shot?

Try a lob? Nothing. I was helpless.

Win, dammit,
I told myself.
Win!

“Pick up the pace, Hall, or she'll have you running all over the court. Stop play,” The Chin said as the ball went wide. “Hall?”

“Yes?”

“Don't let her control the point. You're rushing the stroke. Run around the ball until you get the racquet in a decent hitting position. Pick up some speed.”

“OK.”

My mom, an encouraging but semi-removed (until lately, that is) tennis parent, looked as though she would throw up, this man telling me what to do and all. She'd never heard Trent threaten to make me run sprints before, obviously. She nodded wildly at me from the bleachers, the hope on her face making me ill.

“Patience,” The Chin repeated. “Rush your foot speed, not the stroke.”

“I understand.”

On the next four points I let the balls pass me, ran them down, and slammed them in one fluid motion at her forehand. “Agg!”

…
thump
…

“Crap.”

I got one of the four.

“Great!” The Chin said, voice energetic. “That's it! You've almost got it!”

Almost got it? Was the man insane? I only got
one!
I was nearly crying.

Thump
…
thump
…
thump
…

“OK, ladies, that's good for now.”

Taking his cue, Millicent let my return fly by as she walked to the net, waiting for me. “You suck,” she said, without eye contact, as I approached.

I couldn't think of a thing to say.

I traipsed over to my spectators. I swallowed to keep myself from crying. “Did you see that? Holy hell, did you see that? She clobbered me!” I screamed The Chin. “I wanted to win. Shit!”

“Hall!” my mom said, turning pink. The use of bad language could
send
my mother. I didn't care. Not only had I lost, but now I was throwing a tantrum. Nothing made sense. Why, why, why couldn't I hit that damn ball? The Weak Link and The Chin stared at me, dumbfounded.

“Did you
see
that?” I repeated. “She
clobbered
me.”

Phil held his big chin in his hand, covering the dimples. “I didn't expect you to give Millicent much trouble. She's three years older. Been at the academy three years.”

“How did she do that?” I demanded.

Phil looked like he was in deep thought, chin still cupped in his hand. “You've had some substantial coaching, Hall,” he said finally. “Bickford can do better. Too bad I didn't have the radar out, but some of those serves were … The net coverage you've got, that's some awesome net coverage at thirteen.”

The man was obviously a fool. “What game were you watching?” I said sarcastically.

“Hall!” my mom said.

“Didn't you see all my errors?”

“Hall!” Again, my mom.

“If you thought that was good, you must be blind.”

“But the pace you're able to generate is awesome—”

“I played like shit! I hate this game!”

“Holloway Louise Braxton!”

Abrupt silence covered the court.

I gulped water. I couldn't've cared less. People were worried about politeness, not realizing I was
losing my mind
right along with my tennis skills.

Strangely, the corners of The Chin's mouth turned upward ever so slightly. He seemed pleased—at what, I'd no idea. Like I said, he was a fool.

It was a farce. Who was I kidding? Tennis didn't love me anymore. Dead Grandpa Bonus Fund or not, regal surroundings like Bickford belonged to girls who possessed voices of tennis wisdom in their heads, instead of the rocks I had in mine.

M
y mom went with The Chin to look at the nearby private school the academy kids attended. I skipped out on the festivities under the pretense of touring the dorm rooms, like I cared. Katie and I sat in her room sharing a bag of potato chips.

She flung an official academy T-shirt toward me. “You can have it—I've got a million. It's a little faded, but the new ones have that funky smell from the screen printing—takes, like, a year before that smell leaves.”

“A souvenir. Thanks.” I didn't want it but decided to be low-key. I wasn't here to pick a fight or anything. She was right about the funky smell from the logo ink. The Chin had lent my mom a Bickford sweatshirt that
smelled like Pepto-Bismol. “The other day I saw two huge groups of kids running. D'you run every day?”

Katie looked at me like I was stupid. “Well, yeah. Twice a day. In the morning before breakfast—that's the worst—and later, after matches and drills.”

“I hate running.”

“Who doesn't? It's pointless. Easier in a group, though. Better than doing it alone.”

“How long have you been here again?” I asked.

“Two years. I'm from Vermont, which has, you know,
zero
tennis opportunities. So I got shipped here.”

“You like it, though? You wanted to come?”

“No. I cried every day for three months. I don't know that I like it, but I've accepted it. You know how before you play a match you have to
give
yourself to the match—to the outcome of the match, good or bad?” she said.

“Yeah.” I knew exactly what she meant. Trent talked about it all the time. He called it surrendering to the game—to the lines, ball, racquet. Feel the game. Submit to the game. Trust. By surrendering to the game, the “game freed a player mentally—to win. Zen. It was the only way to get into the zone. It felt like years since I'd been in the zone.

“Well, Bickford is like that. When I fought against
being here, I was miserable. No one cares if you're unhappy. It's not like at home, where your mom is going to come to your rescue. You have to get your butt out of bed and do the morning run, school, drills, matches, tournaments, homework, and then more drills anyway. Arid then drills, and drills, and then more drills …”

My head ached.

“Instead of being unhappy all the time, I figured I'd spare myself the mental breakdown and
give
myself to it, to Bickford, I mean. Now it doesn't bother me.”

Oh,” I said.

“My mother says I've got to think of it as
me
using the
academy
instead of the academy using me.”

Since she was being so honest, I decided to ask her the question that no player dared to ask another. This question was the black cloud, the fear, that hung over the heads of all on the junior circuit.

“Do you think you'll make it to the Tour, honestly?”

Katie stiffened and looked out the prison-type window. (I'd decided some of the academy's windows did actually resemble prison windows. I'd pointed this out to the Weak Link this morning over breakfast.)

“Do you?” I asked again.

“My dad thinks I will. He's paying serious cash for
me to be here … Who knows? College scholarship for sure. Free ride at college.”

“But the Tour?” I asked impatiently.

“It's possible.”

It was a lie. She knew she wouldn't. I knew she wouldn't before we'd played a set. Ranking too low, game too soft. Deep down, her father probably knew it, too.

What I didn't know was if I would make it to the Tour. If I couldn't beat Millicent, how could I beat a pro? But of one thing I was certain. No one at Bickford would buy me a Slurpee on the way home from a tournament or a Swiss flag because I had a crush on Roger Fédérer. Instead, they would make me run. Against my will.

“What about you?” she said quietly. “Think you'll make it?”

Her question melted as a stream of academy kids moseyed into her room, which, I could already tell, was some sort of meeting place for all of villa 2. They argued over U.S. Open statistics.

“They have a million ball people,” some kid named Zane said. Bickford had many kids with ugly family names. No one questioned my name being Hall.

“They have two hundred and forty ball people, not millions, Zane,” Katie said.

“Eight thousand,” I said.

“Eight thousand what?” Zane asked.

“They use eight thousand towels at the U.S. Open. That's a lot of sweat.”

The Bickford kids laughed.

Zane piped up. “Know how many spectators can watch in Arthur Ashe Stadium?”

“Twenty-three thousand,” three other kids said in unison.

“Hence all the sweat,” Katie said.

A man leaned in Katie's doorway. “Would you like thousands of people watching you in the stands someday, Hall?”

Everyone got quiet. I turned.

“Hall,” Katie said, “this is Joseph Bickford. He founded and runs the academy.”

The Bickford kids said hellos to him, waving. He smiled in return. No one had warned me that there was an actual Bickford
person
behind the name.

“Can I have a word or two with you, Hall? Out here?”

“Uh-huh.”

I got off Katie's bed, brushed the potato chip crumbs off my lap, and joined Joseph Bickford in the hallway. His face was tanned and leathery-looking, his demeanor upbeat. A shiny watch covered his wrist.

“Hello,” I said.

“Do you think you'd like thousands of people watching you in the stands of Arthur Ashe Stadium?” he asked again.

“Depends,” I said. “Would I win or lose the match?”

He smiled so big his eyes disappeared into the lines in his face. “If you won?”

“Sure, who wouldn't?”

“What do you think about our academy?”

“It's a long way from Colorado.”

“Yes, yes, it is,” he said. His skin definitely looked like old leather. Like a cowboy's saddle or something.

“It's too far. I have a coach. Trent is my coach.” I was glad my mom wasn't here or I would have had to be nice.

“You're a smart girl; let me ask you a question. Remember when Phil asked you to get to the ball quicker so you could execute a calm shot instead of an erratic one?”

“How did you know that?” I asked.

“I was watching you play.”

“I didn't see you.”

“I was there,” he said. “After Phil told you that, you let the balls get behind you on purpose so you could run them down and test his theory. You took the chance of
losing points in order to learn something new. Do you know how many of our other students would've done that?”

It seemed like a trick question. “No.”

“Maybe five percent. Most of them are too busy with the vanity of easy shots to learn awkward ones.”

“I still lost the set,” I said. “She's better.”

“The best of the best attend Bickford.”

“In Colorado no one is better than me.”

“This game is about dedication. You lost that set. Could've won but your mind wouldn't let you. You could win next time.”

I wasn't sure what he was getting at.

“My coach says you've got to think there is no next time, otherwise you're giving yourself an excuse to lose.”

“Your coach isn't playing the game. You are. I want to know what you think.”

Silence.

“You're the one out on the court, aren't you?” he pressed. “I want to know what you think.”

“I lost. Did you forget the part where I lost?”

He gazed down the hallway and back at me. “Why do you play tennis?”

I wasn't sure if I should tell him the truth. I wasn't
sure if I knew the truth anymore. “Because sometimes … well, I used to … I feel pretty when I play tennis.” I waited to see if he'd laugh at me. He didn't. “People tell me I'm a champion.”

“Yes. I've reviewed your records. You've got talent, but talent is irrelevant.”