Eight

HE MUST HAVE SAID IT LOUDER than he intended because the ref’s whistle was blowing before the ball hit the front wall.

“Technical foul. Poor sportsmanship. Deduction of one point. No serve.”

Holy shit! In racquetball if you get called for a technical foul you lose a point, even if you don’t have a point to lose. I didn’t expect the refs here to be so hard on people. If he heard the comment, I figured it would merit a warning, but not a foul. We hadn’t really started the game yet and I was leading zero to minus one. Wally was really going to be pissed if he lost by that point. I couldn’t figure out why the hell he was so upset. Sure, there was a drawing of him posted on the board, but it was a good drawing, damn it. What’s with the faggot shit?

He came back strong with his next serve and evened the score at zero-zero. I had to put his trash talk out of my head and get with it or this would be my last match. We played hard with the score rocking back and forth, but when he had me down ten to nine, I could tell he was regretting the point he lost with his profanity. I saw his muscles bunch as he went into his service motion and knew before the ball left his racquet exactly where it was going to come to me. The ref called “side out” and I stepped up to serve. I glanced over my shoulder to make sure he was ready and could see the sneer on his face. Yeah? Well eat this.

Two aces later I was up one game to none in the match.

Wally was good—the strongest I’d faced since my disastrous first round. He nailed me in the second game and after a five-minute break he was back in the service zone. He pushed off for a drive serve and I was right behind him, five feet back at the safety line. We played hard for over twenty minutes until my last serve came scooting back against the wall three feet away from me and he flubbed the return. He turned and argued with the ref for a hinder, but the line judge put thumbs down and the match was mine. He still ignored my offered hand and stormed off the court. I stepped out and Lissa grabbed me to head in the opposite direction. That’s when I noticed I had a little fan section. Bree and Allison were cheering for me and chanting my name. Jim, the guy I beat yesterday afternoon was there, too. A couple of the other women I’d sketched yesterday who weren’t playing in the morning match were clapping. What surprised me, though, was that beside Coach Jacobson, I saw my dad.

I ran up and gave him a hug.

“Dad! When did you get here? Did Mom... ?”

“Just me. We looked up the scores and the competition clips last night and I decided to catch a plane down from Omaha early this morning. Sorry I didn’t get here for the start of the match. I heard there were some fireworks.”

“Yeah. It was nothing intentional. I think it did more to throw him off than me. It’s just these two...” I pointed at Bree and Allison.

“We’re sorry, Tony. I had no idea they’d create such a mess,” Bree said.

“I told her about them and I just thought they were so cool that people should see them. But we took them down,” Allison said. Both of them were looking up at Coach Jacobson and he nodded. I had a feeling he had something to do with the removal. Bree handed me my sketchbook with the loose drawings inside the cover. I introduced Lissa to my dad, and while Dad was congratulating her on my win, Sam pulled me aside.

“Tony, show me some good sportsmanship. You represent our school,” he whispered.

I didn’t have time to ask if I’d done something wrong when somebody cleared his throat behind me and said, “Excuse me.” I turned to find Wally behind me. I might have cringed a little, not knowing what to expect, but if anything, he looked contrite. Behind him I could see his coach with his arms folded glaring, not at me, but at Wally.

“I just wanted to say ‘sorry,’ man. You’re a good competitor and I lost my cool. There was a bunch of trash talk about you in the locker room and I let it get to me. Anyway. Congratulations.” He held out his hand and I shook it gladly.

“It wasn’t my idea to have any of that stuff displayed,” I said. “I’m sorry if you were offended or if you took any crap because of it. I hope we’ll meet on the court again.” He nodded. Then I had a sudden inspiration. “Hey. Would you like the drawing? You can do whatever you want with it then and you won’t have to worry about anyone else seeing it.”

“Really?”

“Sure.” I leafed through the loose pages in my book and pulled out the picture of him. He took it and looked at it closely. His eyes came up and met mine and he smiled. He pushed the page back at me and I thought he was refusing.

“Sign it?” he asked. We all laughed and I grabbed a pencil out of my bag, scrawled my name on the bottom, and handed it back. “Thanks. Good luck for the rest of the tournament.”

“Now,” Dad said. “Come and tell me about how things are going and introduce me to all your fans here.”

“How about if I shower and change first? I’ve got to rinse out my clothes and get them dry before my noon match.”

“Here, Tony,” Sam said. He handed me a bag. “With the schedule today, I figured you might need a fresh change. Just put your dirty uniform in the bag and Bree will go wash it.”

“What?” the cheerleader screamed.

Coach turned to her and said firmly, “And it had better not come back faded or shrunk, understand, Brianna?”

“Yes, father,” she said.

“Wait. Coach Jacobson is your dad?” Bree nodded while Sam just laughed.

“And she can be quite a handful; but I think you already know that.”

“Yeah. But ... I mean, nothing happened, Coach. Really.”

“So I’ve heard,” he chuckled. He waved me off toward the showers and turned to talk to my dad.

My next match was with a guy who’d suffered his first loss that morning to the same Rob that had trounced me in my first match. We sized each other up on the court, but I didn’t detect any antagonism. We’d both lost to the same guy, so it was like a race for second place between the two of us. The matches were getting longer as the competition got tougher. We played three games and were never more than two points apart. I felt like it was sheer luck that I nailed my last serve and pulled out the match. It seemed like there was less and less time between matches now as the field narrowed. Bree handed me a clean uniform on my way into the locker room and took my dirty one on the way out to lunch.

“I can do my own laundry, Bree,” I said.

“No way. If dad found out I didn’t comply, I’d never hear the end of it. He is the athletic director, you know.” She leaned in close to me and whispered in my ear. “You are so going to owe me when this is over, though.” I swear, the swivel in her hip when she turned and walked away from me could have knocked me over from across the room. Maybe if I left now, I could be back home before she knew I was missing.

We had a light lunch and dad was enthusiastic about my prospects. He obviously liked Lissa—who wouldn’t?—and was amused by the unending line of girls who came by asking if they could have my sketch of them and if I’d sign it. Sam Jacobson was steering the conversation around to National Singles and said that if I was in the top tier the school would send me. “We want to see you in the final bracket, but whatever happens, we’re glad to have you as a member of our team. The founding member, as it happens.” I finished the last spoonful of the rich, meaty soup Lissa had ordered for me. All I had to drink was water. I was drinking like I’d never seen water. The Ektelon National Singles Tournament. Wow! It was really a possibility.