Thirty-Six

THE WORLD GAMES. It was the Olympics for sports that didn’t get an Olympic berth. The International Olympic Committee (IOC) sanctioned sports for international competition. They had to certify that there was an organizing body that kept an international rule book and had agreement from all member countries. But not every IOC sanctioned sport was played at the Olympics. Many were deemed too small or specialized to merit that level of competition. So, while the Olympics were held in even years, the World Games were played in odd years. Since people didn’t stay up late to watch the World Games on TV, there was a smaller audience and several third world countries got to play host.

Racquetball players were allowed to arrive on the 23rd, practice on the 24th, compete the 25th–27th, and leave the 28th. We weren’t expected to stay through the whole games. I’d only miss one week of Doc’s class and I could catch up anything I was behind in my online classes.

We checked into the hotel on Tuesday and I went to bed. I think Wendy, Melody, and Lissa all went out. I didn’t see them until morning.

I hit the practice court at nine o’clock in the morning and faced off against Randy Lewis in my first practice game. Shit! Randy was in a rare mood and started baiting me. He sent a couple of rockets over my left shoulder and then nailed me with a return that hit me in the chest.

“Geez, Tony. After Nationals, I thought you were going to be competition. This is single elimination, you know? Once out always out. Don’t you have anything left?”

I know I shouldn’t have, but I got mad and the anger and frustration that I’d been suppressing since my blowout a couple of weeks ago started to surface. I nailed him in the back of the head with my next return. He shook it off and looked at me a little surprised.

“I think that’s interference,” I said. “My serve.”

I kept letting it build. I was sending shots at Randy that were moving close to a hundred miles an hour. And he was returning them. We stop trying to keep track of score. Every rally was a match. We were both attacking the ball and while Randy was playing racquetball, I was trying to kill the ball. Randy ceased to exist. It was just me and where the ball would be. And how hard I could hit it.

We rallied for an hour and were both dripping with sweat when our hour was up and there was new respect between the two of us.

“You sure as hell better make it to semi-finals,” Randy growled at me as we left the court. “That’s where we’ll meet next.” I didn’t care about brackets. I only cared about destroying opponents.

The entire tournament would last three days. That meant that if you were in the hunt, you were playing two matches a day. Except Randy. He and other top seeds drew byes in the round of sixty-four. I stepped onto the court at ten on Thursday morning to meet my first opponent. He was from somewhere in Asia. I just ruined him. I won 15/2 and 15/5. I went into the afternoon match in the round of thirty-two and struck again. Some South American. By ten and by nine.

Thursday night my lovers tried to tease, but I wasn’t in the mood. I’d eaten some kind of fish for dinner and it didn’t set well. Should have known better than to eat fish at 3,000 feet above sea-level. I went to bed and between the farts and the belches, my lovers could hardly stand to be in the same room with me. I wrapped a towel around my waist to contain the stink, crawled into bed and went into a fitful sleep.

I had the runs when I woke up. It was going to be a good trick to be able to play in the round of sixteen. My match was late in the morning at eleven so there was some chance that there wouldn’t be anything left in my system when I finally got to the court. I drank water—Lissa insisted—but I didn’t eat anything.

I felt like The Hulk against a little Japanese guy who played racquetball like it was karate. When I served, I didn’t fall back. I commanded the service box and returned everything he sent my way. I could feel my bowels seething and went crazy with bombs the guy could scarcely see, let alone return. I’d won six straight games in three matches headed into the quarter finals. After I took this Canadian dude this afternoon, I’d meet Randy in the semis tomorrow.

I spent half my break in the john.

Lissa wanted me to eat something, but the best I could do was drink a protein shake. I don’t even want to know what the protein was they put in it. I heard they eat guinea pigs down here.

The Canadian dude wasn’t Len Lauerman. That’s all I knew about him. I didn’t know his name and I didn’t care. I walked on the court and sent my first serve along the left wall right at his feet.

“Short!” the ref called.

“What?” That was a perfect serve and was well over the short line. He took my second serve off the back wall and it landed in the crotch.

“Side out!”

“Wait! That was on the floor! The crotch is on the floor!”

“Serve Canada.”

The god damned referee was calling things in favor of the Canadian. That ball should never have been given to him. We rallied a couple more times, each scoring before the ref made a call of interference against me. I’d served and hit the deck. There was no way I was interfering with his ability to return. I was getting pissed off.

The next time the whistle blew, I’d just powered a ball into the front wall that flew almost to the back wall. The judge ruled it a touch and I lost the serve again.

“Jesus Christ!”

The whistle blew again.

“Technical! Loss of one point.”

I couldn’t believe my ears. I pulled into myself and just played to keep from getting a foul called on me. I lost the game by six.

“They’ve chosen the winner,” Lissa said. “I’m sorry, Tony. It doesn’t make any difference how you play. Someone has tipped the judge.”

“That’s illegal! What the fuck is all this talk about fair play?”

“Tony! Look at me!” Lissa barked. They’d already called players back to the court. I snapped my eyes to her. “I’m sorry. I never wanted to say this. Cut loose and let him have it. Scare him like you scared me.”

“Technical. Delay of game,” the ref called before I walked onto the court. So that was how they wanted to play.

I took the first serve and it hit the Canadian square in the chest with the return. There was nothing they could do about it. He just screwed up. I served a long slow lob hitting the floor a good two feet before the back wall. I faded back and when the Canadian returned the serve, I nailed him in the back of the head with the return. He was sort of in front of me.

“Interference!” I yelled. I’d gotten the word out before the ref could make the call. He told me to serve again. This time I nailed the guy in the back of the calf. He hit the floor and turned on me. I raised my hand in the air and said, “Sorry.” I got the call again. The third serve we started to rally and I cut loose with a ball that burned off his racquet onto the floor. He couldn’t do anything with my returns or serves. I started to heat up the game. He wasn’t important anymore. I was going to take this match.