Trophy Son(19)

Tennis players do a lot of inner monologuing and sometimes it creeps out like Tourette’s. In our little bubble, we have to be player, coach, confidant, trainer. When all the voices started, it was a reminder of how alone I was.

I lost the next three games before I could talk myself into focus. I evened the set at six games each and got into a tiebreaker. He served first into the deuce court and I ripped a forehand up the line that he never had a chance at reaching. I was up a mini-break.

I missed my first serve into the ad court but pegged an aggressive second serve that he couldn’t get a racket on. I was up 2-0 in the breaker except I heard, “Out.” It was the same ad court as his last cheat.

I had been in a rage earlier in the set and I was right back there, faster this time having travelled there before. “That serve was in you piece of shit.”

“It was out.” He smiled. “Two inches.”

I refused to look to Dad for help but I needed help. I was losing it. I needed to check my language. Another curse could get an official over here to disqualify me. I was lucky not to lose points for the one I already let fly.

I dropped my racket in defiance and my fists were balled up. I never fought but right then it seemed like it would be so easy and feel so good. I imagined smashing my fist in his face over and over. I stood staring and kept imagining it.

He walked to the deuce court, twirling his racket and having fun. He took his time, enjoying the manipulation. I was powerless again. Nowhere for my fury to release. I walked back to the baseline and I told myself not to over-hit.

I took my time settling in for the serve. I bounced the ball in front of me, took deep breaths, envisioned laying in a nice, easy serve. Nothing mattered, though. I double-faulted away the point and collapsed in the tiebreak, 7–1.

The second set I lost in a blur. He cheated one more time but didn’t need to. I was mentally done and wanted off the court. My match win streak ended and I would have played Ben Archer in the final. Ben won the tournament. I didn’t stick around to see if the other guy cheated any.

It was the first I thought of Ben as possibly more than just a less talented me. I had more talent and was certain of that, but he had an entirely different approach, a more steady approach. I wasn’t the faster of two hares. He was a tortoise and might win a long race.

I had walked off the court from the match and Dad stood there waiting for me. It was the first and last time he wasn’t angry with me after a loss. His eyes were savage while he watched the other player and coach. There was just enough civilization present around us to hold Dad back, otherwise I think he would have killed that boy.

*

Two days later I slouched deep in the chair in Dr. Ford’s office. I didn’t see him on any kind of regular basis because I’d been pretending that it was working and that I was feeling much healthier. Even so, we tried not to let more than a month go by between visits.

I was still upset from the match I had lost and so my guard was down. I didn’t check my honesty and openness but let everything come forward. I took him through the match, almost point by point. I relayed the conversations that happened when the other player cheated and how I had struggled to conquer my anger and fear of losing. I told him how winning never feels as good as losing feels bad and when he asked why, I told him that my wins were for someone else but my losses were all on me.

He told me I had passion and valued winning and that’s the mark of a champion.

I thought about that for a while in silence. No champion has ever won every time out. Everyone has felt the sting of knowing that he could have won one more. That’s competition, I understand that. But unhappy? Lasting and deep down where it counts? I thought that might be something else.

I said, “The thing I want to change is that when I lose a match, I don’t only lose confidence in myself as a player, I lose confidence in myself as a person.”

He nodded to me and said, “Your losses have to build your character. You have to learn from them, take that and build on it.”

Stock answer. I could have gotten that from embroidery on a pillow. “Doctor, what I’m saying is that my self as a player is my whole self. When I lose, there’s no other part of me to fall back on. There’s no other self to retreat to. I’m trapped. It’s claustrophobic.” I pictured the spirit of me caught in the small confines of my skull, pushing like a child on the walls of a burning house, gasping for air.

Dr. Ford looked frustrated. What kind of prick shrink would get frustrated with a patient who said what I just finished saying? “Winning is why you work hard. Let’s give you some tools to get you back to work.”

Dr. Ford would never change the framework. He would never move the value from winning at tennis to happiness in life. He seemed to feel that if he never acknowledged my unhappiness but pointed elsewhere that the unhappiness would be gone. A matter of a simple Jedi Mind Trick, as long as I won tournaments.

I decided that I’d attend meetings with Dr. Ford but would never work at them. Dr. Ford was a bad investment of my time. Worse, I knew he wasn’t on my side.

It would be better to work at this alone. There was thinking that I didn’t share with Dr. Ford. Observing, really. In my match with that jerk, I didn’t cheat in response. I was happy about that. I didn’t know why I didn’t cheat. It wasn’t a decision that I made. It never occurred to me as an option. Years later I would look back on it and think, how obvious, how stupid not to fight fire with fire, you fuck with me and I fuck with you. But my behavior then was innocent and that’s reassuring to me, because of course later the cheating would come, fighting fire with fire. But that wasn’t about line calls.