The Tennis Player

Chapter 9

Mr. Skinner called us in the next day for another meeting. It had to be short because Robert was waiting with the limo, and Mrs. Tellison knew what time to expect Clark home.

We were in his classroom this time, and he did keep it short.

“You were right, Ronnie. She was most unhappy. I wouldn’t budge, and she said she’d go over my head and hung up on me. So, we have that to look forward to. I’ve also decided to do some research on her and her company. Info gives us ideas and ammunition.”

“Thanks, Mr. Skinner,” I said. “We’re probably still ahead of everyone else on the project, so stopping work on it shouldn’t put us behind for now. But we have to figure out how to get her to release her hold on Clark. That’s the only thing that matters.”

“I hope my research helps,” he said, and we left, Clark to the waiting limo, me to the library. I was working on the Eisenhower project, but desultorily, my heart not in it. What I wanted to be doing was figuring out how I could be with Clark. About that, though, I had no ideas. All I could do was hope that Mr. Skinner would come up with something.

I spent a lot of time trying to think of ways to break Mrs. Tellison’s hold on Clark. Teenage boys tend to come up with fantastic ideas, and many of mine went in that direction. I knew I had to tone it down, to come up with something plausible, something at least realistic. I did have a couple of ideas that perhaps could be toned down and finagled and might work. Or not. This seemed an adult problem that would need an adult solution. I felt way out of my depth.

I still ate lunch with Clark. It was all I’d have with him until something could be done. He surprised me at lunch the next day.

“Hey, I never told you. The state U-15 tennis tourney is coming up. I want you to come and see me play. Wish you could ride with us, but . . . think you can get your parents to drive you?”

“Sure, I guess, if it’s on a weekend.”

“I’ll get the schedule and make a copy for you.”

Clark coasted through his first three preliminary matches, held at courts in other cities in the state, and reached the semis and the finals. Those were held at the club to which Tammy belonged in our city. It was the preeminent tennis facility in the city, maybe the best in the state. My dad brought me and stayed to watch Clark’s first match. The day was bright and sunny, simply gorgeous with little breeze and warm enough that the small crowd gathered to watch the match wore light jackets or none at all. The club had both indoor and outdoor courts; the outdoor courts were being used for the tournament.

“That’s the guy I’m doing my research project with,” I told Dad, pointing Clark out to him. “He’s in my class at school. That’s who I came to watch. He might win.”

My father looked at him. Clark was wearing all whites, and to me looked like a million bucks. Dad studied him from where we were in the bleachers surrounding the courts, then looked at me and nodded, not saying a word.

I’d never told either of my parents that I might be gay. But my father was a very insightful man. Maybe he saw how my eyes lit up when I saw Clark. Maybe he was suspicious anyway. I was 14 and had never dated, never even talked about any of the girls in my class. He was also very circumspect. If I was gay, he’d wait till I thought the time was right to tell him, till I was ready. He wouldn’t pry. I didn’t think he’d have a problem if his suspicions turned out to be true. My mom? She was a beast of another color.

My mom tended to be as controlling as either Dad or I would allow her to be. That was a lot when I was younger, but starting when I was 12, I’d begun resisting in earnest. Now, at 14, we sort of had a truce. She won some battles, and I won some. But if she decided I wasn’t to be gay, well, she wouldn’t win that one; it well might turn into a major war. I didn’t like wars. I didn’t even like confrontations.

After that first match of Clark’s, Dad never saw another. He told me he had work to complete at home, that he was sure I could find my way home without his sticking around. I was a little surprised at that, and I wasn’t sure of his motives for leaving. However, he was an architect and often brought work home with him, so I guessed he really did have stuff to do.

The day actually went easier for me with him gone and not able to watch my emotional highs and lows with every point scored in Clark’s matches.

But, my god, watching Clark play? He was amazing. Graceful and strong, fast and subtle, able to hit powerful ground strokes and delicate drops. Watching him play with Tammy, he’d been going through the motions. Now he was competing and was a totally different animal. The concentration, the determined look on his face, the body language between shots—he was someone I didn’t know. Yet I did know him; I simply hadn’t been aware of his competitive side. I could see the Clark I knew inside what he was showing on the surface.

What happened while I was watching him was unexpected. My feelings for him deepened. It wasn’t love, not yet, but it was approaching that. Yeah, I know, it isn’t supposed to happen that way. It’s supposed to creep up on you. You’re supposed to be beguiled by personality, by reactions to people and situations, by how kind and sensitive they are, how they speak and think. Or perhaps by how powerful and demonstrative they are. It’s behaviors and attitudes and subtleties and nuances that matter. Appearance, being able to play a vigorous game well, those aren’t supposed to matter that much. But seeing him glide around the court, entirely in charge of what he was doing, confident and capable, I just looked at him in awe.

There was one incident that brought my emotions to a head. I’ll describe it in a bit. First, though, Clark had an hour’s rest after the semi. Rest he did, with a touch of intrigue throw in, and then he went directly to the finals.

I so wanted to go speak with him during his rest period, but as soon as he won his semi match, he was approached by Robert along with a stern-looking, sour-faced woman. She looked like she was in her 50s or 60s and that she hadn’t smiled since the Clinton Administration. She had to be his grandmother, and if I made an appearance, who knew what the repercussions would be?

They walked together back into the club, and so I went there, too. I got a snack from the coffee shop that was one of several eating facilities the club had for members and guests. It was open to the public as part of the tournament’s conveniences. I didn’t see anyone I knew, and then I did.

I’d been sitting by myself, eating nachos and drinking a Coke, when Tammy joined me. She smiled as she pulled up a chair. “Hey, Ronnie. He looks great out there, huh?”

“Sure does. I guess that was his grandmother I saw him with?”

“That was her. Hard to believe. . .” She stopped.

I waited for her to finish what she was saying, but she didn’t. The silence was pregnant. It was apparent she’d been about to say something that she’d realized she shouldn’t, and that made me think. And gave me an idea I hadn’t thought of before.  One I probably should have.

We chatted easily together. We didn’t mention swimming. We didn’t mention seeing each other naked. It was on my mind, though. How could it not be? I wondered if she was remembering it, too. Probably, I guessed.

I wanted to know about Clark’s next match, the championship finals. I figured Tammy would know his opponent. She did.

“The guy he’s competing against was the one he beat last year in the U-14 finals. His name is Caulder Higgs. His parents are members of the club here. He’s a lot bigger this year. I’ve rallied with him several times. He’s as good or even better than I am. I don’t think Clark can beat him.”

“Really? Did you see how well Clark played in his last match?”

“Yeah, but that guy didn’t hit as hard as Caulder does. He wasn’t as good overall. Caulder’s a much better player now than last year, and he’s not a friendly opponent. He plays angry on the court.”

“Has Clark played him since last year’s final?”

“Not that I know of. I doubt it. Clark plays at home; I’ve never seen him here at the club. And Clark could be overconfident, having beaten Caulder last year. This could be a bad match for Clark. Clark’s a competitor but a nice guy. One thing Caulder isn’t is nice.”

Damn. I didn’t like this. I thought for a moment, then asked, “What’s he not good at?”

She smiled. “You want to tell Clark, don’t you? But I like Clark a lot better than Caulder. Clark’s not stuck up or arrogant. Okay. Weaknesses. I don’t think he’s in as good shape as Clark is. Forehand’s much stronger than his backhand. If Clark can get him running, place his shots against Caulder, he might be able to win. But as hard as Caulder hits, that’ll be hard to do.”

“Okay. Thanks. Now I need to hit the john.”

She laughed, knowing what I was doing. I went inside to find the restroom but also to see if I could find Clark.

I checked the bar. No Tellison or Gleason. I looked into the large dining room, and the two of them were there. Robert wasn’t with them; I guess Mrs. Tellison wouldn’t have found it appropriate to have her ‘help’, her stable attendant sit with her.

Clark had his back to me! I looked over the room and saw there was a door on the other side. That would work; Mrs. Tellison’s back would be to me if I were in that doorway. I walked down a hallway and found the other door. Standing in the open doorway, I moved around until I’d caught Clark’s notice. I danced a little, grabbed my crotch, then waved my head toward the men’s room I’d passed. All this movement was subtle. Hopefully no one else had noticed me.

I walked into the restroom. It was large but very fancy. It was also deserted. I waited, but not for long. The door opened and Clark came in.

There was a row of sinks, a row of urinals and a row of stalls. But there was an adjoining room with chairs and tables. I pulled Clark there, found it, too, was deserted and kissed him.

He was surprised, but grinned. Damn, I liked that grin.

“I came with dope from Tammy. She says the guy you’re playing next, Caulder, is much better now than last year, but maybe not in great shape. She suggests you make him run as much as you can. Oh, and he has a powerful forehand and not so much of a backhand.”

“Okay. Thanks. No problem. I’d better get back.”

“Oh, one more thing.” I reached over and took his hand and met his eyes. “I loved watching you in that last match.” Then I squeezed his hand and fled. I watched Clark return to the table. Mrs. Tellison seemed to be eating some sort of desserty thing. Clark wasn’t eating anything at all. There was a single apple on a plate in front of him, but it hadn’t been touched. Either nerves, I decided, or he didn’t want to be bogged down during his match. I thought it rather callous of her to have him watching her eat something like what was in front of her when he was desisting.

I didn’t know her at all, but just the look of her, how she carried herself, how she dressed, her indifference to Clark’s feelings—I was forming a very dark opinion of her.

When I got back to the bleachers, I found Tammy had two guys sitting with her. Not surprising; she was very pretty. If she was willing to show two young teens her tits and more, what would she do with boys her age? I wasn’t going to get in the middle of that, so I found a seat elsewhere. It was easy to do. Even with this being the state-finals match, the crowd was small. I guess two 14-year-olds playing tennis at a posh club wasn’t of much interest to most people.

Caulder, also 14 of course, was larger than Clark. Clark was about average for boys in our grade. Caulder, had he gone to our school, might have been the tallest one in our class. He also looked strong. I began to get nervous. How would Clark do, facing a larger, stronger boy who was looking for revenge after last year’s match?

They rallied for a few minutes, Caulder hitting mostly hard shots towards the corners of the court instead of giving Clark much opportunity to warm up. I hoped he didn’t need much; he was 14 and had already played his semi-final match only an hour earlier. But Caulder’s behavior, as unsportsmanlike as anything I could imagine, did give Clark an idea of what to expect during the match.

The referee, sitting in an elevated chair at midcourt, was a woman. To determine who’d have the first serve, she had the boys come together at the net. Caulder spun his racket, letting it fall to the court. Clark called “Rough” while the racket was spinning, and it fell with the smooth side of the lacings showing. Caulder had won the serve. He said to Clark, a sneer in his voice, “Get used to it.” I was sitting close enough to the court—in the first row of bleacher seats, actually—and I could hear him easily. Here I’d thought tennis was a friendly competition played by gentlemen! Hah!

I didn’t like Caulder’s attitude, which was evident in his body language as well as in what he’d said. The way he looked, he’d rather be wearing boxing gloves than holding a racket.

His serve was what I was sure Clark expected it to be. Caulder tossed the ball high then hit it with a powerful overhead stroke. His first serve of the tournament was an ace; Clark never got his racket on it. If Caulder got most of his first serves in, I thought, Clark might be in trouble.

The first game of the first set was all Caulder. All his first serves landed in the service court. Clark was able to return them all after missing the first, but not very competitively. They came back to the middle of Caulder’s court without much pace on them, and Caulder had time to set his feet and hit strong ground strokes to the corners of Clark’s court, much like he’d been doing in the warmup rallies. Clark didn’t bother to chase after them. In short order, he lost the first game.

I was watching Clark’s face. He didn’t look a bit discouraged. I was, and I had to calm myself down a bit. There was a long way to go, I told myself. But, damn! Clark appeared to be overmatched.

Clark’s first service was quite a bit less powerful than Caulder’s had been. But it was to Caulder’s backhand side. And just like that, the whole complexion of the match changed. Up to then, Caulder had hit nothing but forehands. Now he defended the serve with a backhand, and rather than smashing a shot to Clark’s forehand or backhand corner with pace, it was a soft shot, a defensive one without much pace and went to the middle of Clark’s court. Clark took three steps forward, set his feet, and I was sure he’d blast one into Caulder’s backhand corner. He didn’t. Instead, he hit a soft drop just over the net on Caulder’s backhand side.

Caulder raced forward, showing good speed, but Clark had put backspin on his shot, and Caulder couldn’t reach it. Clark’s point.

Clark looked at me where I was sitting and gave me a little hardly noticeable nod. He now knew how to beat Caulder: feed his backhand; make him run.

Caulder won the first set of the finals best-of-three-sets tournament in a tiebreaker. He’d won all his service games, Clark had won all of his, and Caulder won the tiebreaker. But as they went to their chairs, Clark looked fresh and confident; Caulder, whom Clark had been forcing to run all over the court, looked like he’d love the match to be over, like he’d been thrashed with a wet stick. His shoulders were slumped, his shirt soaked with sweat, his head bowed. And yet, he’d won the set!

The second set started the way the first had. When Caulder was serving, it was still powerfully, but now he was tired and struggling. After two games, with the score 1-1, his first serves started missing the service court, and he had to go to a much weaker second serve, often double-faulting. He didn’t win a single game after that. Clark won the set 6-1, setting up the match for the third and final set.

It was early in that set that my emotions were stirred. When Clark was serving, about half his serves were to Caulder’s right and got blasted back at him by Caulder’s powerful forehand. Clark got ready to serve again, then stopped and looked at me, and he winked. What was that all about? Then I saw; from then on, Clark started serving almost exclusively to the side of the service court that would require a backhand return. Clark’s service wasn’t nearly as powerful as Caulder’s, but it was very accurate. Caulder soon saw what Clark was doing and moved to his left two steps for his service returns, putting him in position to take some of those serves on his forehand side.

Clark noticed. He’d been waiting for this. Setting him up, actually. His next serve was almost to the service court’s sideline, and for Caulder to reach it, he had to lunge to his right. He did get his racket on the ball, but barely, and only popped up the return. The ball made it to the net, a soft lob, and Clark was there, waiting.

I was sure he’d hit a hard, overhead smash either right at Caulder’s feet or into his wide-open backhand court. He did neither: he hit an easy shot with only moderate pace into the open court. No way could Caulder reach it; as tired as he already was, he didn’t bother to run for it.

It was what came next that I found amazing. If Caulder was waiting to hit a kill shot like that, he’d have blasted it when he had the chance, then either smirked at Clark or laughed at him. Maybe he’d even have had a demeaning, caustic comment for him, announcing to the crowd and Clark how he’d just humiliated him. Had I been the one winning the point, having that easy a shot, I’d at least have grinned, not to put my opponent down but to show my happiness at how I’d played the point.

What did Clark do? Neither of those. He simply turned and walked back to the end line, ready to serve again, his face showing nothing. Clark wasn’t about humiliation. He wasn’t about making his opponent look foolish. He was about playing tennis to the best of his ability, intelligently and capably and with good sportsmanship. No smug satisfaction, no gloating; just humility, just staying inside himself.

And that was when it happened. When it all came together for me. That was when I fell in love with him. I was smitten. Hopelessly in love. At 14!

I’d already known his noncompetitive side. Now I knew the other side of him, and it was glorious. He was glorious. I loved all the parts of him I’d seen. Everything about him. I remembered how gracious he’d been when Tammy had beaten him in their set on Clark’s court. Now I was seeing him gracious in victory against a vile competitor. Clark was everything I wanted. It was his humility that had given me that final push. I knew now: I loved him.

In the next game of the third set, Caulder was serving but trailed love-40. He was preparing for his next serve when, somehow, he managed to turn his ankle, though I didn’t see it happen, and he told the ref he was withdrawing. He gathered his things and limped off the court, ignoring Clark’s offered handshake.

By then I had moved and was sitting on the bottom of the bleachers right behind the referee’s chair, as close to Clark’s chair as possible. I checked and saw Mrs. Tellison talking to some people, looking away from the court.

“That boy need some maturity,” I said, hoping Clark could hear me.

He did. This time he was the one providing the humor. Without turning to me, appearing to be speaking to himself, he said, “And a backhand.”

After the match, Clark was approached by a man who said he was a writer for the paper in town and would like to interview him. I couldn’t be part of that! I so wanted to be. But Clark and his grandmother went to the coffee shop to talk with the man. Afterwards, I managed to meet Clark in the men’s room again.

“You were so great out there! And, by the way, no more equivocation; no more doubts. Look, this is the wrong setting, the wrong time and placve, but I just have to say this. Clark, I love you.”

His jaw dropped, and then closed into a huge smile. “You mean that? You love me?”

Well, I hadn’t wanted to blurt it out like that, but I hadn’t been able to help myself. I’d meant to say it when we were together and had more time, but I wasn’t sure when that would be. And right then, I had other things I had to say to him.

“Yes, I do. Absolutely. But we’ll discuss that later. I’ve been thinking and thinking about how to get your grandmother’s claws out of you so we can be together. I have a couple of ideas, but I need time. So, I have a question: do you mind working on the Eisenhower paper by yourself? That’ll mollify her. Tell her that you’ve told me you’ll work on the project by yourself and that I will, too. That we’re both writing our own papers and then they’ll be collated.”

“Yeah, I can do that. But why?”

“You’ll see. Trust me. Anyway, congratulations, state champ two years in a row.”

He looked a bit embarrassed. “I only won because you told me how.”

“That was Tammy, not me.”

He shook his head. “No way. If she told you that, it was because you asked her. I know Tammy. That wasn’t something she’d volunteer.”

“Well, I might have told you his weaknesses, but you had the game to exploit them. And you’d have figured it out on the court even if I hadn’t said a word. You played a tactical game against his power, and you whipped his ass. Mind over matter. That was all you. You were superb.”

He seemed disinclined to continue, instead saying, “I’ve got to go. Already been in here too long. See you at school.”

“See ya, Champ.”

I had to wait in the restroom for some time to be sure I wouldn’t bump into Grandmother on the way out. That gave me more time to think, and when I was ready, I left the restroom but not the club. I needed information, and I needed it from several sources. The club might be one. I scouted around and found what I was looking for. It was a head start, nothing more than that, but everything has to start somewhere.

I was lucky; Tammy was still there, and I got a ride from her. We talked while she was driving me home.

What a day it had been. I’d seen Clark do what he did best. I saw him triumphant; I’d actually had a minuscule part of that. I’d fallen in love during the day; who’d have thought that might happen? I’d gotten an idea that had the possibility of allowing Clark and me to be together. And I’d gotten a start on making it real.