New Fiction: Tennis is Science
Title: Tennis is Science Author: David Whelan
If you hit the ball just right you’ll hear a poc. It’ll be quick – so keep your eyes alert, curled back, open – but it’ll be distinct. P – O – C. That’s when you know you’ve hit the best shot possible. The little yellow ball will get caught up in the strings for just the perfect amount of time, cushioned in the center, for one, maybe just under one, second, and poc. Point won.
“It’s simple mathematics, really.” James is saying that, between a gulp of water and a sigh. “That’s what tennis is. You can run around the court for as long as you want but if you really want to win, just know how to hit the goddamn ball.”
“I know how to hit a ball, man. It’s about the feel of it, you know. Tennis is natural flair.”
He just looks at me.
“Dods, you can look as pretty as a painting, but if you don’t know how to hit a ball properly, you ain’t gonna win a thing.”
His serve comes in. It’s fast, but my reactions are better. Gentle push back deep into the court. He moves onto it, a bit sluggish. His short legs look stocky in white shorts. Sinews bend and brace as he slugs it back at me. I hear the poc. The ball is back now, to my left, and I have to adjust – fast – onto my backhand, but I don’t have time to arrange my feet and the shot falls short and dies in a pathetic ripple across the net. In my head I’m playing like one of the great artists of the game – a Federer – but my shots keep failing me. My hands can’t stroke the ball like he does – the way they do.
“Man, you need to work on your ball control.”
He hits in another serve. An ace. My feet feel like clay. So much for speed. I’m sweating, too much, and I’m short of breath.
One more serve and I swing my racket and – there, my eyes are shut, but just, just, there, the sound moves differently and the ball is cushioned in my racket, P-O-C – and the returns sweeps off the strings in a smooth, low motion, bounces off the white chalk of the furthest byline. He moves, like a dove, and brings the ball back into play – somehow. It bounces in the centre of the court, but I’m too far away and it’s gone well before I can react.
“You know, when your mother asked me to coach you, I thought you’d at least try to get better. Listen once in a while.”
“I’m trying my best. But all this crap about equations, angles, lines. It’s about who can hit it hardest.”
He lowers in another serve. My return goes long.
“It’s all about the math, man. Hit the ball right and it’ll come good. Trust me. Tennis isn’t like football. Tennis isn’t an art. Tennis is science.”
The match ends 6-1, 6-0, 6-1. I’m at the receiving end.
I’m tired, physically exhausted and down. James looks absolutely pristine.
“You’ll get there, man,” he says as he turns to me. “Just watch more tennis. Read some Foster Wallace. Do some algebra for Christ’s sake. You’ll get there.”
And I watch him walk off ahead of me toward the early Surrey sun, as his silhouette burns away amongst the golden rays and the birds take off by my feet and for some reason, I begin to cry.
David Whelan is a fiction writer, some-times-journalist and student. His fiction is available at 3:AM Magazine, Shortfire Press, Cellstories, Marco Polo Quarterly, Deadman's Tome, SNM Horror Magazine, Pulp Metal Magazine and Tengen Magazine. He's written about tennis and golf for The Guardian newspaper and on football/soccer for The Equalizer and My Favourite Player.
