The Pigeon With the Tennis Elbow

by Matt Christopher

He offered up the serve and drove the ball high over Ginnie's head. It landed way behind the line.

  “You didn't come down with your racket!” Ginnie cried as she ran after it.

  He tried again. This time the ball struck the top of the net, dropping on his side. “Two faults in a row,” he said gloomily. “I'm doing just great, teacher.”

  “You're trying too hard,” she told him.

  His next serve was good. But out of the next five tries three were out of bounds. Disgusted with himself, he collapsed on the court, then rolled over on his back. He didn't even try to catch the ball that Ginnie returned to him.

  “Something wrong, Kev?” Ginnie asked.

  “Yeah,” he said. “I'm sorry I ever let you talk me into playing this crazy game.”

  “Crazy game?” She came toward him, her eyes flashing fireworks. “Just because you haven't got the guts to learn the game well you call tennis a crazy game? Well, let me tell you something, Kevin Richard O'Toole. I think you're just saying that. You don't mean it, because you once told me that you love the game. But if that's the way you feel, that's the way you will feel about anything else you'll ever do with your life!”

  With that she spun on her heels, her short blue skirt swirling about her slim body, and stamped off the court toward home. He followed her and when they got to their backyard, he heard her footsteps pounding up the porch steps, followed by a hard banging of the screen door.

  He didn't blink an eye, but he stared up at the huge white clouds that drifted across the blue sky like a herd of giant elephants. What Ginnie had said hurt. But she was wrong, darn it. Dead wrong. He would amount to something when he grew up, no matter what career he chose.

  A shadow flickered across his face. Then he saw a pigeon flying not too far above him. It swept around in a wide circle, then came gliding down toward him, wings spread out wide and its legs down like the landing gear of an airplane.

  Kevin stared at it. It was the same pigeon that had been at the tennis match! The same that had flown by him and Ginnie on their way home! What was the feathered little cuss up to, anyway?

  The pigeon landed, closed its wings about its plump body and started to walk toward Kevin, its tail jerking back and forth with each step.

  Kevin sat up, hardly believing what he saw. This bird really had nerve! What is there about me that attracts me to him, anyway? he thought. Hey, bird, you're out of your cotton-pickin' mind. I'm no pigeon. Can't you tell?

  “Don't run, or scream, or do anything crazy. All right?”

  Kevin's eyes almost popped out of his head. The words seemed to come out of the pigeon. But that was, of course, absurd. To find out who had spoken, he looked to one side, and then the other. There was no one else around.

  He looked back at the pigeon.

  “Keep your cool, Kevie,” went on the pigeon. “And for Pete's sake don't faint. Promise?”

  His heart beating like a drum, Kevin nodded. “I — I promise,” he whispered.

  The pigeon came to within an arm's length of Kevin and stopped. “I'm your great-great uncle, Rickard O'Toole,” explained the pigeon seriously. “But call me Charlie. I hate that ridiculous name Rickard.”

  Kevin felt his skin crawl. “How — how can you be? You — you're a pigeon.”

  Charlie laughed. “I've been given another life. You know, reincarnated, boy. And I'm darn lucky. I might have come back into this world as a rat, you know. Or a skunk. A skunk! Ugh!” He chuckled then, his eyes brightening up with mischievous pleasure. “Now that would have been something, wouldn't it? I'd have a ball, especially with that Murphy family.”

  “Why that Murphy family?” asked Kevin, still not recovered from his first shock of meeting a talking pigeon.

  “Why? You should ask,” said Charlie. “I know this is news to you, but you are not the only one who doesn't like a Murphy.”

  “How do you know that?” said Kevin, staring at Charlie. “Anyway, it isn't that I don't try to like Roger. For some crazy reason he doesn't like me.”

  Charlie's eyes glinted. “You know why he doesn't? I'll tell you why. It's in the blood. It's like the old feud between the Hatfields and the McCoys. The Murphys and the O'Tooles hadn't got along with each other in a hundred and fifty years, ever since one of them Murphy guys stole a wagonload of wine from the O'Tooles.”

  “I never heard of that,” said Kevin, surprised.

  “Well, I've met quite a lot of old-timers since I've started this new life,” said Charlie, “and that's what they tell me. Of course, some of them insist that it was the O'Tooles who stole the wagonload from the Murphys, but those who said that were Murphy confederates. Naturally they'd say that.”

  He paused, and Kevin let a grin spread over his face. Naturally, he thought, and almost said, Charlie, you must have been a real card when you were Uncle Richard O'Toole!

  “You're playing Roger on Friday, right?” said Charlie.

  “Right,” answered Kevin.

  “Well, that's why I'm here,” Charlie explained, settling comfortably on the ground with his legs under him. “Did your father ever tell you that I was almost a Wimbledon champion?”

  “Why, yes. Yes, he did,” Kevin said, suddenly remembering. There were a few other things that his father had told Kevin about his Great-Great Uncle Rickard too, but Kevin thought it was wise not to bring them up now.

  “I was knocking down my opponents like a bowling ball knocks down tenpins,” Charlie said. “Then I got it, but bad.”

  “Got what?” asked Kevin.

  “Tennis elbow,” said Charlie. “It finished me completely. And in those days there was nothing that would cure it. I was finished. I know I would have won at Wimbledon if that hadn't happened.” He jerked his head to the left and riveted his right eye on Kevin so hard that Kevin thought he was going to be hypnotized. “That's what you must watch out for, Kevie. Tennis elbow. It could ruin your playing tennis forever.”

  “But there is a cure for that now, isn't there, Uncle Rickard?” The instant he spoke he realized how ridiculous it sounded. Calling a pigeon Uncle Rickard. Anybody who might have heard him would think he had lost his marbles.

  “Charlie” said Charlie seriously. “Call me Charlie. Never Uncle Rickard. And never Uncle Charlie. Just Charlie. O.K.?”

  “O.K. — Charlie.”

  “That's better.” Charlie cleared his throat. “Sure there's a cure. But the old arm won't ever be the same again, and neither will you. You'll always worry about it, wondering if it will happen again. Keep it in mind, but now let's get down to business. Your sister, Ginnie, has been trying to teach you to play better tennis, and I commend her for that. She's a good, smart kid, Ginnie is. But she's got a lot to learn about the game, herself. Maybe, after I get through teaching you, you can give her a tip or two.”

  “Huh!” said Kevin. “That would be something.”

  “Of course it would. But don't be surprised. You will be teaching her if you'll listen to me. First off —”

  Just then Kevin heard the squeak of the screen door hinges, and then the sound of Ginnie's footsteps coming down the porch steps.

  “Oh-oh,” said Charlie. “Here she comes. She was angry before so I'd better split. Don't say a word to her about me, O.K.? I don't want anybody to know about me except you. Promise?”

  “I promise,” said Kevin.

  “Good.” Charlie rose to his feet, spread his wings and took off, the tip of his left wing barely brushing against Kevin's face as he flew by.

  4

  WASN'T THAT OUR PIGEON? I mean the one that's been pestering us?” said Ginnie, as she handed Kevin one of the two glasses of lemonade she had brought out.

  “Yes, it was,” said Kevin, and found it hard not to tell her who the pigeon really was. He still couldn't believe it. Reincarnation? He had thought that stuff — about somebody dying and returning to life in another form — was a lot of baloney. Charlie certainly proved that it wasn't.

  “It seems to have taken to you,” Ginnie o
bserved. “I've never seen anything like it in my life.”

  “That's for sure,” said Kevin, and took a couple of swallows of the lemonade.

  “Want to play some more?” he asked as he emptied his glass and put it aside.

  “I beg your pardon?” Ginnie's eyebrows shot up like a sprung shade. “Are you asking me if I want to play some more?”

  “Foolish question, right?”

  “You know it!” she cried. Quickly emptying her glass, she put it beside Kevin's, picked up her racket and the two tennis balls, then rested the head of the racket on the ground.

  “Call it,” she said.

  “Rough side up,” said Kevin.

  She spun the racket. It slowed down, wobbled, and fell with the knotted strings side up.

  They got on their bikes and rode quickly to the court. Luckily it was empty. “I'll take the north court,” said Kevin. “The wind'll be at my back!”

  They went to their respective places. Ginnie tossed up a ball and batted it across the net in a hard, solid drive. Kevin lobbed it back, placing it almost out of bounds to Ginnie's left side. Sprinting after it, she slammed it back. Then they rallied the ball back and forth for almost half a minute before Ginnie gave the ball a smashing blow that drove it past Kevin for a point.

  A voice yelled, “Nice shot, Gin! Maybe I should be playing you! I'd hate to skunk your brother!”

  Kevin looked around at the speaker, Tommy Smith. With Tommy were Roger Murphy and Rusty Maxwell, the latter two grinning as if Tommy had said something funny.

  “I'm scheduled to play Roger, not you,” said Kevin.

  “Well, ol' kid,” Roger broke in, smiling crookedly, “the schedule has been changed. You're playing Tommy on Friday, and I'm playing Fats Monroe.”

  Kevin frowned. “Who said so?”

  “Ben did. Fats is going on a vacation Saturday, the day he and I were scheduled to play.”

  “What happens if Tommy beats me?” Kevin asked.

  “He plays Chuck Eagan on Wednesday. If you win, you play Chuck. The winner of that match plays the winner of the Murphy-Monroe match next Saturday.” Roger chuckled. “Fats hasn't beat me yet, Kev. Heck, if you lose to Tommy, and you really want to play me, just name the day and the hour. I'm ready, anytime.”

  Kevin felt it difficult to keep his cool. “I'll let you know,” he said.

  He looked across the court and saw Ginnie coming around the end of the net, wiping the sweat off her forehead. “I'm pooped,” she said. “Let's quit.”

  He didn't think she was that tired. She was just saying that as an excuse to get rid of the guys.

  Whether Tommy Smith read the implication in her statement or not, Kevin couldn't tell. But it sounded like it as the tall, blond boy ran a hand through his hair and grinned. “Come on, guys,” he said. “We don't want to miss that movie.”

  The boys left, and Kevin looked at his sister. “O.K. with you if we really quit? I just don't feel like playing anymore.”

  She shrugged. “I don't either,” she admitted.

  Ben Switzer called about half an hour later, informing Kevin of the schedule change. “So you'll be playing Tommy Smith on Friday, Kevin,” he explained. “Be there promptly at one-thirty. O.K.?”

  “O.K.,” said Kevin.

  It drizzled on Friday morning. By noon the clouds cleared away, the sun came out and the high humidity made the day hot and sticky. The small crowd that attended the match gave the boys a hand as Ben Switzer introduced them.

  Kevin's mother and sister were sitting in the stands. He was disappointed that his father, an appliance repairman, had to work and couldn't be there. Both his mother and father played tennis, and sometimes joined in a doubles match with Kevin and Ginnie. He'd have to win today, and hope that his father could be there tomorrow.

  Kevin won the spin and chose the north court instead of the chance to serve.

  Tommy called, “Ready?”

  “Ready!” replied Kevin.

  Tommy tossed up a ball and belted it. Thunk! It curved out of bounds.

  His next serve was just inside the sideline. Kevin slammed it back, driving it diagonally across the court to Tommy's right side. Tommy returned it straight across the net, forcing Kevin to bolt after it. He met the ball three-quarters of the way behind the net, swung and sliced it off to the left. He winced as he heard the crowd murmur. They were probably talking about how poorly he was playing.

  “Fifteen-love!” sounded Ben Switzer's voice over a loudspeaker.

  Tommy scored the next point too, belting a shot out of Kevin's reach. 30-love. He went on to win, twice earning points on Kevin's misplays.

  He won the second game also.

  What's the matter with me? Kevin asked himself. I just cant seem to get going. What will the crowd think?

  Just before Tommy began his first serve of the third game Kevin heard a soft flutter of wings. He looked up and saw Charlie diving low over the court, then zooming up and settling comfortably on a post, the same post he had perched on the other day.

  Charlie winked at him and Kevin winked back. Maybe this was what he needed. Charlie.

  Kevin scored on Tommy's first serve, got ahead of Tommy, and stayed ahead until the score was love-40. Then Tommy began to score and worked it up to a deuce game.

  Kevin felt the life drizzle out of him. Sweat glistened on his face, but he was more anxious than tired.

  “Buck up, boy,” said Charlie. “You can't give up now.”

  The sound of Charlie's voice lifted Kevin's spirits a few notches. Tommy dealt a good serve, then rushed the net. Kevin hit the ball back, a soft shot that arced over the center of the net. Tommy returned it, and Kevin met it with a smashing blow that Tommy had no chance in the world to touch. Advantage Kevin.

  “Attaboy,” said Charlie.

  Not so loud! Kevin wanted to yell at him.

  Kevin took the next point to win the game. As he started off the court for the one-minute rest, Charlie glided down to him and stopped at his feet.

  “Get down here,” said Charlie. “Stroke my head as if I'm your pet or something.”

  Kevin did so, even though he felt foolish about it.

  “Your problem is you, Kevie,” said Charlie. “Instead of concentrating on the game, you're thinking about what the spectators are thinking of you. What they think if you make an error, and so on and so on. My boy, you've got to get your cotton-pickin' mind off that crowd and start concentrating on the game. You've got to watch that ball closely all the time and try to make your returns sure-fire. You can do that only by meeting the ball squarely and hitting it a little easier. Aim it where your opponent ain't. Get what I mean?”

  “You're right about concentration, Charlie,” admitted Kevin. “I just can't do it.”

  “You've got to do it, Kevie,” Charlie said, jerking his head from one side to the other in order to look up at Kevin with both eyes. “That's number one in tennis. Without it you might as well forget it and take up tiddly-winks. And I'd hate to see you do that. I want you to play that Murphy kid and beat his britches off!”

  “I'll do my best, Charlie.”

  “Hey, Kev!” yelled a voice Kevin recognized as Roger Murphy's. “What's with you and the pigeon?”

  “Wouldn't he like to know,” said Charlie. He winked at Kevin and took off, flying back up to his perch on the post.

  5

  KEVIN TRIED TO FOLLOW Charlie's advice as the fourth game of the first set got under way. He kept his eye on the ball as Tommy returned his serve, a sharp drive that headed straight for the baseline.

  He waited, breathless. It struck just inside the line, and Kevin swung. Off balance, he met the ball with the throat of the racket, sending it dribbling toward the net. Darn! he thought angrily. A point for Tommy.

  Kevin's next serve hit the net. He followed it up with a good one that Tommy returned without trouble. Then they stroked the ball back and forth, Kevin concentrating mainly on getting the ball back over the net as Charlie had advised, an
d not about what the fans might think of him if he made an error.

  It wasn't easy, though. You can't change bad habits in one game, or in one set, or even in a dozen sets.

  Then Tommy returned a ball that had bounced just inside his left sideline, and started to walk back toward the center of the court. Kevin, seeing his opportunity telegraphed to him, socked the ball hard to Tommy's opposite corner. Tommy sprinted after it but couldn't get within a mile of it. Kevin's point. 15–15.

  Kevin also scored the next two points. Then Tommy scored by luck, the ball striking the top of the net and dropping over on Kevin's side. 40–30.

  A minute later Kevin blasted the ball to Tommy's left side so that Tommy had to return with a backhand shot. The ball sliced out of bounds and Kevin won. The set was 2-all now.

  Tommy started off cautiously in the fifth game, taking the first three points. Kevin wiped the sweat from his forehead as he shot a glance up at Charlie resting on top of the post. He saw Charlie jerk his head from side to side, then thought he heard Charlie say, “Be the aggressor, boy. Wear him down.”

  Sounds O.K., Charlie. But what if I wear down first?

  He returned Tommy's serve beautifully. Tommy returned his just as beautifully. Then Kevin belted the ball a solid blow, bringing up his racket as he struck to give the sphere a topspin.

  The stroke worked. The ball shot over the net and bounced so sharply past Tommy that he wasn't able to touch it. Four more points on hard drives gave Kevin the game and put him in the lead, 3 games to 2.

  It was his turn to serve now, and he got a fault on his first try. The next was almost outside, hitting the sideline for a score that was pure luck. Tommy swung too late at it, apparently thinking that it might hit outside the line. 15-love.

  “Pretty lucky, O'Toole,” Roger Murphy said, just loud enough for Kevin to hear.

  Kevin failed again to get his first serve right. His second was better. Tommy returned it, and for half a dozen strokes the boys played errorless ball.

  Then Kevin saw his chance to be aggressive again, and blasted the ball to the corner behind Tommy. 30-love.