Match Maker

by Alan Chin

  I reached over and shook his hand, noticing his long, slender fingers with the polished nails. “Thank you,” I said. “You almost had us. Better luck next time.”

  Puzzlement spread across his features, and he mumbled, “I’ll bet you a hundred bucks that I don’t see you at Wimbledon.” He smirked, showing he had something up his sleeve.

  I shook my head. “I’m quite certain that you’re right.” I stopped myself from saying more, telling myself not to gloat, to stay humble, and I did.

  In the next moment, a crackling sound came over the loud speakers and the announcer introduced the players. Out walked Jared, his bag slung over one shoulder, his arm raised and waving to the crowd. Connor sauntered right behind him in the same posture. The cheers were deafening and continued until they had reached their seats and unzipped their bags. As the roar subsided, a dozen gay men near the top of the stadium started to sing in clear, strong voices.

  “We are family.”

  As their voices rose in volume, others around them jumped to their feet and joined in.

  “I got all my sisters with me.”

  Soon, hundreds, then thousands were standing and singing and stomping their feet to the rhythm. The officials simply stared into the stands, waiting patiently for it to end. They had never seen anything like this happen in a tennis stadium, and they stood bewildered. What they didn’t know, and what I was sure of, was that it would never end.

  On and on the song went, growing louder and stronger, until every gay man had joined in.

  I thought, Let the game begin.

  Epilogue

  BENEATH a scrim of clouds on a mid-August morning, I wheel myself onto Louis Armstrong Stadium in Flushing Meadows, New York. My tennis bag sits precariously on my lap, and my opponent glides in right behind me. A cheer goes up from the four-dozen fans in the bleachers. The clapping echoes in this nearly empty stadium, and the sounds wash over me. When I see people standing to cheer, a tingling sensation rushes through my head. My eyes burn and my mouth goes dry, but I check myself, drawing my thoughts back to my game plan and the match I’m about to play.

  It is the second Sunday of the US Open tennis tournament, and I am about to play my fifth and final round in the US Open’s wheelchair division championships. One more match, one more night, and Jared and I will fly back to our villa on the Mediterranean.

  Happily, Jared is not here to cheer me on. I say happily because he is across the courtyard at Arthur Ashe Stadium, preparing to play in the Men’s singles final against the world number two, Christopher Drake.

  I glance up into the stands and see Spencer and Harman sitting side by side next to Carrie. Connor and Shar sit directly above them, and little Lincoln Lin sleeps in Connor’s arms. J.D. Lambert sits beside them with his wife and two daughters. I smile to think that he’s finally forgiven Connor.

  Someone else catches my eye. To my surprise, in the row above J.D. Lambert’s family, stand my mother and father. Both are clapping their hands and smiling. This will be the first professional match my parents will see me play. I feel something the size of a fist grow inside my chest. It presses against my heart. All their voices are rising now, blending together in one booming cheer.

  For the past year, I have not only coached Jared to two Grand Slam championships, I have also put my body, my pain, my blood and sweat onto the court to compete with other wheelchair athletes. The work has been hard, and the wins have only recently begun to swing my way, but through all my losses, I have regained my pride as an athlete. It was Grandfather Lin’s story of letting nothing stop you from your dream that has brought me back to compete.

  My specialized chair whispers its way to the left of the umpire’s chair. I love the way it glides. It’s made of titanium and handles like a Lamborghini. I look over at my opponent, Donald James, who is extremely stocky in the upper body and nearly as old as I am. There are over a hundred of us competing on the wheelchair circuit, and the top thirty-two have come here to compete for the $50,000 prize. My opponent is seeded number three.

  In these last minutes before the warm-up, we are both completing our pre-match psych jobs. He looks calm and confident, but I know that is mostly a façade. Underneath he is as sick to his stomach as I am and probably more so. If my butterflies are like winged hippos, his must be dive-bombing elephants. Even men in wheelchairs hate losing to fairies.

  I smile, thinking I will move into the top ten after I whip the pants off him, but I check myself, forcing my mind to refocus on the present. I want to enjoy each moment of this experience and not jump ahead.

  I review the game plan again. My game is still that of the consummate retriever. I work and hustle and bust my butt to get to every ball and send it back over the net, letting my opponent know that I can do that all damn day and to beat me he’s got to out-work, out-hustle, and out-play me on every point for the next three hours. I plan to stretch him to his absolute limits, and I’m hoping he can do the same to me, because how else can we find out what we are capable of?

  Through my forced concentration I hear a rising crescendo of voices, both cheers and boos, giving me a little spike of joy. I glance up and see a few spectators waving rainbow flags, and I realize that many of these fans are here to cheer me on. My excitement mushrooms. I know that thousands of gay fans turned out today, but I assumed they would all be watching Jared play his final.

  I unzip my bag and pull out my favorite racket. A green rubber band holds a white note to the handle. I peel the note off and recognize Jared’s fine script. It says: “Sorry I can’t be there to cheer. Keep your eyes on the ball and your wheels turning. No matter what happens, you’re my champion. And remember what Arthur Ashe said: ‘If it weren’t for the wind in my face, I would never have been able to fly’.”

  As I dip my head, I feel Mike Morrison’s hand on my shoulder. “Are you ready?” he asks.

  “You bet.”

  I glide to the net. Mike tosses the coin and points to me. I call tails, and it is. “I’ll receive,” I tell them. On my way to the baseline, I pat my racket against the palm of my hand to test the string tension. Perfect. Everything is perfect.

  My opponent swings his racket, and I hear that familiar pop of the ball as it hurtles toward me. It comes fast, and I hurry to draw my racket back and strike the ball back over the net. I remind myself that Donald likes to hit with pace. He’s a power player, so be ready. What he doesn’t know is that I love pace: I eat it for breakfast.

  The murmur from the fans spills onto the court. I hear Connor’s voice rise above the noise, and somewhere in the depths of my mind, I send him a silent thank-you. I’ve learned so much more from him than he’s learned from me. I taught him how to compete, but he taught me why we compete. Now I will carry that to my grave. I may never be a champion, but I will always be in the game, and I will know exactly why I’m playing.

  We come to the end of the five-minute warm-up, and Mike Morrison calls, “Time.”

  We take our positions at the baseline. My butterflies have shrunk to a manageable size, but there is a lump in my throat. Donald and I eye each other from across the net.

  He throws the ball high into the air and smashes it on the downfall. It flies directly at me like a bullet. My chair turns, as if by magic, and my racket strikes the ball, sending it back across the net with a wicked slice. The ball drops deep in the court with a little side-spin.

  The game is on.

  About the Author

  ALAN CHIN enjoyed a twenty-year career working his way from computer programmer to Director of Software Engineering, but he lost interest in computer science when he began writing fiction. He walked away from corporate America in 1999 and never looked back. Since then he has traveled to over forty countries, scuba dived the Great Barrier Reef, tracked black rhino in the Serengeti, and dined in most of the capitals of Europe. Oh yes, and he’s published three gay-themed novels and two screenplays.

  In addition to writing, Alan is making a name for himself as a literary
critic for several online publications which include: Examiner.com GLBT Literature column, Queer Magazine Online, and the Lambda Literary web site. In 2007, QBliss magazine awarded their Pride in Literature award to Alan for his debut novel.

  Alan currently spends half of the year traveling the globe and the other half writing at his home in northern California.

  You can visit Alan’s web site at

  http://alanchin.net

  and his writers blog at http://alanchinwriter.blogspot.com.

  You can also e-mail Alan at

  Alanhchin@aol.com.

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