Ginny stood in front of the stands and leaned forward. “Just remember, he’s hot and miserable, too. Look at him.”
Steve glanced at Charlie, who sat with his shoulders hunched forward and a towel over his head. His ugly shirt was dripping. When he removed the towel, Charlie’s face was flushed and shiny with sweat, and his hair was plastered down. Ginny was right: Charlie looked just like he felt.
He looked up into the stands, where his father was talking to the man in the next seat, pointing in Steve’s direction. The man nodded but said nothing, and his expression never changed.
I have to win this, Steve thought. I can’t disappoint Dad. He stood up and walked to the baseline, twirling his racket, trying to psych himself up. I can beat Charlie, he told himself. He must feel about as bad as I do. I just have to get the momentum back.
He set himself for Charlie’s serve, bouncing lightly on his toes. Charlie smashed the ball, which hit the top of the net …
“Let!” called an official.
… and bounced back on Charlie’s side.
“Fault!” called the umpire.
Steve moved in a few steps, knowing Charlie tended to be cautious with his second serve. He was right. He returned the serve with a hard cross-court shot, racing toward the net as he did so. Charlie’s return was weak and Steve hit a volley that Charlie just missed returning.
It was love—fifteen.
Charlie followed his next serve to the net, but Steve hit a high lob that forced him to retreat to the baseline. Both players remained on the baseline, smashing groundstrokes and waiting for the other to make a mistake. Charlie won the point when Steve mis-hit a shot that went wide.
Then Charlie double-faulted, making the score fifteen—thirty. It looked to Steve as if Charlie was tiring fast.
On the next point Steve tested him. He moved him from side to side with well-placed strokes, then rushed the net for a beautiful overhead smash to Charlie’s backhand. Charlie couldn’t return it and Steve led, fifteen—forty.
When Charlie charged the net on his next serve, Steve hit a perfect shot down the line that Charlie’s desperate lunge didn’t reach. Game to Greeley. He had broken Charlie and the set was tied, four games apiece.
Over the applause of the crowd, Steve heard his father’s shrill, approving whistle. He grinned up at him, and Ginny gave him a big smile.
Steve took the next game without Charlie getting a point and pulled ahead in the match, five—four.
If I win the next one, the set is mine, Steve thought as he waited for Charlie’s first serve. Then I just have to win six more games and I can call it a day.
Charlie bounced the ball a few times, then socked a solid serve down the line. He tried to come to the net, but Steve forced him back with a lob and kept him there by smashing his next two returns to the baseline.
When Charlie stumbled after the second return, Steve hit a soft drop shot that barely cleared the net. Charlie rushed forward but couldn’t reach the ball. The score was love—fifteen.
Charlie took a lot of time before his next serve, trying to get his breath and his energy back. But his first serve went into the net for a fault, and Steve put the easy second serve away with a cross-court backhand into the corner. Steve thought Charlie looked beat, mentally and physically.
But he was wrong. Charlie surprised Steve with a sliced serve that spun away from him into the corner for an ace. He wasn’t finished yet, obviously.
The score was fifteen—thirty. Steve wanted to finish the set quickly, ideally by breaking Charlie again, right now.
Charlie hit a serve straight at Steve, apparently hoping that Steve wouldn’t react fast enough to return effectively. Steve jumped to his left and hit a forehand that nicked the top of the net. Charlie was caught leaning in the wrong direction and couldn’t get to it.
Fifteen—forty. Steve now had three chances to take the set point, the point that would win him the first set. Then Charlie hit a topspin serve that took an extralong bounce. Steve mis-hit it, bringing the score to thirty—forty. But Steve still had one more chance to score the winning point.
This time, when Charlie tried the same kind of serve, it landed outside the service box for a fault. On the second serve, Charlie played it cautious.
Steve smashed a return that forced Charlie back behind the baseline. Charlie returned it right where Steve had hoped he would. It was in a perfect position for him to put it away in the opposite corner, far out of Charlie’s reach.
“Game and set, Greeley,” the umpire called. “He leads one set to none.”
The players could now go to the air-conditioned locker room, towel off, put on dry shirts, and take a short rest. Sitting down and taking deep breaths, Steve decided that he was in control now. Charlie had seemed to fold under pressure in their past matches, and he would again. Steve wouldn’t have to work as hard in the next set. He hoped.
5
Hey, Champ!” Steve looked up to find his father peeking in at him around the locker room door. Mt Greeley came over and punched his son lightly on the arm. “You had me worried there for a minute,” he said quietly. He squatted down facing Steve and kept his voice to a whisper so Charlie wouldn’t overhear him.
“Now let’s see you kick it into overdrive for the second set. You have him on the ropes. Don’t let him get back into the match. I know you can do it.” He stood up and looked down at his son. “Right?”
Steve smiled and nodded. Kick it into overdrive, he thought. It’s easy for you to say, you’re not out there broiling on the court.
“I’ll do my best,” he assured his father, who smiled and left the room.
An official came in to get the boys. “Okay, guys,” he said, “time to go. You two feel all right? No problems with the heat?”
Steve and Charlie exchanged a glance and a tired smile.
“What heat?” asked Charlie.
“Never felt better,” said Steve.
The official chuckled. “That’s the spirit.”
Back on the court, Steve could swear that it had gotten even hotter. The people in the bleachers were waving their programs like fans. They were too hot to applaud the players as they reached the court, except for Ginny and Mr. Greeley, who clapped and whistled. Only the mysterious stranger beside his father looked cool and calm behind his mirrored shades.
Since Charlie had served the previous game, Steve served to open the second set. Wanting to conserve his energy, he stayed behind the baseline instead of charging the net. Charlie was content to stay back, too. The game went on and on as the boys stroked the ball back and forth. Finally, Steve won the game when Charlie’s attempted passing shot went wide.
Charlie won the second game, although Steve thought he might have been able to, if he had been willing to chase every ball and fight hard for every point — which he wasn’t.
Charlie must have gotten a second wind, fueled by winning that game, because he suddenly began to play more energetically, coming to the net to volley and racing after Steve’s attempts at passing shots. He broke Steve’s serve to go ahead two games to one.
Sitting and toweling off before switching to the other end of the court, Steve concentrated on psyching himself up and finding the energy he needed to come back and win the match. He didn’t look forward to facing his father if he lost. That, more than the possibility of losing, was what he wanted to avoid. Even having to go three sets to win would upset his dad. Got to win this set somehow, he told himself. Got to.
Charlie seemed to be feeling the heat again and started missing first serves. Steve took two quick points by coming in on the soft second serves and slamming passing shots out of Charlie’s reach. A double fault by Charlie made it love—forty.
Charlie finally got a first serve into the box and charged the net. Steve forced him back with a lob and raced after Charlie’s overhand smash, making the return with a desperate dive. Charlie netted his forehand return, and Steve had broken back to tie the set at two games apiece.
&n
bsp; That shot was the turning point. Steve held his own serve, bringing the score to three games to two. Then Charlie lost his cool, even losing a point on a foot fault. Steve took that game to go up by four games to two. Three games later, he’d won the set six—three to take the match.
He took a deep breath and went to the net to shake hands with his opponent, and the two boys walked off, hot and tired. The remaining crowd seemed to be more interested in finding some shade than in applauding, except for Ginny.
Mr. Greeley came down to meet Steve as he was toweling himself off. Steve looked up, hoping to get congratulations on the win, but his father just frowned.
“You have to work on that killer instinct, son. You almost let him off the hook there. I don’t think you showed a lot of ‘want-to’ today. Also, you should have anticipated some of his moves, especially in the second set. I have some notes for you, some stuff we have to work on, but we can save that for tonight, after dinner. Right now, there’s someone I want you to meet. Come on.”
As his dad turned and walked away, Steve stared after him for a moment.
Even when I win, he thought, I can’t win.
6
Ginny ran up to her brother as he slowly walked toward the locker room. “All right!” she yelled, giving him a whack on the arm. “Way to go!”
Steve sighed. “Thanks, but I wish Dad felt that way. He says I don’t have the ‘killer instinct.’”
Ginny shook her head and turned to look at their father as he joined the mysterious stranger in the stands. “He doesn’t make it easy on you.”
“Hey, I didn’t congratulate you,” Steve said. “You looked tough out there today. What was the final score?”
“Six—two, six—zero,” Ginny replied, trying to sound casual but looking delighted by the result.
Steve whistled. “All right, Gin! Awesome! Uh, sorry we didn’t stay till the end, but …”
Ginny held up her hands. “Don’t tell me, I know. You had to take an hour ’getting ready’ for your match.” Her face took on a wistful look. “I wish Dad would give me that kind of attention.”
She brightened. “You know who the guy is with Dad, by the way?”
“He didn’t say. Who is he?”
Ginny smiled. “I’ll let Dad tell you. He’s the surprise he was telling you about before.”
Steve’s face fell. “He’s the surprise? I was hoping for a CD player.”
Ginny laughed. “This is better than a CD player any day. Go on, they’re waiting for you in the locker room.”
Steve felt too hot, tired, and discouraged to take any satisfaction in knowing that he had beaten Charlie Silver and would advance to the semifinals. Then, on his way to the locker room, he saw someone who made his mood lighten. It was his buddy Pat Carbo.
“Hey, awesome match!” Pat yelled. After Ginny, Pat was Steve’s biggest supporter.
Pat and Steve had learned the game of tennis together, when they were eight years old. Steve’s father had taught them himself, setting up a rigorous schedule of practices. Pat had stuck with it for a summer but then bowed out when he realized he liked soccer much better.
The rigorous practices had continued for Steve, however. He’d been a little lonely at first, but then Ginny had started playing, too. Mr. Greeley had been reluctant for her to join in, but Mrs. Greeley had insisted.
So now, three times a week for two hours at a time, Mr. Greeley worked with his children on forehands, backhands, volleys, serves, and lobs. He coached them on ways to draw opponents out of position. He taught them where to aim the ball to bounce to make it impossible for an opponent to return. He showed them the tricks a ball could do with just a bit of spin applied by the racket.
Steve couldn’t imagine his life without tennis, but sometimes he wished his father didn’t work him so hard. Still, hard work paid off — he’d just won the quarterfinals, hadn’t he?
“Thanks, Pat,” Steve said now, smiling. “Listen, my dad’s waiting to talk to me. I’ll catch up to you later, okay? Maybe we can go for ice cream or something.”
“You got it, Ace,” Pat said, shooting a finger at him.
Steve walked into the locker room, where his father stood with the stranger from the stands. Mr. Greeley was talking earnestly to this man, who, Steve noted, still wore his mirrored shades.
“Here he is now,” his father said, turning and gesturing to his son.
He looks nervous, Steve thought. Who is this guy?
“Vince, this is my boy, Steve. Steve, I want you to meet Vince Marino. The Vince Marino.”
Steve knew the name and suddenly understood why his dad was so excited. Vince Marino ran a famous tennis school and camp in Florida. He had developed some of the top pros in the game. His dad had shown him a magazine article about Vince, with pictures of some of Vince’s past students. A few had won major titles: the U.S. Open, Wimbledon, the French Open, and so on.
Vince took off his sunglasses, smiled, and stuck out his hand. When Steve shook it, he found that the hand was strong and callused. Coming from Florida as he did perhaps explained why he hadn’t been sweating in this heat.
“Congratulations, Steve,” Mr. Marino said. His voice was low-pitched, and he seemed to radiate energy. “I was impressed with the way you bore down when the crunch was on.”
“Thanks,” Steve muttered, feeling self-conscious. This guy had trained some greats.
“I can see that you inherited your dad’s talent,” Mr. Marino continued. “Did your dad tell you we went to college together? Ted was our number one player, and I was number four. You should have seen him back then. He really had the goods.”
Steve’s father jumped in quickly. “You know about Vince’s training center, Steve. If someone does well working with Vince, it’s practically a ticket to the pro tour — Vince makes careers.”
“Sure,” Steve said. “I read about you, Mr. Marino. It sounds pretty awesome, your camp.”
Mr. Marino smiled again. “Your father has been bending my ear about you for years now, but I hadn’t been able to come see you compete until now. Looks to me like you have a lot of potential.”
“Even if you gave Charlie more of a chance than you should have,” Mr. Greeley added hastily. “I figured you’d romp today, son. What happened?”
What happened? Steve thought. What happened was, I won in straight sets even though it was a hundred degrees out there. But that’s not good enough for you, is it?
“Well, we’ll work on a few things later,” his father went on. “I’ve been telling Vince that you’d be a great candidate for his summer training program. What would you think about going down to Florida this summer?”
“Whoa,” Mr. Marino said, holding up his hand as if he were directing traffic. “Let’s not rush things. It’s not a done deal yet, Steve. I’m going to watch your semifinal tomorrow, and I also need to talk to you and your parents for a while before anything is definite. But I will say this: I have a couple of openings, and you’re certainly in the running — probably a front runner.”
Steve blinked. Go to Florida and play tennis all summer? Did he really want that? “Uh … thanks, Mr. Marino, that sounds …”
“Call me Vince from now on,” said the coach, patting Steve on the shoulder. “After the buildup Ted has given me, I feel like I’ve known you for years. The thing you need to consider, very carefully, is this: Do you want to commit yourself to my camp?”
Steve’s father stared at his old friend in disbelief. “Does he want to? Are you kidding? Why should that even come up? It’s the chance of a lifetime! Of course he wants to!”
But Vince was now focusing on Steve. “You enjoy tennis, Steve, I know that. But how important is it to you? Is it just a game you’re good at and have fun with? Or is it something you want to excel at, no matter what? That’s what I want you to think about for the next few days.”
He looked Steve in the eye.
“Because if you don’t care enough about tennis to live, eat, drink, and dream
about it for a long time, maybe my place isn’t for you. You’re a nice young man, and your dad and I go way back. But you’d better be ready to work your tail off if you come down to Florida.”
Vince counted off on his fingers. “At the summer camp, you’ll be expected to work at least six hours a day, six days a week. You’ll work at building up your stamina and strength. You’ll practice every part of the game — service, return of service, volleying, ground strokes, half-volley, the works — until you can do it all in your sleep. This is not your fun-and-games summer camp; it’s more like boot camp for tennis rookies. See what I mean?”
“He can do whatever you ask of him,” Mr. Greeley insisted. “Don’t you worry about that. I know my son.”
But Steve had listened to Vince describe the program with mounting anxiety. Now that school was out, he’d been looking forward to kicking back and having fun with Pat and his other friends: going to the beach, catching all the cool summer movies, hanging out at the mall with his buddies … and playing some tennis, too, but just for fun. Doing nothing but working on tennis sounded more like going to school, but without any variety. How much did tennis matter to him?
Not as much as it mattered to his dad, for sure. His dad would feel awful if Steve simply turned down this chance. And maybe he didn’t want to turn it down. Maybe the camp would turn out to be fantastic. Ginny would think it was fantastic. Right now, he didn’t know how to answer Vince.
There was a long silence, during which his father stared at him, looking upset.
Finally, Steve managed to stammer a reply. “That’s … it sounds really … amazing, Mr. — Vince. I guess I’ll think about it real hard.”
Vince nodded. “Good. You do that. I think you have the physical skills and talent to be a fine tennis player. But it takes more than that. You have to want it, bad. And you’re really the only one who knows for sure if you do.”
Steve and his father joined Vince as he headed outside. As Vince came through the door, he almost ran over Ginny, who was waiting just outside.
Tennis Ace Page 2