by Bob Mitchell
“…and most of all, I’d like to thank my coach, Ira Spade, for, well, for making me what I am…which is…the Greatest Player of All Time!”
At 3-3, Jack serves ace number thirty-three, takes the second ball out of his shorts and bangs it over the net, nearly hitting Ugo in the hip.
At 3-4, Ugo takes a deep breath and serves a bomb of his own and chalk flies and now we are knotted at four. And after a gorgeously simple service on the sideline and a crisp backhand volley into the open court, Ugo again forges ahead, 5-4.
“‘If a tie is like kissing your sister, losing is like kissing your grandmother, with her teeth out,’” Ira Spade hisses, quoting the words of baseball great George Brett to his son before the match. “Now for your grandmother’s sake, go out there and don’t lose to that sonuvabitch!”
“‘Ma Nino non ha paura di sbagliare un calcio di rigore,’” Giglio quotes to his protégé before the match. “‘But Nino isn’t afraid of missing a penalty kick.’ Remember that line from the Francesco De Gregori song? So, ragazzo, don’t be afraid to be bold, to fail, to take risks when you need to. In the Bible, perhaps the meek shall inherit the earth, but on the tennis court, fortune favors the brave.”
Jack bounces the ball thirteen, fourteen, fifteen times on the baseline before serving, but Ugo refuses to be rattled. Ace number thirty-four is followed by an unbearably brilliant rally, the point ebbing and flowing from defense to transition to attack mode, featuring every conceivable arrow in the players’ quivers—flat, topspin, and sliced groundies cross-court and down the line off both wings, volleys, half volleys, drop shots, drop volleys, bunts, offensive topspin lobs, soft defensive lobs, overhead smashes, moonballs—and ending unexpectedly when Ugo loses his always dependable footing on a slippery patch of brown and Jack, smelling blood, teases Ugo by tapping back a volley just beyond his seated and racquetless opponent’s reach.
“C’mawn!” Jack screams Hewitt-like, emitting a deafening yelp capable of cracking the most well-constructed Riedel wineglass. The howl results from Jack’s certain knowledge that he has finally reached the Promised Land of Promised Lands, championship point, in the Final of Tennis Finals in the Mecca of Tennis Meccas, Centre Court Wimbledon, against the Mother Opponent of Mother Opponents, Ugo Bellezza.
At 5-6, aware that his back is now against the ultimate wall, Ugo hits a cannily thoughtful serve wide to Jack’s forehand, Jack barely gets it back, and Ugo, rushing the net at full speed, calmly knocks off the sitting duck into the open court, evening the tiebreak at 6-6.
Phew.
As they change sides for a second time, Ugo looks up at his box. Mamma Gioconda flashes him that knowing Mona Lisa smile of hers. Coach Giglio mouths the words calcio di rigore to Ugo, whose sculpted face lights up with a smile. True love Antonella blows a sweet kiss at Ugo, whose sculpted face turns a pale pink.
The thirteenth point is a dilly, a hard-fought baseline beaut, a stern test of wills, a marathon affair terminated by a logic-defying, instinctive backhand stab cross-court dying half volley perpetrated by Bellezza, metamorphosing the silent, awed Centre Court caterpillar into a cheering, wildly applauding butterfly.
Ira Spade’s program is now an intricate origami.
Walking back to his ad-court receiving position, Ugo is uttering one word to himself, and that word is sprezzatura!
Preparing to serve, Jack is uttering one word to himself, and that word is sonuvabitch!
Down 6-7 and set point against, Jack Spade holds firm, grits his teeth, and pounds his much-needed thirty-fifth ace.
And it is now 7-7 and Jack is serving and thinking how he is not gonna kiss his goddam grandmother, noway, nohow, and with bullish determination and grit and his howitzer serve he uncorks a doozy and Ugo lunges at it balletically but at 265 kilometers an hour cosa posso fare?, what can I do?, and Jack is once again at championship point and in his mind he is yet again hoisting the golden trophy high in the air and crowing to the crowd how amazing it feels to be the Greatest Player of All Time.
But Ugo Bellezza is not going down without a fight and serves a scorcher of his own smack on the T, and it’s 8-8 and Jack curses and Ugo smiles.
In Jack’s friends’ box, Odi Mondheim is showing Ira a piece of paper he has again removed from his breast pocket. It is a newly negotiated Nike contract good for ten years and worth a cool $2 billion. Ira’s eyes light up and he slaps Odi on the back and shouts out a yahoo of epic proportions and all the Brits around him throw dirty, haughty looks his way and Avis Spade, who has always been by Ira’s side, cringes with mortification.
At 8-8, Ugo serves a crafty slider wide to Jack’s backhand, and Jack has no choice but to throw back a defensive lob, high and deep. The net-rushing Ugo has no choice but to backpedal back, back, back and, sagely letting the ball drop, which it does, plop!, right on the baseline, with chalk flying at his feet, the Florentine genius now has a split-millisecond choice to make, the consequence of which will be either set point for him or, again, championship point for his opponent.
He can hit a forehand drive safely back to the middle of the court. Or, taking a risk, he can go for it and smoke an overhead smash to either side.
Ma Nino non ha paura di sbagliare un calcio di rigore…
With one bold, majestic swipe, Ugo Bellezza smashes an overhead hard and true, sending the ball to the far left-hand corner of Jack’s side of the court. The ball lands on the confluence of baseline and sideline, chalk kicks up, and it is now set point for Ugo.
Sonuvabitch! father Ira and son Jack mutter in unison. Sprezzatura! mentor Giglio and protégé Ugo whisper simultaneously.
At 8-9 in this fourth-set tiebreaker, on this hallowed patch of lawn and in this most drama-laden and historical of all tennis matches, Jack Spade, facing set point and in danger of being forced to a decisive fifth set where there is no tiebreaker, and ultimately of having to kiss his grandmother, bounces the ball on the baseline eighteen, nineteen, twenty times.
Spade’s mammoth lefty first serve whizzes by Bellezza before you can say Goran Ivanisevic but it is a centimeter wide and now Jack prepares for his second serve and in the stands Ira is ripping up what remains of his unrecognizable and tattered program and biting his lip until it bleeds and his left eye is twitching to beat the band and Avis is turning a deeper shade of red and Odi is nervously glancing at the contract in his pocket and on court Jack is having a nightmare in which his grandmother is removing her teeth and putting them in a glass of water and smiling at him and puckering up.
And Jack hooks a spinner wide to Ugo’s backhand and rushes the net like a possessed Tasmanian devil, and he is well past the T in record time and in perfect position and waiting there for the easy sitter volley, but to his dismay Ugo Bellezza the Florentine genius with the body of David and the mind of Leonardo placidly hits a monster backhand, not the kind Jack is expecting and that Ugo has been hitting consistently for nearly four sets from deep in the court, no, not this classic flat backhand passing shot blistering down the line, but instead a backhand with vicious topspin that Jack has not yet seen, not now and not ever, a killer topspin blow struck as if it were hit by some South American clay-court toiler, and Jack, having drifted toward the right sideline, is frozen helplessly in his tracks as the wildly spinning sphere clears the net to his left and bounces past him and the angle is so acute and delicious that the ball does not bounce to the back canvas but instead, unbelievably, hits the umpire’s chair next to the net and dies.
And Ugo Bellezza has now come all the way back from the Jaws of Defeat and the score reads 7-6 (10), 7-6 (10), 6-7 (10), 6-7 (10) and the 13,998 fans are yelling and screaming and clapping in appreciation and well aware of how privileged they are to be witnessing this most titanic struggle of all time and Giglio throws Ugo a wink and Gioconda tosses him that Mona Lisa smile and Antonella blows him a kiss and Avis is sitting there looking nervously at her husband of nearly thirty-three years and shaking her head and going tsk and Odi is closing his eyes and watching two billio
n dollar bills with wings attached to each one flying away into thin air and Ira is muttering sonuvabitch! at his son under his breath and throwing his mangled program to the ground.
And the entire stadium exhales as one and readies itself for the fifth and deciding set, the fifteenth and final round of this titanic heavyweight bout of all heavyweight bouts. The heaviest of punches have been landed by both combatants, and both have picked themselves up repeatedly from the canvas. They have both felt the other out fully, and by now each knows all the weaknesses and strengths of his opponent. They have both battled through adversity, lost their balance, absorbed punches, fought back, and now, inevitably, the struggle is officially going the distance.
Jack Spade is trying like hell to regroup after blowing those two championship points just moments ago, not to mention the fact that he has also blown a two-sets-to-none lead.
Ugo Bellezza is enjoying the moment.
The fifth set, which will once and for all decide everything, is a model of consistency and brilliance, the two players aggressively and easily holding their serves, with no surprises, few errors, and loads of sublime pyrotechnics.
The awed crowd of 13,998, at the edge of their seats for over five hours now, wishes this could go on forever.
So far, their prayers are being answered.
At 7-6, 7-6, 6-7, 6-7, 21-21, deuce, Jack Spade, exhausted but still fighting to the end, has just saved five break points with his trademark ugly grit and returns to the baseline to serve. He bounces the ball eighteen, nineteen, twenty times, but Ugo Bellezza will not be flustered.
Piccoli passi! Ugo whispers under his breath, reminding himself to cut down his stride for maximum efficiency.
“Beat this little Italian sonuvabitch,” Jack mutters under his, parroting the mantra of coach Ira.
And there sits Ira Spade in the friends’ box shouting C’mon! and being shhhhhed by surrounding fans, including his faithful wife, and his left eye is twitching something fierce and he is mangling a new program in his sweaty, pudgy hands and there’s pale Avis Spade by his side with that sempiternally sad look in her eyes and she’s going tsk! again and there’s short, fat, bald, chinless Odi Mondheim looking nervously for the twenty-third time at the ten-year, $2-billion Nike contract and in the row above them is Antonella Cazzaro with her gorgeous periwinkle eyes whispering Ti adoro! to Ugo, who cannot hear her, and next to her there’s Giglio Marotti whispering sprezzatura! to himself and there’s Gioconda Bellezza by Giglio’s side whispering nothing but sitting there contentedly with her Mona Lisa smile.
Jack bounces the ball for the twenty-first time and serves a hummer at 155 mph and Ugo with his Armin Hary reflexes is there in time to return it at the hard-charging American’s feet and Jack hits a brave stab volley but chess grandmaster Ugo has brilliantly anticipated it and counters with a topspin backhand lob that drives Jack back to the baseline and there follows a string of stupendous shots, seventy-eight in all, twenty-six of which are struck with such precision that they land on or clip the lines, and puffs of chalk are flying all over the court, flying from both baselines and both sidelines and both T’s, and every centimeter of this very special 78’ x 27’ rectangular patch of grass is being covered by the two combatants and Ugo clips another line with a forehand cross-court drive right on Jack’s deuce-court sideline but Jack’s racquet says, “You wanna see what a real winner looks like, you sonuvabitch?” and absolutely creams a two-handed backhand down the same sideline and the ball clips the very outside of the line and chalk flies and the 13,998 fans are hushed for a millisecond and then explode.
Jack follows up this classic, protracted point with a blistering ace right smack on the T and now it’s 21-22 and then 31-32 and can you believe it? 41-42 and this is the Big Showdown of All Time and Then Some and mano a mano sporting competition has taken on a whole new meaning and the match has taken on an otherworldly aura and the two combatants have assumed metaphorical, larger-than-life presences.
And now it’s 48-49, with Ugo serving, and Jack is digging deep in his gut and he’s playing as if he had some invisible, powerful force behind him, pushing him forward, and he reels off three unspeakably perfect returns and now Ugo’s in deep merda and down love-forty and looking down the barrel at three more championship points and somehow he, too, digs deep in his gut and now he’s playing as if he had some invisible, powerful force behind him, pushing him forward, and he smokes three unreturnable serves to deadlock it at deuce and he saves two more championship points with his trademark beautiful game and then bling! bling! two more aces at 48-49, deuce, and it’s 49-49, then 56-56, then 69-69, and now it’s 78-78 and the fans are still at the edge of their seats and Ira’s fifth program is fast becoming origami and Avis is still shhhhhing him and Odi takes another peek at the contract and Antonella is whispering words of adoration and Giglio is whispering calcio di rigore! and Gioconda is calmly smiling her Mona Lisa smile.
The fifth and deciding set is in its 157th game—by far the longest set in tennis history—and balls are still clipping lines and chalk is still flying and here we are at deuce and Jack Spade is walking slowly back to the service line and he is exhausted and still fighting like hell and he’s preparing to serve and he bounces the ball once, then five, then ten times and Ugo will not be rattled and…
Something is happening to Jack Spade, something deep from within and unexpected.
And very powerful.
And he stops bouncing the ball and just stands there at the service line, stock-still, and the fans begin to buzz and Ira is muttering holy crap and Jesus H. Christ and is thinking is it a goddam cramp or maybe a stroke? and Jack is feeling all funny inside and it’s like he’s standing at that exact spot where the rain stops and the clear skies begin and he’s about to walk into the sunshine and it’s almost like a switch had just been flicked on inside his gut and now it’s going to be the first minute of the rest of his life and you could call it an epiphany if you like.
And he looks across the net at Ugo Bellezza and is suddenly and truly appreciating, for the first time, the transcendent creativity and grace of Ugo’s tennis. And he is feeling, for the first time truly, compassion for the injustice of Ugo’s not being able to hear and, for the first time truly, he is feeling admiration for the fact that, in spite of this unjust affliction, Ugo is capable of playing such miraculous tennis.
And he is understanding, for the first time truly, the beauty of what he and Ugo are in the act of creating, the two of them in their head-to-head competition, a kind of tennis that has never before been witnessed, and he is understanding that Ugo’s game has elevated his own and has thus created a rivalry for the ages.
And he is thinking du-uh and I was blind but now I see and what he is seeing clearly now is that beyond his blind obsession to win, beyond obeying his father’s every desire and command and demand, there is a meaning to his life that he has never been at liberty to explore and discover.
Until this moment.
Miraculously and for the first time truly, Jack Spade is comprehending that the purpose of it all is for him to become the best Jack Spade he can be.
Bouncing the ball one final time, Jack is feeling all his inculcated and calculated bloodthirstiness, his killer edge, his years of being taught Darwinian tactics by coach Ira flowing out of his veins, like some glorious, salubrious bloodletting. He is thinking, with no small sadness, of all the years of humiliation and repression and stress and false feelings of superiority upon which his ability to win tennis matches depended. And now they have vanished into the thin air of Centre Court at Wimbledon.
And, here and now, Jack Spade decides to abandon all his ugly tactics and to play the game of tennis differently.
Just like Ugo Bellezza plays it.
From the stands, Ira Spade sees the change in his son’s eyes and in his demeanor and he also sees that Jack is smiling and he never smiles on the tennis court! and Ira bites his upper lip until it bleeds and his left eye is twitching like there’s no tomorrow.
Jack cranks a serve down the middle at 160, but Ugo rips a backhand return that just nips the netcord and dribbles and wobbles and wavers and, at the last second, somehow decides to remain on Ugo’s side of the net.
Advantage to the American.
Another sizzling serve wide and it is the fastest serve Jack has ever struck and he seems to be urged on now by some odd, unfamiliar force, a force that is pushing him to excel and not to bash in the brains of his opponent.
And a stunned Ugo can barely take his racquet back and the ball, a streaking yellow fuzzy comet, is behind the Italian before he can say Michelangelo Buonarroti. And now it’s 6-7, 6-7, 7-6, 7-6, 78-79 and Ugo will be serving to survive and on the way to his seat Jack looks at Ugo with admiration and awe and says, “It is an honor and a privilege to be a part of this,” and from the friends’ box Ira Spade can read lips and his program is once again origami.
No one in the stands really believes the tennis can get any better, but how wrong they are. The first six points of the 158th game are long and grueling and complex and tactically brilliant, each one producing a clean winner, each one requiring every shot in the combatants’ quivers, each one demanding the ultimate in power, finesse, and endurance.
And it is deuce and Ugo Bellezza is two points from losing the Big Showdown of All Time, but also two points from extending this extraordinary match, and Jack Spade is calm and content and playing like a new man and thinking to himself that he has never played better and knowing deep down that it is because the pursuit of excellence is more satisfying than the pursuit of prey and for the first time in his life he is feeling truly liberated.
Ugo scorches a serve right down the middle at 160 and it clips the T and Jack’s lunging forehand barely touches the xanthous orb and his weak, defensive bunt just nips the netcord and dribbles and wobbles and wavers and, at the last second, somehow decides to roll over, unreturnable, onto Ugo’s side of the net.