The Trophy Kid

by Pat Flynn

  ‘I was working on my technique.’

  Dad narrows his eyes. ‘Which part?’

  ‘Umm. My right arm.’

  ‘Your right arm? What does that have to do with anything?’

  I shake my head. ‘You wouldn’t understand. You’re not a tennis player.’

  Dad hates it when I say that. ‘I know about winning.’ he huffs. ‘Three premierships in a row, thank you very much.’

  ‘That’s football, Dad. All you had to do was run, kick and tackle — tennis is much more technical. Plus you had a whole team to help you. In tennis you’re on your own.’

  He pulls his shoulders back and sucks in a tummy that’s not as trim as it was during his footy days. ‘I still had to beat my opponent in the one-on-one contests, and that’s what sport is all about. Competing and winning under any circumstance, even when you’re working on technique.’

  I close my mouth and swallow my frustration because I know arguing with Dad is useless. He’s a good bloke who’ll do anything for you, but he’s stubborn as a mule.

  I’d never tell him this, but sometimes I get sick of competing. Don’t get me wrong, there’s nothing I love more than running around a tennis court on a sunny day and feeling like I’ve got the ball on a string. But what I don’t love is going to bed the night before a big match and not being able to sleep, knowing the next day I’ll either feel great if I win or terrible if I lose. And when you’re ranked number one it seems like there’s only one way to go. And it’s not up.

  Before the final against Jett I was really nervous. I watched him destroy Jimmy in the semi-final and I knew I was in for my toughest match yet. I honestly thought I was going to lose, and I couldn’t stop thinking about it. Would people lose respect for me if I wasn’t state champ? Can you be a has-been at 13?

  An hour before start time I was hoping the clouds would turn into rain.

  I was scared.

  Dad must have seen the look in my eye because he took me to a quiet corner of the change room. ‘Get on top of him early and he’ll crumble like a cracker. You’re the champ, never forget that.’

  When I didn’t reply. Dad took me by the shoulders and gave me a shake. ‘You need to fire up, mate! Fire up!’

  Dad’s a big fan of getting fired up. But all shaking me did was make my tummy feel sicker.

  Dad left and Granddad took over. He spoke softly and said the opposite of what I was expecting.

  ‘You might think this boy you’re about to play is your opponent, and he is. But he’s also your friend.’

  ‘What are you talking about, Granddad? I hardly know him.’

  Sometimes it takes me a while to cotton on to what Granddad means.

  ‘He’s your friend because he’s a worthy opponent. A worthy opponent is the most important thing you can ask for in tennis because he gives you the chance to play better than ever before. And that’s what sport is all about. Not winning or losing. but playing your very best.’

  I thought about that for a second. In a strange way it made sense.

  ‘Whatever you do, stay calm.’ Granddad made sure Dad wasn’t within hearing distance. ‘Do not fire up now. A tennis match is too long and you’ll need all that energy later.’

  When I got out on court, the nerves lessened and in the middle of a storm of big serves and heavy groundstrokes, I tried to stay relaxed. Between points I repeated what Granddad told me — that here was my chance to play my best tennis and it would be a shame to waste that chance — and for almost two sets I played better than ever before.

  Until that smash. It was the first time all match that winning or losing had entered my mind, and after that I couldn’t seem to get it out. When you get so close to winning and don’t take your chance, it messes with your head.

  Once Granddad told me about a famous player from his day named Ken Fletcher. He won Wimbledon Doubles, Wimbledon Mixed Doubles, and got within a point or two of winning the Wimbledon Singles Title. But because he never did, he spent the rest of his life thinking he was a failure.

  The trouble with tennis is that you’re only ever one loss away from feeling like a loser, That’s what keeps me training my guts out, but it also wakes me in the middle of the night, sweating.

  I look up at my state title trophy, hoping to recall the elation I felt when I was walking to the net after match point.

  Instead, my two fears collide.

  If you don’t win the next state title, your granddad will die. Like Grandma died.

  I think about this. It doesn’t make any sense. Me winning state titles has nothing to do with Granddad’s health. And what happened to Grandma was just bad luck. Wasn’t it?

  But still …

  Just because something doesn’t make sense doesn’t mean it isn’t right. I’ve spent years listening to my hunches on the tennis court and they nearly always work out. Maybe I’m one of those ghost whisperers or something? Not that I’ll be putting that on my resume.

  My eyes are fixed on the trophy and though I want to look away, I can’t. I’m waiting for the little man to say something.

  If you don’t touch me six times, you will lose the next state title.

  Well, it wasn’t exactly the man on the trophy, it was the voice in my head, tugging at me like a noose.

  It’s a stupid thought, I know, so I decide not to act on it.

  But it proves hard to do. When I turn away, my stomach drops and my heart rises close to my throat. Breathing becomes harder than it should. I feel like I’m down set point and if I don’t take action I’ll lose.

  Better do it. Just in case.

  One, two, three, four, five, six.

  Again.

  One, two, three, four, five, six.

  The thought goes away and I feel better. My heart slows down and my tummy relaxes. I feel like I’ve just hit a good shot and the pressure is off. For now.

  As I lie back down I have a little chuckle to myself. Imagine what Kayla would say if she saw me touching my trophies like a crazy man?

  Better keep that one to myself.

  Chapter Ten

  It’s always taken me a while to get to sleep. I have to do my stretches, write in my tennis diary for state squad, and replay the day — visualising shots I should have made and cool things I should have said to Kayla. It’s like I’m trying to create a better past.

  But now getting to sleep takes even longer. What started small has snowballed — I now have to arrange my 36 trophies so they look ‘right’ and then touch them all six times.

  Granddad is well enough to hit with me again but I still think about losing him and it makes me anxious.

  I need to win the NSW State Title, and even though I know they’re crazy, these rituals make me feel calmer and more confident.

  No one knows about them though. Not my coach, friends at school or even Mum and Dad. It’s like I’ve got a double life.

  But today, my two lives come face to face. My mind is playing tricks on me during a stupid maths test.

  The first few questions are easy but then I hit number five.

  I hate the number five. In tennis it’s the game before winning the set and always the hardest to win. Once I lost 7-5 7-5 to Lenny Constantini, the second best 14-year-old in the state, after leading 5-2 in both sets.

  Stupid five.

  5. The expression that represents the product of p and q is:

  A p + q

  B p-q

  C p/q

  D pq

  It’s only worth two marks so it’s not worth stressing over. I know that.

  Product means times, right?

  Of course it does. The answer is D. Move on.

  But what if product doesn’t means times? What if it means something else?

  I can’t substitute numbers for p and q to find out if I’m right. I have to trust my instinct. Trust my mind.

  The logical part of my brain tells me to get on with it. If I get stuck now I’ll have less time for the difficult questions at the end, which are wo
rth a lot more than piddly question five.

  But the other part of my mind is involved now. The emotional part. And the formula it uses goes something like this.

  Wrong answer on question five = not a perfect score on test.

  Not a perfect score means I won’t beat Matt or Kayla, the smartest kids in class.

  If I’m not best in maths then maybe I won’t be best in tennis.

  If I’m not best at tennis I’ll lose next state title.

  If I lose next state title, Granddad will die and it’ll be my fault.

  I consider writing that formula down but I don’t think Mr Smith would give me extra marks. He’d probably send me straight to the school counsellor.

  I look over at Matt — who’s sitting across from me writing like a demon — and wish I could ask him for the answer. I’m sure he knows and I’m almost as sure he wouldn’t mind telling me. He’s the least competitive person around, except when it comes to beating his mate Withers.

  I think about sneaking a glance at his paper.

  If you don’t win fair and square bad things will happen.

  Stupid brain. Now it won’t even let me cheat!

  I go back to question five. I know product doesn’t mean plus or minus but it could mean divided by? Could it?

  The teacher interrupts my train of thought. ‘Five minutes left!’ he says.

  Five minutes! No way!

  I start rushing through the rest of the test, hoping to at least write a quick answer for each of the twenty questions, but when the bell goes I’m only up to number thirteen.

  ‘Pens down!’ yells the teacher.

  I keep scribbling as fast as I can.

  It doesn’t take him long to notice. ‘Marcus. Did you hear me?’

  I don’t look up. ‘I’m not finished, sir. If it’s okay, I’ll keep working during lunch.’

  Mr Smith is a cool teacher who always asks me how my tennis is going. I’m hoping he’ll give me a break.

  Eric, the boy next to me, starts laughing. ‘Miss out on lunch for a maths test? You must be crazy, dude’

  Mr Smith puts a hand on my shoulder. ‘Sorry, Marcus. Time’s up’

  I pretend not to hear and keep working. I’ve finished question fourteen and would have figured out fifteen by now if the teacher would stop bothering me.

  ‘I said that’s enough’

  He reaches over and grabs the test paper. But my reflexes are too quick. I hold it down with my left hand and scribble one last thing before I let him have it.

  He stares at me in disbelief. I’m expecting him to yell but instead he says quietly, ‘Stay where you are. I want to talk to you after class’

  As the rest of the kids file out I wonder what’s got into me. One minute I’m a normal kid, the next I’m fighting a teacher to finish a maths question. It’s crazy.

  Mr Smith sits next to me. ‘What’s got into you, Marcus?’

  ‘Nothing, sir.’

  ‘Why didn’t you stop when I told you?’

  I shrug. ‘I panicked because I didn’t finish.’

  He nods and looks at my test. ‘What happened?’

  ‘I got stuck on number five. I couldn’t remember if product was times or divided by.’

  ‘Times.’

  I knew it! My stomach tightens into a hard ball. I’m such an idiot.

  He sighs. ‘Look, obviously you won’t get your usual high score on this test, but that’s okay. It’s a good lesson, one I’m sure you won’t forget. If you get stuck, move onto the next question. This is really important when you get older and the tests become more challenging.’

  I nod. I know he’s right. Trouble is, I knew he was right while I was actually doing it, which is what scares me. I’m not sure that I have learned my lesson.

  My head starts spinning and I feel overwhelmed. I’ve always thought of myself as a logical, chilled out bloke. Now I’ve turned into a stranger from myself.

  ‘Marcus, are you okay?’

  I force a nod.

  ‘You can go now.’

  When I get outside someone is waiting for me. If the shoe was on the other foot I would’ve motored it straight to the handball courts, but it’s good to have someone to talk to after failing my first ever test.

  ‘I’ve got a joke for you’ Matt says. ‘Why was the maths book unhappy?’

  I raise my eyebrows. ‘Why?’

  ‘It had too many problems’

  I don’t react in the slightest.

  Matt gives a big belly laugh. ‘Get it? Too many problems.’

  ‘Yeah, I get it.’ Even though my stomach is still in knots and I can’t really think straight, I smile.

  He smiles, too. ‘See? You do like it.’

  ‘No. I’m smiling at how pathetic you are.’

  We walk across school and when we pass the picnic tables, Kayla calls us over. Normally, I’d think that was great but today I don’t feel like talking.

  Matt heads in her direction and I reluctantly follow.

  Kayla and Tash say hi, Jasmine and Nina give us air kisses.

  ‘How’d you boys go in the maths test?’ asks Kayla.

  I don’t answer.

  ‘Not bad’ says Matt. ‘That challenge question was pretty hard, though.’

  I nod, even though I didn’t even read the challenge question, let alone answer it.

  ‘It lived up to its name,’ says Kayla. She looks at me. ‘How’d you go, Marcus?’

  I’m not sure what to say, so decide on the truth. ‘I failed.’

  They all laugh. ‘Yeah, right’ says Tash. ‘You’ll probably top the class’

  I shake my head but don’t say anything.

  ‘Hey, Matt,’ says Kayla. ‘Can I talk to you for a sec?’

  She takes him aside and I’m left with the other three girls.

  ‘How’s tennis?’ ask Jasmine and Nina at the same time.

  ‘All right’ I reply. ‘How’s dancing?’

  ‘Good,’ says Jas. ‘We’re starring in Swan Lake.’

  ‘I’m the swan,’ says Nina.

  ‘And I’m the lake.’

  They laugh.

  Tash grabs my arm. ‘I need to borrow Marcus for a tick.’

  She pulls me aside. ‘I want to talk to you about Kayla.’

  I look at her, interested. If anything will take my mind off myself, it’s Kayla.

  ‘She’s been talking about you all the time lately. I really think you should ask her out.’

  My jaw drops and butterflies crash into the walls of my stomach. Could Kayla really like me?

  But then I remember that Tash is one of Matthew’s worst enemies.

  ‘Is she single?’ I ask.

  ‘Technically, yes. But she’s getting dangerously close to giving that fat loser another chance. What she needs is a better offer from someone cool.’ Tash flicks back her hair. ‘Someone like you.’

  Matthew’s a good friend of mine and I should tell Tash not to call him names. Besides, he’s not even fat anymore. But I don’t feel like picking a fight. Especially not with someone who’s friends with Kayla and thinks I’m cool.

  ‘I’ll think about it,’ I say.

  ‘Sweet.’

  Matt comes back and we walk to the handball courts. It’s warm today and the blokes are already sweating -Andy Reynolds wears his tie as a headband.

  Just before we join the line, Matt stops. ‘Hey, mate. I want to know what happened back there.’

  I freeze. How does he know what Tash told me?

  ‘What do you mean?’ I say.

  ‘In class. I saw the look on your face at the end of the test. You were freaking out.’

  I take a deep breath and think of lies. But Matt’s not someone you lie to, probably because you don’t need to. He doesn’t judge people.

  I shake my head. ‘I knew I had question five right but I kept going back and checking it anyway. Over and over again. It was … nuts’

  I look down at my black school shoes. The toes are all scuffed from slidi
ng along the concrete when I hit my hard, low handball shots.

  Matt puts a hand on my shoulder. ‘Hey, I know all about nuts. One time I ate a whole bag of cashews for afternoon tea and spent the night in the toilet. Next day, I did it again.’

  I chuckle.

  ‘You’ll be right. You’re the champ, remember?’ He nods at the game. ‘Let’s play.’

  I feel a little better after our talk, and then better still when I become Ace and go undefeated all lunch hour. It’s only ever been done once before. By me.

  I’m still feeling good that afternoon when I catch the train to state squad. I’m the youngest there and have been nipping on the heels of the older boys for a while now. I’m ready to take one of them down.

  Gary, the head coach, calls us into the meeting room before practice.

  ‘Today we’re working on serve and volley combinations,’ he says, brushing his old-fashioned moustache with his finger tips. ‘And I hope you brought your diaries because I’ll be checking them during warm-ups.’

  A couple of older boys groan. They hate keeping a tennis diary.

  ‘One more thing,’ he says. ‘As you know, this is an exclusive squad. Only the very best in the state are invited. Starting next session, a new player has been added. I trust you’ll make this person feel welcome.’

  ‘What’s her name?’ asks Jenna Bella.

  Jenna lost third round at the state title so she’s probably worried that the new girl will end up taking her place.

  ‘It’s not a she. It’s a he.’

  ‘Who is it?’ someone asks.

  Gary looks me square in the eyes. ‘Jett Scott.’

  My stomach falls. This isn’t good.

  Chapter Eleven

  I’m mad as McEnroe.

  Yesterday I lost to Jett at state squad. It was only a practice set and was played under modified rules — we had to serve and volley to work on that part of our game — so it wasn’t a ‘real’ loss.

  Still, it hurts.

  Especially as it was to someone my age. Especially as Dad watched the whole thing.

  ‘You were like a statue up at the net,’ he hissed on the way home. ‘It was a hopeless effort.’

  I stretched my toes to the beat of the roadside reflectors. ‘I was tired.’