The Trophy Kid

by Pat Flynn

  I hesitate.

  ‘And what?’

  ‘My granddad will die’ I say quietly.

  Mum sucks in a breath.

  ‘What is it?’ Dr Fox asks her.

  ‘My dad collapsed after Marcus won the last state title. We had to rush off to the hospital. He and Marcus are very close.’

  Dr Fox nods. Turns back to me. ‘Is that the reason why you’re worried about your granddad dying, Marcus?’

  ‘Umm … ’ There’s something else I should say. ‘Yeah. Yeah, it is.’

  But I can’t.

  ‘And what do you think will happen if you do the routines?’ he asks.

  ‘I think it will help me win and protect Granddad.’

  ‘Okay.’ Malcolm Fox writes some things down. He looks at my parents. ‘Did you want to add any observations or comments?’

  Dad puts in his two bucks’ worth. ‘How do we know that Marcus isn’t just going through a stage and will grow out of it? I mean, we all have funny ways about us. I remember wearing the same pair of footy socks for a whole season!’

  I look back at the picture on the wall. Andre is smiling. Why wouldn’t he be? He won all four of the Grand Slams, including Wimbledon.

  ‘What do you think, Helen?’ Dr Fox asks Mum.

  She shakes her head. ‘I think it’s more serious. Marcus hid all this behaviour from Bill and me. That means he knows it isn’t normal but yet he couldn’t stop himself.’

  Dr Fox nods. ‘I think you’ve hit the nail on the head. What Marcus is describing sounds like obsessive-compulsive disorder, or OCD.’

  ‘What’s that?’ asks Dad.

  I’m wondering the same thing.

  ‘There are two parts to it,’ the doc says. ‘One is the obsession, which in Marcus’ case is the fact that his granddad will die if he doesn’t win a state title. The second part is the compulsions that relieve the obsession. For someone to have OCD these compulsions take over an hour a day.’

  Mum raises a hand. ‘Is it like when you leave the house and can’t remember if you locked the door, so you go back and check?’

  ‘Exactly. Except that for Marcus, his thoughts that his grandfather will die if he doesn’t perform these compulsions are very real.’ Dr Fox turns to me. ‘Do you actually see visions of bad things happening to your grandfather?’

  ‘Yep,’ I say. ‘I see him lying in a casket and know it’s my fault because I lost focus and didn’t do the rituals.’

  ‘I don’t get it’ says Dad, looking at me. ‘Do you really think that Granddad will die if you lose a tennis match?’

  I think for a second. ‘Well, I know it doesn’t make any sense. But it’s a gut feeling. Like whether or not to hit a topspin or slice backhand.’

  ‘But you know it’s not true, right?’

  ‘Yeah, I s’pose.’

  ‘Well, why don’t you just ignore it?’

  Because of Grandma, I think. But instead I look at Dr Fox and say, ‘I don’t know. I just can’t.’

  ‘It’s like getting caught in the middle of a powerful, deep river’ Dr Fox says to Dad. ‘The thoughts are the rapids, pulling you in the direction they want you to go. The compulsions are like pieces of wood you grab onto to stop from sinking.’

  ‘So what’s the answer?’ asks Dad.

  Malcolm Fox smiles. ‘Get out of the river.’

  That’s exactly how I feel. This river of unwanted thoughts and rituals is getting stronger and stronger and I want nothing more than to get out. If I don’t, I’m afraid that one day I’ll drown.

  ‘Do you have any questions, Marcus?’ Dr Fox asks.

  ‘Am … I crazy?’

  ‘No.’ He gives his head a hard shake. ‘Not at all. OCD affects a lot of athletes because one of the things that makes you great is how driven you are to practise the same skills over and over again.’

  That’s sounds like me, all right. The other day I was practising my wide, slice serve and I wouldn’t leave the court until I’d hit the cone six times. It took half an hour.

  ‘David Beckham has OCD,’ says Dr Fox. ‘He hates odd numbers and will throw away one can of Diet Pepsi if he has three in the fridge.’

  ‘What a weirdo.’ says Dad.

  Dr Fox gives Dad a look. ‘That same commitment saw him become the best free kicker in the world.’

  ‘So Marcus can still have this OCB thing and be a great tennis player?’ asks Dad.

  ‘OCD’ corrects Dr Fox. He speaks more forcefully now. ‘My opinion is that if Marcus doesn’t get treatment he has very little chance of a pro tennis career, and of a normal life, for that matter. The symptoms will get worse and impinge on his ability to function on and off the court.’

  ‘And with treatment?’ asks Mum.

  ‘He can make a full recovery.’

  Mum lets out a big breath.

  ‘But treatment won’t work unless Marcus commits to it,’ Dr Fox says. ‘It’s got to be his decision.’

  Everybody looks at me.

  ‘What sort of stuff will I have to do?’ I ask tentatively.

  ‘I’ll send you to an expert, of course, so it will be her call. But the most popular therapy is called Exposure and Ritual Prevention, or ERP.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘Let me put it this way. The disease you’ve got is a bully. The more you give in to it, the more it will bully you.’

  I nod. I know about bullies. Craig Withers used to bully Matt when he was fat.

  ‘You’ll learn that if you stand up to the bully, substitute the rituals with relaxation behaviours and challenge the thoughts, your life won’t come to an end. In fact, it’ll get a lot, lot better. It’s like playing a guy who looks impossible to beat in the warm-up, but once you start the match and get a few of his big shots back, he falls to pieces.’

  I nod again. I’ve played lots of blokes like that.

  ‘So Marcus can whip this thing and be back playing his best tennis in no time?’ asks Dad.

  ‘I wouldn’t say that.’ says Dr Fox. ‘OCD is a tricky opponent. It will lie and cheat to try to get what it wants. Marcus will have to fight it like he’d fight to win the toughest match of his life. But if he does that, he can win.’

  He looks at me. ‘Do you think you’re ready for that?’

  I can feel their stares. But this time, I don’t mind.

  ‘I am.’

  Chapter Sixteen

  I’m in my room, writing in my diary. Not my tennis diary, though. A thoughts and rituals diary.

  Felt stressed when teacher asked me to say, ‘Will you go to the movies with me?’ in Italian. As well as having to remember the Italian word for movies, I thought of Kayla. Tapped my foot six times before answering.

  The diary is Tina’s idea. She’s my OCD coach and has given me lots of good tips.

  ‘Everyone does things to stop feeling anxious’ she said. ‘Some people sing the same song over and over in their head, some crack their elbows, some chew their nails. We need to replace your rituals with ones that take a lot less time.’

  Next time I feel stressed in Italian, I’ll quickly imagine myself eating Mum’s spaghetti bolognaise, which always makes me a lot more relaxed.

  There’s a knock on my door. It’s Dad.

  ‘G’day, mate. How’s it going?’

  My parents check on me a lot these days. It’s a bit of a hassle but it’s nice to know they’re thinking of me. They’ve been a lot better about all of this than I expected, especially Dad. I think Tina put the hard word on him.

  ‘Not bad,’ I reply.

  Dad looks at my trophies, probably checking for fingerprints. ‘Mate, there’s someone downstairs who wants to see you. I just wanted to make sure it was all right with you.’

  He’s asking because Tina said she wants my life low-stress at the moment. I can practise tennis but not play matches for a while, and I’m supposed to stay away from people who make me anxious.

  ‘Who is it?’ I ask.

  ‘A young lady. Taylor.’
>
  ‘Kayla?’

  ‘Yeah, that could be it.’

  My stomach muscles squeeze together and the fingers of my right hand curl into a fist. I’m not worried. I’m packing death.

  ‘Do you want me to tell her you’re not feeling well?’ Dad asks.

  I almost say yes. God knows one part of me wants to. But Tina said the only way to get better is to eventually face my fears head on. Might as well start today.

  I say my special relaxation word in my head. Swoosh.

  I’d like to say it six times but I’m not allowed.

  ‘No, I’ll see her.’

  ‘Okay’ says Dad. He screws up his face. ‘Actually, I’m expecting a client in a few minutes so I wouldn’t mind if you brought her up here to chat. Is that okay?’

  Kayla in my room? Swooooosh.

  ‘Yep’

  I walk down our spiral staircase and spot her as I turn the corner. She’s sitting on the couch, talking to Mum.

  There’s a silver necklace around her neck with a love-heart that hangs to the collar of her pink tank top. She looks beautiful.

  So beautiful that I forget to watch where I’m stepping.

  ‘Whoah!’

  Luckily my reflexes are lightning fast and I grab the rail and manage to stop myself from breaking my neck. It wouldn’t have been a good look.

  ‘One step at a time, mate’ Dad says from behind me, chuckling.

  I resist the temptation to turn and give him a dirty look.

  Instead I smile at the girl in front of me. She’s smiling, too, probably because she just saw me trip down the stairs.

  ‘Hey, Marcus.’

  ‘Hi, Kayla.’

  There’s a pause.

  ‘Would you like to see my room?’ I ask.

  ‘Umm … Sure.’

  I slap myself on the inside. A few months ago I had to take a public speaking course to help me during media interviews and I aced it. Now my tongue feels like it’s been tied up by a steel rope.

  Kayla follows me up the stairs. At least I hope she’s following me. I turn around to make sure.

  ‘Whoah!’

  I trip up the stairs. It’s not as dangerous as tripping down, but it’s just as embarrassing.

  ‘You okay?’ she asks.

  ‘Yeah, yeah’ I say quickly. ‘Never better.’

  We go into my room and Kayla checks it out. The first thing she does is pick up my last state title trophy.

  ‘It’s huge!’ she says.

  Not nearly as huge as the urge I have to snatch the trophy off her, touch it six times, and put it back exactly where it was.

  I do my best to resist this urge.

  Swoosh! Swoosh! Swoosh!

  ‘Yeah. It’s pretty big, I s’pose’ I say as casually as I can.

  She puts it back. Not in the right spot, mind you, but who’s looking?

  I try to forget my craziness by focussing on Kayla. Her eyes go perfectly with the green skirt she’s wearing. I’d like to tell her that.

  ‘I wanted to talk to you about that thing you told me the other week,’ she says. ‘It’s hard to get privacy at school so that’s why I came here. Hope you don’t mind?’

  I nod. I’d like to tell her that she can come to my house anytime.

  ‘Do you … ’ Her cheeks redden slightly. ‘Do you still feel the same way?’

  Do I ever.

  But there’s something I need to say first. ‘Kayla, l have to tell you something.’

  A pause.

  ‘What?’ she asks.

  ‘Umm … ’

  I think about asking her to the movies. I could even do it in Italian.

  ‘I’ve got … ’ Just say it.

  But it’s so hard.

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘I’ve got … OCD.’

  Her face is calm but she takes a small step backwards.

  ‘Do you know what it is?’ I ask.

  She nods. ‘One of the girls at the clinic has it. She wears gloves because she’s worried about getting germs from door handles and things.’

  I hold up my hands to show her they’re glove free.

  ‘What do you do?’ she asks.

  ‘Different stuff, like touching my trophies to help me win at tennis.’

  She glances at the trophy she picked up before and makes a face. ‘Whoops!’

  ‘That’s okay’ I say. ‘I’ll throw it out later.’

  She looks horrified.

  ‘I’m joking,’ I say.

  She laughs, the dimples around her mouth like half moons.

  I want to kiss that mouth.

  ‘I really, really like you, Kayla. More than I’ve liked any girl before. But … ’

  ‘But what?’

  I can’t believe what I’m about to say.

  ‘But I think I need to get better before I can be anyone’s boyfriend. Not that I’m saying you want me to be yours.’

  I look at her. Her face doesn’t give anything away.

  It’s a few moments before she speaks.

  ‘Wow’ she says. ‘De-ja-vu.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘You sound just like me talking to Matthew last year, when I first admitted I had an eating disorder.’ She gives her head a shake, as if clearing the memory from her mind. ‘Look, I fully respect where you’re coming from.’

  ‘I don’t’ I say, looking at my shoes. One of my laces has come undone. ‘I wish I was better.’

  She steps forwards and puts a hand on my arm. ‘That takes time. I know that more than anyone.’

  ‘How did you do it?’ I ask.

  Even though I’ve improved, being normal still seems a long way away. It’s like starting a match from a set and a break down.

  Kayla glances at my bed. ‘Can we sit?’

  ‘Sure.’

  We sit beside each other on my Wimbledon doona, our legs nearly touching.

  She talks. ‘When I was at my worst I used to prepare all my own food. I’d weigh it, too, in milligrams. I wanted to know every little thing that went into my body. Even the slightest amount of grease or sugar would make me feel unclean, and I always thought that other people, even my mum, were secretly trying to make me eat junk food to get me fat.’

  She chuckles, but it’s not a happy sound.

  ‘But the more I tried to control my life through food, the less control I actually had. It was weird.’

  I bite my bottom lip, thinking. ‘It’s kind of the same in tennis. When you try to make yourself hit the ball near the line, you can’t do it. But when you trust yourself and just go for it, you can.’

  She nods. ‘Trust is the biggest thing I’ve had to learn. Trust the good in myself. Trust the good in others. For a long time I wouldn’t let anyone get close to me but now I think I’m ready. Even to let a boy into my life again.’

  ‘Is that why you came over today?’ I ask, glancing at her.

  ‘Sort of.’ she says. ‘But we can talk about that later.’

  She puts her hand out and I take it. ‘Here’s to being healthy.’

  She gives my hand a squeeze and it feels like I’ve just hit the best down the line winner of my life.

  ‘If you ever want to talk, I’m here.’ she says.

  ‘Thanks.’

  She lets go.

  When she leaves I’m doubly determined to get better. I want to hold that hand again.

  Soon.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Dad and I were worried that the OCD treatment would affect my tennis and it has.

  It’s helped.

  Before, I’d freak out if I didn’t have any red overwrap grips left or if I accidentally stepped on a line while changing ends. But after talking to Tina I’ve learnt there’s a big difference between superstition and routine.

  A routine is something that makes you feel relaxed, like wearing a favourite shirt or eating a banana before a match for energy. Routines are good.

  Superstitions take routines too far, like believing you’ll lose if you don’t we
ar your ‘lucky’ red undies. They’re bad.

  In the NSW State Title, I’ve worn different coloured undies for every match and I’m through to the final without losing a set.

  I might have to pull out my favourite red ones for the final, though, because things are about to get a whole lot tougher.

  I’m up against Jett.

  He’s improved since joining the state squad — he’s coming to the net to finish off points and his forehand is more weapon than weakness. You can see the confidence in the way he walks around the court. His face is calm and focussed, his shoulders high and pulled back, his steps slow and strong.

  And that’s just in the warm-up.

  Jimmy told me that most of the players reckon Jett’s going to beat me easily. I asked Jimmy why he told me that and he said it was to fire me up.

  ‘Tell me the truth, Jimmy’ I said. ‘Who do you think is going to win?’

  His eyes blink faster than a disco light. ‘You, of course.’

  I shake my head.

  For the first time since I can remember, I’m the underdog against someone my own age. My stomach is all fluttery and this morning I had to force myself to eat breakfast.

  I’m nervous as hell.

  Granddad tells me that’s a good thing.

  ‘Nerves are there for a reason.’ he says. ‘They give you energy and help you focus. Don’t fear them. Steer them in the right direction and they’ll work for you.’

  He’s probably just saying that to make me feel better, but it works. The saying relaxes me: Don’t fear them. Steer them.

  I repeat it to myself as I pull off my tracksuit pants and fold them neatly into my bag. Then I realise something. The saying is only five words.

  I must be getting better.

  Jett’s serving first and I blow out a big breath as I bounce up and down on my toes. He holds up a ball to let me know the warm-up’s over and the real game is about to start.

  I give him a nod and he bounces the ball twice, throws it in the air, and launches himself up at a 45-degree angle, his racket at full extension.

  Bang!

  He cracks a flat serve down the middle and follows it to the net, showing me that he’s going to play an aggressive match.

  At full stretch, I flip a low return, which he volleys deep and sure into my forehand corner. Jett moves closer to the net now, pressuring me to hit a great passing shot to win the point.