by Tony Hawks
It seemed that it had been built as a retreat in 1938 by a woman called Lillian Friedlander in memory of her son Daniel, a highly gifted pianist. He'd been a child prodigy who as a teenager had been sent to study at the Juilliard School in New York, where the pressures and stresses of studying at this prestigious establishment had proved too much for his fragile artistic temperament and tragically he had committed suicide at the tender age of eighteen. The Steinway had been his piano. I sat at the stool before it, glancing up at the portrait which hung on the wall above. It was of Daniel, playing this very same beautiful instrument all those years before. I began to play an improvisation around minor chords which seemed to flow out of me with a strange ease. Somehow I was being caressed by the soothing ambience that existed in this alcove and I felt a rush of peaceful energy. It was weird. Was Daniel here? Was the music I was making some kind of call to Daniel's spirit?
Then I felt a compulsion to sing a song which I had written maybe fifteen years earlier, somehow knowing that this was the exact moment it had been composed for. Daniel needed to hear it. The words came back to me as if I had written them that very morning.
You hang there upon the wall, the portrait that sits before us all What is it like to be, ignored by so many and noticed by me?
What are your thoughts as you sit there all day, watching us fritter our lives away?
Do you have problems just like ours, or have they been solved in your lonely hours
On the wall
(Verses two, three and four were sung as well. You needn't suffer them.)
My musical reverie was punctured by some applause at the far end of the room, coming from a lady in Wellington boots who addressed me in Hebrew. This really was turning out to be a very odd day. She was one of the few Israelis I had met whose competence in English was on a par with that of the average Moldovan footballer. After a long struggle I managed to convince her that I was not a performer who had been booked to give a concert but a guest who wanted to check in.
'Could I see the manager?' I asked.
'Lo,' she replied.
Lo I knew meant 'no', my Hebrew studies having extended as far as establishing that the words for Yes' and 'no' were ken and lo.
I had met a Japanese girl once called Lo and I'd always hoped that she'd marry an Englishman called Ken and go and live in Israel. How splendid their introduction would be to the Hebrew speaker.
Well, they say that opposites attract.
In the absence of the manager, I was shown to my room by the wellington-booted lady whose eclectic clothing left her resembling a fascinating hybrid of gardener, cleaner and South American revolutionary. The room was bohemian, which is a nice way of saying it needed decorating, but I didn't mind. All I wanted to do was some stretching exercises and sit on the bed and get my head together for the big match.
As I stood at the gates to Bet Daniel waiting for Johnny to pick me up and ferry me to the tennis court, I paced around nervously. At the back of my mind I was still haunted by the chanting from the cast of the previous night's nightmare. Much as I tried to get myself in a positive frame of mind, I still felt apprehensive and unprepared.
Johnny never showed, but instead a friend of his called Danny was my chauffeur to the tennis club. Apparently Johnny's wife had been involved in a car accident earlier that day and he was with her in hospital where she was being treated for whiplash injuries. Again the voices in my head – 'Don't play Spynu!'.
Danny's use of words was minimalist, and his manner suggested that he was pissed off that he had been talked into giving me this lift since he didn't really owe Johnny a favour. At the tennis club he announced coldly:
The Moldovan is waiting for you inside.'
I felt like a spy. In tennis kit.
We have booked you the indoor court,' continued Mr Charisma. 'You have it for one and a half hours. Johnny says that this guy plays a bit, so be careful.'
Thanks,' I said, hoping I might get a 'good luck' but Danny only grunted before driving off.
I opened the gate and entered the tennis club only too aware of how the conclusion to my epic struggle lacked any sense of occasion. Having been denied the press interest which could have made this some kind of media event and perhaps even attracted spectators, I was arriving at a sleepy suburban tennis club with an entourage of nil. The only way the world would ever know that this classic confrontation had taken place was through the footage recorded on my camera which I was struggling to carry under my arm, along with a tripod. I was presenting an image more usually associated with an enthusiastic father eager to film his promising child, than a highly talented athlete honed and ready for action. Nevertheless I felt an element of pride that I had even managed to reach this point. There had been times in Moldova when contemplating the possibility of a match against an eleventh footballer would have seemed fantasy-land. Now it was happening. The commentator in my head took over.
'And so Hawks walks on to the court, a heroic figure, his elegant stride and solemn countenance exhibiting a preparedness for an encounter which means so much not only to him, but to us all. Quite some time ago Hawks took up this challenge on the people's behalf. The gauntlet was thrown down and he stooped to pick it up. A duel, and Hawks chose his weapons. Tennis rackets at dawn. And now he proudly strides out before us aiming to record a victory which will show us that we can look forward to a brighter tomorrow, where the smile replaces the grimace, where work feels like play, and where love conquers . . . Oh dear, he's dropped his camera.'
I had too. The photographic clobber beneath my arm had been gradually slipping groundwards but I hadn't stopped to re-organise such was the enjoyment I was deriving from this fantastic glorification of the moment. Back in reality and humbled slightly, I stooped to pick up the camera which fortunately was undamaged, and I made my way into the indoor court.
Marin Spynu was waiting on a chair by the side of the court, easily recognisable as a Moldovan footballer, not just because of his physical characteristics but because, like every Moldovan footballer I had met to date, he looked lost. I suppose the very brief of having to go and meet a strange Englishman on a tennis court was in itself disorientating. I approached him and shook his hand and we exchanged a few words which quickly established that he spoke no English. My Romanian, which had never been anything other than extremely poor, was now rusty as well. Conversation didn't flow. Then I noticed that Marin Spynu had an impressive-looking tennis bag from which he produced two tennis rackets. This was two more than any Moldovan footballer I had played to date. Arthur's words reverberated in my head.
'One of them is bound to be very good.'
Surely he couldn't really be right?
Spynu and I began knocking up. He casually opened with a heavily topspun backhand drive across court which landed within a foot of the base line. I scrambled it back, making full use of the racket's frame. He replied with a deft forehand drop shot employing an impressive amount of underspin.
Oh no! Spynu was good.
He was very good.
Clearly his experiences outside Moldova had involved spending a great deal more time on tennis courts than his former team-mates.
I immediately began to regret that I had not made more preparation for this encounter. The excesses of Christmas had left me with a slight paunch and a lack of fitness which looked set to be exposed in the coming hour and a half. As Spynu stood, poised to make the first serve of the match proper, I knew the size of the task ahead of me. I prayed that he was a player who impressed in the warm-up but made mistakes in a match situation.
The first point did little to suggest that this would be the case. He served out wide with accuracy and power before coming to the net to dispatch a backhand volley with ease into the open court. On the second point his serve was unreturnable. Already, only two points in, I felt an air of despondency creeping over me. He had no right to be this accomplished. However, I fought back well and found some confident passing shots which earned me break points agai
nst the serve – but Spynu played excellent volleys under pressure and then found two big serves to hold this first game. It was ominous that he was clearly the kind of player who didn't give points away cheaply – you had to win them. As we changed ends I was a worried man.
Twenty minutes later I was in deep shock. I had lost the first set 6-0. I hadn't played that badly, and four of the six games had gone to deuce, but Spynu had won them all. I was being whipped as easily by this guy as I had been by Pete Sampras at Play Station tennis. I wanted to spin this Spynu fellow around and flick the switch on his back from very difficult to bloody easy. What was happening right now just wasn't fair. He was sharp, hungry and match tight – and I was a bloke who had consumed too much Christmas pud and had assumed his opponent would be rubbish.
In the second set I drew on all my reserves and managed to produce something close to my best tennis. In a highly competitive set I sneaked through by six games to four. I'd been a little lucky and I was aware that for a short period Spynu had let his concentration slip.Despite my recent ascendancy I still felt that Spynu was the more likely to take a final set But would there be time? The clock on the wall revealed that we only had fifteen minutes left before the lights ran out. Negotiations were necessary. I called my opponent to the net, pointed to the clock and announced:
'We only have time for a tie-break.'
Whether he understood or not, Spynu nodded, and I had won the advantage of not having to play a full-length third set, in which my lack of fitness would have become horribly exposed. This was sudden death and I had a chance. It was a tie-break I simply had to win.
Spynu, on the other hand, didn't give a toss, and was relaxed enough to be able to begin the final battle with an ace. I followed it with a double fault. I was feeling the pressure. A backhand return of serve from Spynu went for a clean winner leaving me 3-0 down. I was beginning to dislike this guy. This was not in the script. Spynu was playing his best tennis by far.
I fought hard but I failed to make up the deficit and at 3-6 I faced three match points. I needed a big serve. In my head I heard the echo of a thousand TV commentaries. 'That's what defines the true champion – the ability to find a big serve when they really need one.'
My problem was that I wasn't Pete Sampras or John McEnroe. I was Tony Hawks – and anyway I had to accept that I wasn't a true champion. My junior career had proved that I had anything but the temperament to win tournaments. Rather than reach a peak my tendency was to save my worst tennis for finals day.
As I walked up to the base line to serve I realised that from a tennis perspective I had arrived at the most important point in my life. I had staked a whole philosophy on winning this bet, a philosophy on which I had every intention of basing how I was going to live the rest of my life. I looked up at Spynu. He looked relaxed. Of course he did. This was easy for him, it meant nothing, probably no-one even knew he was playing a game of tennis. For him it was just a break from training. All the pressure was on me and I desperately needed to find some strength within. OK, maybe I didn't have a big serve, but I had served aces in the past. Sometimes a well-placed serve could elude the returner as well as the powerful one. All I needed to do was find one of them.
Then it came to me in a flash – I should ask for Daniel's help. Had that not been an inspirational moment at the piano earlier that afternoon? Had there not been the definite feeling of a presence there? It wasn't such a crazy idea. It had to be done. So, as I stood at the base line in readiness to serve, I bounced the ball in front of me and muttered:
'Daniel, if you're there mate, it's me –Tony, the bloke who sang to you this afternoon. listen, I need an ace, do what you can to help will you?'
And with those words I tossed the ball in the air, bent my knees, arched my back and launched all my energy into what was surely going to be an ace down the middle. The racket head made crisp contact with the ball as I whipped my wrist through to generate extra pace. It truly was the hardest serve I had ever hit.
It landed slap bang in the bottom of the net. I instantly realised what I had done wrong. I had sought assistance from the spirit of a temperamentally brittle concert pianist. Obviously, a better choice of deceased accomplice would have been Arthur Ashe, but I hadn't thought of him, and besides I hadn't sung to him that afternoon so he wouldn't really have had any vested interest in my success.
All was not lost, I had a second service to come. This time I decided to try and manage alone with no help from the dead. This point was going to be played by me alone. It would be a test of my character. I knew I could win it.
I elected to surprise Spynu by coming into the net behind my serve in the hope of picking off an easy volley. It would be a courageous move and not one that he would be expecting. I would serve at his body, not giving him any angles to make a passing shot and hopefully cramping him up and leaving him unsure whether to take it on the forehand or backhand side. I breathed in, mumbled 'Come on!' to myself, bounced the ball one final time. And then I served.
It was a good one, exactly what I had hoped for. Spynu struggled to get his body out of the way and only managed to flick back a limp backhand with no pace on it. It all seemed like it was happening in slow motion. My eyes fixed on the revolving yellow sphere spiralling towards me. I swiftly changed grip for a backhand volley. I closed in on the net, the ball still hanging agonisingly before my outstretched forearm. As the ball and racket made contact, my supreme effort resulted in a final animalistic grunt of desperation.
I had executed a perfect volley. It landed within an inch of the junction of Spynu's base line and side line, beyond the reach of his outstretched racket. I felt an adrenalin rush and a moment of pride that, after all, I could deliver when the moment required.
Unfortunately so could Spynu, who dispatched a glorious winning backhand down the line.
I had lost.
The Moldovan looked apologetic and ambled to the net to shake my hand. He had been the magnificent victor in a game which meant absolutely nothing to him. If the roles had been reversed then he wouldn't have played so well, I bet. Or perhaps I should lay off bets for a while. I'd just lost a big one. A very big one.
As Spynu put on his track suit and packed up his things, I sat by the side of the court replaying the last point. I simply could not believe what had happened. I had fought my way back into the match only to have my opponent play an inspired tie-break. Spynu held out his hand to shake mine before he left.
Thanks be to you,' he said in a shaky English accent 'I am sorry.'
'It's OK,' I replied humbly. Thank you for a good game. You deserved to win. You were the better player.'
He shrugged and moved off, clearly not having understood. Damn, I could have said what I really wanted to say;
Thanks for screwing up my bet you bastard.'
Johnny still hadn't shown up and I wasn't in the mood to wait I didn't really want to talk to anyone and especially someone with whom one of the main topics would no doubt be Philippa, our mutual friend who I couldn't remember. I walked back to Bet Daniel via Zichron Ya'acov's desolate town centre where I became solitary drinker in solitary bar. There weren't any good places to be at this moment, but I could have done with being somewhere that didn't feel like it had been purpose-built for melancholy. A theme park for manic de-pressives called 'GlumWorld'. Dispiritedly I stared into my Maccabi beer – a local Israeli beer when really I wanted a beer to match how I felt. A pint of bitter. The barman looked at me, still in my tennis kit and with my rackets on the floor beside me.
'Don't look so fed up,' he said. 'God, if you can't handle losing, then why play?'
It was just as well there were no army teenagers in the place. I could have grabbed one of their guns and shot him.
18
Tony of Nazareth
The lady seated next to me on the bus asked me what I was doing here in Israel.
'Oh I'm just on holiday – touring around having a look at the place,' was my cowardly reply.
My
reserves of strength weren't sufficient to tell her the truth; 'Oh I just came here to play a tennis match.' I knew what her next question was bound to be.
'And did you win?'
I wasn't expecting much of Eilat. All I knew was that the sun shone there pretty much all the time and that if I was going to strip naked in London in the middle of winter then I might as well take advantage of this so that I could do so with a nice bronzed body. Most of the four and half hour bus ride was through desert landscape which, though stunning scenery, did little to raise my spirits. Nothing was growing. There was no rejuvenation. In my present mood I needed lush greens, rolling hills and gamboling lambs, instead of the lifeless shores of the aptly named Dead Sea. At one thousand feet below sea level this place is the lowest point on earth. So that was it. I had reached the lowest point on earth. I tried to console myself with the trite thought that sometimes you need to hit the bottom before you can come back up again, although I was well aware that this isn't always the case. (See Titanic for details.)
The bus made a fifteen minute stop in the resort of Ein Bokek. Well, the Israelis call it a resort but in reality it's just a few hotels built on the edge of the Dead Sea. It made Zichron Ya'acov seem like Las Vegas. People come here for the healing properties of the sulphuric hot springs, the beautifying properties of the thick black mud, and to float like zombies in a sea with a salt content six times denser than the Mediterranean. I walked down to the water's edge where a couple of Yorkshire lasses were wading hesitantly into the sea for their first 'swim'. Their boyfriends stood on the shore ready to catch the moment on film. The heavier of the two girls, called Laura, lowered herself into the water and was immediately buoyed up, her ample frame bobbing in the water like an apple in a bucket.