She had hoped the match would be scheduled for one of the main show courts, namely hallowed Centre Court or Court One. Instead, it was placed on Court Fourteen, the eighth largest court on the grounds, located directly beneath ESPN’s broadcast studio. Sinjin could see the back of the lead anchor’s well-coiffed head as he and his fellow commentators prepared to go on-air.
She searched the stands until she located her supporters. Stephanie was already gnawing on her fingernails, but Nicolas and Laure flashed her thumbs up signs. The day before, Laure had won her first round match in straight sets. Her opponent had been a wild card entrant playing only her second tour-level match. Overmatched and overwhelmed, the youngster had gone down in forty-five minutes. Sinjin would consider herself lucky if one of her sets lasted that long. The way Rosana played, they could be on court a while.
She took one last look around, then directed her focus where it belonged: on the match.
Rosana won the toss and elected to receive. Most players chose to serve first so they could jump out to an early lead before their opponents could calm their nerves. Rosanna preferred the opposite approach. She liked to go for a quick break of serve before her foe could find her rhythm. Pounding her ground strokes from the very first point, she’d take the first set before the player on the other side of the net knew what hit her.
The weather was warm—nearly eighty degrees. Despite the balmy temperatures, Sinjin had elected to wear the pants Stephanie had designed for her instead of the shorts. But she didn’t want her fashion statement to be the only thing written about the next day. She intended to make a statement with her game as well.
She shed the cardigan and took a quick sip of water. The crowd, apprehensive yet hopeful, applauded both players as they headed to their respective baselines.
Sinjin accepted three balls from the ball boy and closely examined each one. She discarded the one with the most fuzz, keeping the two she thought would move through the air faster. She slipped one ball into her pocket and bounced the other one off her racquet face while Rosana waited for late-arriving spectators to take their seats.
“Seats quickly, please,” the chair umpire said. “The players are ready.”
The stragglers grabbed the nearest seats.
“Gracias,” Rosana said sarcastically, showing uncharacteristic edginess.
Ask any player and she would say the most difficult matches to win were the first one and the last one. In the first round, you were nervous because you didn’t have a measuring stick to judge where your game was. Sure, you might have been playing well in practice, but practice didn’t count. How would you fare when the pressure was on? When losing meant going home, not scheduling another practice session. As the old saying went, you couldn’t win a Grand Slam tournament in the first week; you could only lose one.
Sinjin had fallen prey to the pressure of a Grand Slam tournament before, letting the strain of it overwhelm her as she failed to fulfill the potential her coaches had spotted in her when she was a kid. When the match began, though, she put the past behind her. She played like she had nothing to lose and everything to gain. She went for her shots, hitting out on everything and carving her slice shots so finely the crowd gasped each time the ball grazed the net on its way over.
Rosana was the one who seemed to be succumbing to nerves. Normally placid on court, she barked at everyone in sight, herself included.
“Hit the ball, Rosana!” she screamed in Spanish after her tentative approach shot landed short and Sinjin’s backhand flew past her for a winner.
The crowd erupted. Not because of Rosana’s outburst but because Sinjin had reached set point. She had a chance to take the first set and start the second serving first—a huge psychological advantage.
Sinjin assumed her return stance and tried to determine where Rosana was going to direct her serve. Boris Becker used to unconsciously stick his tongue in the same direction he intended to place his delivery. Other players’ tells were more subtle—a grip change here, a slight shift in stance there. The best servers were the best masters of disguise. The best returners were the best body language experts.
With her left hand, Rosana bounced the ball twice. Her right hand gripped her racquet as if it were a frying pan. After she adjusted her grip, she extended her index finger. The last time she did that, she hit a serve out wide to Sinjin’s forehand. Cheating in that direction, Sinjin took a step to her left when Rosana tossed the ball in the air.
The serve was perfectly placed, but Sinjin was there for it. Swinging freely, she cracked a forehand and followed it to the net.
Her eyes as wide as saucers, Rosana scrambled to get to the return. Her dimpled shoes dug into the lush grass. She lunged for the ball, her racquet an extension of her arm. She flicked her wrist, intending to hit a defensive squash shot to keep herself in the point. The ball passed just out of reach.
“Game, first set, Miss Smythe,” the chair umpire said.
“Yes!” Sinjin clenched her fists and sprinted to her chair, the crowd’s cheers echoing in her ears.
In the stands, Laure, Stephanie, and Kendall were celebrating like the match was over, but Sinjin kept telling herself the job wasn’t done. Winning the second set would be even harder than winning the first. Rosana, not wanting to be the tournament’s first upset victim, wasn’t going to go down without a fight. Known for her endurance, a long match was just what she wanted. Fitness wouldn’t be an issue for Sinjin—she had put in too many hours training with Laure and Kendall to run out of gas during a match—but she wanted to keep things as uncomplicated as possible. She didn’t want to give Rosana time to find her A-game.
She gave herself a pep talk during the changeover.
Concentrate on holding your serve and take your chances on hers when she gives them to you. The pressure’s on her, not you. You’re not even supposed to be here.
She lost just five points in her first five service games in the second set, but Rosana, playing the kind of attacking tennis that won her the U.S. Open two years before, was just as strong. When Sinjin held at love to go up six games to five, the set seemed destined to end in a tiebreaker.
In a tiebreaker, the rules were simple—the winner was the first player to accumulate seven points with at least a two-point advantage. With the stakes this high, though, a tiebreaker would be anything but simple. If Sinjin won, the match was over. If Rosana won, they would play a third set with a spot in Wimbledon’s second round on the line.
Sinjin’s career singles record was a tick above five hundred, but her tiebreak record was an eye-opening seventy-five percent. “If she could play nothing but tiebreakers, she’d be number one in the world,” went the line on her in the locker room. “Otherwise, she’s just another player.”
Rosana—and the crowd—was waiting for Sinjin to crack. For her to realize how close she was to the biggest victory of her life and tighten up.
*
In the stands, Laure examined Sinjin’s face for signs of weakness. She saw none. In fact, she had never seen Sinjin looking so relaxed—on a tennis court, anyway. Her blood pressure, on the other hand, was off the charts.
“How do you stand it?” she asked Stephanie after Rosana held serve to force the tiebreaker. When she played, she had a say in the outcome. As a spectator, she was helpless. She preferred being in control. During her first round win, her nerves had disappeared as soon as she played the first point. Nearly two sets into Sinjin’s match, she was a basket case.
“I used to go through a pack of cigarettes each match until Sinjin made me quit.” Stephanie popped a piece of nicotine gum in her mouth and began chewing furiously. “When she was a teenager, I could always console her by saying, There’s always next year, but…”
She didn’t finish her sentence. She didn’t have to. Laure knew how much was at stake. If Sinjin’s knees gave out, there might not be a next year.
*
The tiebreaker was a reflection of the set—nip and tuck the whole way. The score
was tied at six points-all with one more point to go on Sinjin’s serve when the players moved to the opposite sides of the court for the traditional change of ends. Sinjin stopped at her chair to towel off. She had just fought off set point. The next point was just as crucial. If she won it, she would have match point. If Rosana took it, she would have set point on her own serve. If Rosana sneaked out the set, the momentum would swing in her direction and she would resume the role of favorite.
“Serve an ace!” someone yelled when Sinjin approached the baseline. The well-intentioned fan was trying to break the tension but ended up adding to it.
Sinjin mustered a smile, then hit her first serve two feet past the service line. The crowd let out a collective groan. Was this the moment Sinjin came back to Earth?
Rosana moved forward, crowding the baseline so she could hit a forceful return.
Sinjin had two choices: go for a big second serve or take something off it to make sure she got the ball in play. Going back and forth with her decision, she didn’t make up her mind until she tossed the ball in the air. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Rosana slide to her left to cut off a serve to her backhand so she decided to serve out wide instead.
Rosana’s shoulders slumped after the ball landed safely in the corner of the service box and thumped against the wall at the back of the court. She looked like a marionette whose strings had just been cut.
Match point.
Leaning forward in their seats, Laure and Stephanie clutched each other’s hands. They—and the crowd—were ready to explode.
Sinjin slapped her hand against her thigh to remind herself to stay alert. She looked for another tell, but Rosana didn’t give anything away.
Rosana’s first serve was flat and deep. Too deep. Cyclops, the electronic machine that surveyed an area eighteen inches wide, beeped to indicate the serve was a fault. It was Sinjin’s turn to crowd the baseline. Instead of standing just beyond it like most players did when they moved up, she stood just inside it, daring Rosana to hit a deep second serve.
The knowledgeable crowd noted Sinjin’s bravery—or fool-hardiness.
Unnerved by Sinjin’s audacious court positioning, Rosana dumped her second serve into the net.
“Game, set, match, Miss Smythe,” the chair umpire said. “Miss Smythe wins two sets to love, six-four, seven-six.”
The crowd erupted, but mindful of Rosana’s feelings, Sinjin kept her celebration low-key. Winning on a double fault was anticlimactic. Losing on one was devastating.
“Bad luck,” Sinjin said when she and Rosana shook hands at the net.
“You were the better player.” Rosana gave Sinjin a pat on the back. Even though she wanted to win as badly as anyone else, she was known for being a gracious loser. If a player outperformed her on a given day, she gave the player credit where credit was due. “You deserved it. Good luck the rest of the way.”
“Thanks. I appreciate that.”
Sinjin impulsively blew a kiss to Laure and Stephanie before raising her arms to acknowledge the cheering crowd.
“Isn’t this fun?” she asked as she, Laure, Stephanie, and Kendall walked across the grounds. A cadre of uniformed security guards surrounded them.
“If torture is your idea of fun.” Stephanie cast an anxious glance at the large crowd following them.
“I meant the match.”
“So did I.”
“So I guess we’re going to Fog for dinner again?” Stephanie asked.
When she was on a winning streak, Sinjin liked to eat the same meal each night. Last night, she and Stephanie dined at a restaurant a few blocks from Stephanie’s apartment. The trendy eatery specialized in modern takes on traditional British comfort food. “Order something you could eat every day,” Stephanie had teased her, “because you might be eating it for the next two weeks.”
Sinjin’s favorite comfort food was fish and chips. Settling for a healthier alternative, she had ordered grilled salmon and twice-baked potatoes.
“How do you know me so well?”
“Lots of practice.”
Sinjin paused to sign autographs. Laure followed suit. Fans thrust everything from today’s programs to hand-written posters to body parts in their direction.
“Good luck,” someone said.
“We love you!” said another.
“Bring it home!”
The crowd surged forward. The uniformed security guards linked arms and tried to hold them back.
Sinjin signed her name so many times her hand began to cramp. Everyone wanted something from her. A souvenir. A handshake. A win. Her countrymen had been disappointed so many times. If she wanted to avoid adding to the long list of hard-fought but valiant defeats, she needed to play for herself, not an entire nation.
“Thank you.”
She stepped away from the crowd and waited for Laure, who signed every program and posed for every photograph as if she could keep it up all day. Typical Laure.
Sinjin was slowly beginning to realize Laure wasn’t like most players. She wasn’t obsessed with what was best for her. She worried about what was best for the tour. She was willing to sign every autograph, shake every sponsor’s hand, sit for every interview—provided the questions didn’t get too personal. During a match, she competed as hard as anyone. The instant the match ended, though, so did her desire to be better than the person across the net. Then she was the first to lend them a helping hand. Where would she be if Laure hadn’t helped her? Not standing in the winner’s circle, that’s for sure.
“Did Emme win?” she asked, already thinking about her next match.
Kendall consulted her phone, which she was using to keep track of the live scores on the other courts. “She’s up a set and two breaks. She’s a game away.”
“Then I guess I’ll see her tomorrow.”
Instead of having the day off, the players in the top half of the draw would be right back on court the next day. Sinjin was grateful for the short turnaround. Instead of having too much time to reflect on what she had already accomplished, she could focus on what lay ahead.
“Are you going to stick around for my press conference?”
“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” Laure said. “Yesterday I was asked more questions about you than my match and I’m sure you’re going to be given the same treatment today. My presence would make it worse. Give me a call afterward.”
“You got it.”
*
Laure rolled a massage bar over her thighs to release the lactic acid in her muscles. She turned on the TV to take her mind off the chore. Sinjin appeared on the screen. Sitting behind a bank of microphones, she faced the assembled press corps.
“Who are you wearing?” a reporter asked.
The question made Laure feel like Sinjin was walking the red carpet instead of sitting in the press room in the Millennium Building, but it afforded Sinjin the opportunity to give Stephanie’s fledgling line some free publicity.
“B and B by Stephanie Smythe.”
The name, Laure knew, was a play on Stephanie’s nickname. Stephanie, who had always been accident-prone, spent most of her life covered in bruises. So much so her friends had taken to calling her Black and Blue.
“She has some great looks planned for me,” Sinjin said. “I hope I stick around long enough to show them all off.”
“Rosana said playing you today was a drag,” another journalist began. “Do you think she meant that literally?”
The question was obviously meant to stir up controversy. Laure hoped Sinjin didn’t take the bait. She remembered the time she had played Wimbledon through a firestorm. It was the first year she had burst onto the scene and she had upset the top seed in the semifinals by flashing the aggressive game that would soon become her trademark.
“She puts so much pressure on you all the time,” the top seed, since retired, had said. “The way she crowds the net and hits winners from all over the court, it’s almost like playing a guy out there.”
Th
e press had turned the comment on its head, making it seem like the other players considered Laure too masculine to play the women’s game. The unwanted attention had shaken her focus. She had played the final as if in a daze. Serena Williams had bulldozed her in just over an hour. But armed with a thicker skin and steadier nerves, she had returned to the site of her collapse the next year and stormed to the title.
“I didn’t give Rosana any opportunities to break my serve today,” Sinjin said. “So for someone who returns as well as she does, it couldn’t have been very much fun for her out there today. That’s what I think she meant.”
“After failing to qualify for the event, this is a big win for you. How does it feel?”
“Like I’m just getting started.”
“Laure Fortescue was in the stands for your matches during qualifying and she was there again today. You were a conspicuous presence in her Friends Box yesterday. Sources say you’ve been quite close off the court as well. You’ve been seen leaving her rented house on several occasions. Is there something you wish to share regarding the status of your relationship?”
Laure had known the questions would turn personal. They always did when Sinjin played at home, but she hadn’t expected it to happen so quickly.
This is the “reward” she gets for one of the biggest wins of her career?
Sinjin took a sip of water as she paused to formulate an answer to the query. Laure leaned toward the TV. If Sinjin answered the question the wrong way, they’d have reporters and photographers camped out on both their doorsteps for days.
“Laure and I have been friends for years. Nothing has or ever will change that.”
Good answer.
“How can you be friends when you both want the same thing? Doesn’t a Wimbledon title trump friendship?”
That was one question Sinjin didn’t have an answer for.
*
Sinjin was jubilant. She had faced the firing squad and come out unscathed. Well, relatively. The last question had been a doozy. Some arsehole had tried to equate her knee therapy with blood doping, the illegal performance-enhancing practice that had ruined cycling’s reputation worldwide. The other questions hadn’t been a walk in the park either. If she had a penny for every time she had used the word friendship in her responses, she would be able to buy Windsor Castle. No matter. Her victory over Rosana had put her in the mix. She was a contender now.
Lucky Loser Page 7