BASELINE ✸ Art Donaldson

‎‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎Two. Rolling Tides

2006. 

        TIE YOUR LEFT SHOE BEFORE YOUR RIGHT. And then tap both of your knees and say a silent prayer. It was supposed to be good luck — the thing to protect her during every match.

Once Tatum walked out onto that court, she could hear the audience roar, but it wasn't anything she wasn't used to. After all, she was the product of two tennis legends.

Giving a small wave, she took her earbuds out and lowered her hood, ready to begin her premeditation for whats to come.

Art and Patrick watched as she stretched momentarily out on the side of that court. Art, in particular, intent on watching her every movement. He always did this, always watched in awe of every little thing she did.

And Tatum found it cute on most days.

"And now, on the opposing side, Tashi Duncan!"

"Fuck." Tatum mumbles, looking to her coach.

"Fuck," Art sounds aloud.

Patrick laughs and hits his friend on the arm. "Tatum is so screwed."

Art gives Patrick a deadening glare in response, but his lips stay pursed together.

Tatum just might have been screwed. Tashi was quickly becoming a world-known phenomenon and in all honesty, probably the only person who served as a threat to Tatum in their league.

You ready for this? Her coach mouths from the front row bench.

"Thanks for the vote of confidence." She mutters, her head facing the blue pavement rather than Francis Yuris, her coach--and her jaw clenched before unzipping her bag and reaching for her red-lined racket.

Red was her signature since before she could remember. It was the color of her first racket, her uniform, the color lipstick she wore on nights out.

"Duncan and Nichols," the moderator calls out from his chair. "positions."