The Ballad of Nixon and Brezhnev

Chapter 9 - Diplomatic Challengers

The sun hung low over the Geneva estate as Nixon and Brezhnev stood opposite each other on the freshly painted tennis court, each armed with a racket and a grim determination that belied their lack of athletic prowess. A few aides stood to the side, pretending to be interested, while Henry Kissinger and Andrei Gromyko watched from a shaded area, sipping coffee and already bracing for disaster. Both wore tight-fitting tennis shirt and shorts, with their bulge showing.

In attendance are the wives of the two leaders, Pat Ryan (Mrs. Nixon) and Viktoria Brezhneva (Mrs. Brezhnev). They both just arrived in Geneva.

"So, Viktoria, I hear you're quite the tennis player yourself," Mrs. Nixon said, adjusting her sunglasses.

"Oh, Pat Ryan, you flatter me. But I suppose it's a good way to stay in shape for all those state dinners," Mrs. Brezhnev smirked.

"Tell me about it. I've been trying to convince Richard to take up golf. He says it's too much like work," Mrs. Nixon chuckled.

"Oh, come now. I'm sure he's just being modest. After all, he's the leader of the free world."

"You say that like it's a good thing."

"What do you mean? It's a very prestigious position," Mrs. Brezhnev said, feigning innocence.

"I suppose. But I'd rather have a husband who knows how to relax," Mrs. Nixon shrugged.

"Well, let's see how relaxed your husband is after he loses this match."

"Oh...so that's how it is. He's going to win actually. No doubt about it."

"We'll see about that, Patrick."

"Oh, and I'm sure you must be Victor then."

Viktoria and Pat exchange a sly look as their spouses enter the court. This match is obviously going to be about more than simply a tennis match.

Nixon adjusted his sweatband, trying to channel some semblance of confidence. "I played some tennis in college with my frat brothers," he muttered to Kissinger, as if reminding himself. "Nothing too serious, but I've totally got this."

Brezhnev, who was already half-jogging on the other side of the court, shouted in his booming voice, "Tennis is just like any battle, Dick! You attack, I defend, we see who comes out on top!" He smacked the tennis ball into the ground experimentally, missing it entirely on the rebound.

"God help us all," Kissinger murmured under his breath.

The match began with Nixon serving, his racket shaking slightly in his hand. He sent the ball over the net in a wobbling arc. Brezhnev took a mighty swing, missing completely and nearly spinning himself off-balance. The ball rolled harmlessly by, but Brezhnev waved it off as if nothing had happened. "Warming up!" he called out cheerfully. "Give me time, Dick!"

Nixon, frowning, tossed the ball for another serve. This time Brezhnev connected, but with so much force that the ball soared far over the fence and into the trees. The Soviet leader raised both arms triumphantly. "You see that! Power!"

"That's not the point of tennis, Leonid," Nixon said flatly, glaring after the lost ball. "You're supposed to keep it in the court."

Brezhnev shrugged, grinning. "Ah, small details. In war, sometimes you overshoot the target, but that's how you learn!"

The subsequent rounds were a display of erroneous swings, clumsy lunges, and ever-more-risky maneuvers. Brezhnev, ever the showman, launched ball after ball out of bounds, and Nixon, getting angrier with every mistake and more competitive, started muttering under his breath. Every time Brezhnev's awkward swings sent the game into disarray, he would mutter a string of obscenities in an almost desperate attempt to outmaneuver the Russian and keep the ball in play.

"This is getting fucking absurd," Kissinger whispered to Gromyko, watching as Nixon took an aggressive swing, narrowly avoiding tripping over his own feet.

Gromyko, ever the stoic, simply raised an eyebrow. "It was already absurd the moment they picked up the rackets, wearing those tight pants like they're two queers in a blue film."

Nixon once managed a clean hit that launched the ball straight toward Brezhnev. Brezhnev did not even attempt to return it; instead, he stood motionless, eyes bulging, and the ball hit him directly in the chest. The court was silent for a while. Then Brezhnev cast a disdainful glance at the ball as though it had offended him directly. He scooped it up and threw it back toward Nixon without saying a word, using only his bare hand instead of the racket. The ball soared across the court and bounced off Nixon's shoulder with a soft thud.

Nixon, glaring, threw his racket to the ground. "Leonid, that's not how tennis works!" he shouted. "You don't just throw the damn thing, you Russian bastard!"

Brezhnev grinned, unrepentant. "Sometimes, Richard, you have to break the rules to win. Besides, you hit me first!"

"That was a fucking accident!" Nixon shot back, wiping sweat from his brow. "We're supposed to be playing by the rules!"

"The rules!?" Brezhnev bellowed, laughing. "In war, Richard, there are no fucking rules!"

The atmosphere on the court had become much more personal by this point. Every swing and every serve was tinged by their unsaid enmity—a rivalry between egos as much as nations. Nixon's growing will to win, no matter how small the stakes, contrasted forcefully with Brezhnev's lighthearted contempt for the rules of the game.

As the game went on, neither player was able to score a game-winning point, and it turned into a sequence of frantic, chaotic volleys. Panting and flushed, Brezhnev turned to Gromyko, who just gave him a curt shake of the head. Sweat-soaked Nixon darted a helpless glance at Kissinger, who only groaned and offered a vague, hesitant thumbs up.

Finally, as Brezhnev jumped sending yet another ball flying over the fence, Nixon also jumped in front of the net, making them crashed into each other. The audience saw that their husband bulges touched. Nixon, picking himself back up, threw his racket down and marched toward the audience seats, breathing heavily. "This isn't tennis anymore, Leonid! This is... this is fucking ridiculous!"

"Well, why didn't the two of you kiss?" Pat screamed from her audience seat.

"You look like blue film gay boy, my dear Leonid," Viktoria shouted afterwards.

Brezhnev wiped his brow, still grinning. "Ridiculous? Maybe. But fun, yes? This is how men bond, Richard. Competition! Sweat! Victory!"

"Victory?" Nixon scoffed. "Neither of us is winning. This is just a waste of our fucking time!"

Brezhnev chuckled and walked to the net, clapping Nixon on the shoulder. "Ah, but the point is not always to win. The point is to show strength. You fight hard, you stand your ground, and that... that is enough."

Nixon shook his head, still frustrated. "Well, I don't see how this helps the arms control."

Brezhnev shrugged again. "Maybe not. But I will say this—next time, we do something less... athletic." He patted his stomach, which had been jiggling throughout the match. "Maybe chess. Yes, definitely chess."

"Fine," Nixon muttered, straightening his tie as if to regain some sense of dignity. "Next time, we'll do chess."

Kissinger and Gromyko looked at one other as they left the court, both men sweating and panting. Kissinger leaned over, whispering to his Soviet counterpart, "We're going to have to double the diplomatic efforts to make up for that catastrophe, aren't we?"

Gromyko, adjusting his glasses, nodded with a slight smirk. "Undoubtedly. But at least they are not trying to solve nuclear issues with tennis."

Kissinger sighed deeply. "Small mercies. Small mercies."