The Sun, The Moon, and Their Stars

17 : Love

Benjamin

I bend down a bit to the bench and adjust the laces of my right shoe.

"Have you seen the draw?" George asks me.

"I just saw it," I reply and fix the left one.

He's arranging some of our things inside a locker assigned for us in the small locker room of the country club.

"We're up against the Alexanders," I say, dropping my foot, satisfied with how my shoes fit.

George puts his hands on his hips and looks around. It's a small room connected to the men's showers and restroom, with two rows of wooden lockers, and a long cushioned bench in the middle.

He leans closer to my ear and tells me Alexander Junior has a good forehand. "Try as much to bring the ball to his backhand," he adds with a nod. Then he gives me one of the towels the club provided.

We walk out of the locker room and into the warm Saturday morning, on our way to one of the two outdoor tennis courts.

The format of the tournament is unconventional. The plays are done in teams, and each team is a pair. Matches are the best of threes. The first set is played in singles, the second with doubles, and if there's a need, then the third or deciding set is another singles.

Today is the elimination round, tomorrow the quarters, and the semis and final will be next week if weather permits. And according to the notice they placed on a board at the entrance of the venue, George and I are up against the team of father-and-son Alexander Senior and Alexander Junior, last year's finalists.

The courts are standard hardcourts. The inner area is painted blue, and the surrounding spaces are green. They placed folding chairs all around them to welcome spectators. There's not much crowd, though. Tennis is not as popular here as basketball or any other sport.

I see my dad sitting in one corner, talking to one of his friends. I see Jay and Steve standing not far from him. I wave at them, and they whistle back.

Daryl can't make it today. He texted me last night; his mom won't allow him out unless he finishes his chores.

The players are warming up by hitting balls around the court. George and I are on one side, and the Alexanders on the other.

Our opponents are wearing matching tennis attires and all in whites. This event is not even remotely close to Wimbledon, and here they come to the scene in that style. I'm wearing black shorts and a white shirt; George, the same. But I'm in Nikes, and he's in Adidas.

I'm also observing Alex Jr.'s movement. We'll be the first to play in this match. I saw him last year, and I know he's got a good serve. We're about the same age, I think. And he's only two, or maybe even less, inches taller. He's right-handed; he plays forehand and two-handed backhand. So do I. His father is trickier. He plays one-handed backhand and likes to serve-and-volley.

The umpire signals the end to warm-ups. And we make our way to our designated chairs to hydrate and prepare.

"Time!" the umpire calls.

I walk over to the end of the court with my racket and receive from a ball kid a set of tennis balls. I'll serve first.

The ball hits the net. Fault.

I breathe in and out. Relax, I tell myself.

I dribble the ball again. One, two, three. I hold it next to my racket, toss it up the proper way to kick serve, and hit it with the right force. It drops onto the box at Junior's end, and he returns it to me with a massive forehand winner. The ball lands just on the corner of the service box on my end, where there's no way I could catch it. A person from the audience catches it and tosses the ball back to the kid.