THE TENNIS PLAYER'S SECRET

© Harold H. Comings 2016

The Tennis Player’s Secret

Dedicated to

Amanda Lunsetter

in appreciation for her encouragement

of our grandchildren

in developing tennis skills

which can be useful in touching lives

in the years to come.

Harold & Judy Comings

© Harold H. Comings 2016

The Tennis Player scanned the small crowd and the newly refurbished tennis court. His eyes drifted to the well manicured cemetery across the road and to the little church beside it. From there his heart moved farther than his eyes could go – to the winding river beside which he often sat in earlier days.

It had been a long time.

Voices in the present pulled his attention back to the thicket of tripods, cameras, and mounted lights rising from a tangle of cords in front of him. He stared at a reporter talking to her photography technician as they waited for the end of a commercial break.

Normally he did not mind interviews. The story of the hometown boy’s journey from a rundown tennis court to the green grass of Wimbledon resonated, especially in a region unknown to most of the world. But today…today there was danger.

Viewers loved the popular account of his father’s mentoring and of the decisions which brought him to a respectable ranking in the world of men’s tennis. But lurking beneath the surface lay something sacred… something awkward.  And on this warm June day he felt vulnerable.

A shiver went up his back. His forehead glistened. He scanned the park and his eyes fell on the nearby jungle gym where a ragamuffin kid sat alone on one of the bars. A lump lodged in his throat. Whoever the boy was his presence today had the power to yank the player's memory back in time – back to a day in his own childhood when he made a life-changing decision on that same jungle gym.

*   *   *

It was impossible to imagine who the stranger could have been who left a main highway in the eastern North Dakota flat lands, and then turned off the secondary road to search out an insignificant cluster of homes – homes concealed in a shelter-belt of trees; homes surrounding a small skyline of grain elevators. Did the visitor already know about the solitary tennis court there and there alone among the tiny hamlets up and down the winding Wild Rice river valley? What instinct made him, or her think this would be the place to plant a dream?  

A chatty girl on the television crew distracted the Player from his memory as she double-checked his makeup. But she could not hold him in the present. Perhaps she thought he blushed because of her. He did not. As always, but more than usual this morning, he was shamed by a wonder which haunted him every time he came home. It troubled him to think the mysterious visitor that day might have been at the village park in time to hear a young boy in the distance – to hear him yell, to hear him wish aloud that his father were dead, to hear him slam a door? This was the awkward part of the story –  the sacred part he never told.

For that boy, that long-ago day, the little park with its crumbling tennis court provided his favorite get-away in a town from which there seemed to be no escape. The few other children in the village ignored it. Although totally out in the open, it was on no one’s path to anywhere. There he could punch the air and kick at tree roots without interruption. There, a collection of battered and warped wooden tennis rackets provided the weapons he needed to vent his wrath against the ground which held him prisoner.

Although no one was around that afternoon, the boy knew someone had been. The old frames were there, of course; but now they were hidden beneath a pair of brilliant, titanium rackets, tightly strung and ready for serious use.

The discovery distracted him. He approached the novelty much like a mouse would analyze an unexpected piece of cheese. On the rackets rested a tube of bright yellow balls. He looked from side to side, stepped closer, and squinted. Taped to the tube was a note. After one more scan of the area, he picked up the tube and pulled off the folded paper, and read:

It would not be good to leave these outdoors. If you don’t have one, please take it as a gift. Take the other one, too; but give it to someone else. Who knows, you may discover a friend.

He mulled the words over on his way to the jungle gym close by the court. There he sat on one of the bars, rested the rackets on his lap, stared again at the note, looked around, and then looked in the direction of home. Over the years he would try to figure out what, in the muck of hopelessness, compelled him to walk what still seemed like the longest journey of his life – a journey which ended in his back yard where he found his father yanking weeds from a bed of Marigolds. It took a long, deep breath before he could say, “Dad, you played tennis in school, right?”

One by one his father’s fingers released their death grip on a belligerent stalk of ragweed. Tight-lipped and with dark eyes he glared at his son. Then he noticed the rackets.

“I found these at the court, honest,” the boy hurried to make clear. With trembling hand, he held out the note. “This was with them.”

Eyeing his son narrowly, Dad stood, rubbed his hands on his jeans, took the paper, and adjusted his glasses. The silent seconds passed. The boy’s legs wobbled. He had never known his father to read so slowly. Finally, Dad shook his head, cleared his throat, and continued to study the paper as he folded it slowly. Then he stared at the rackets as he shoved the note deep in his pocket.

“Come with me,” he said abruptly and took the rackets and led the way out of the back yard.

Tagging behind his father all the way back to the park proved to be the second longest journey of the Player’s life. Neither of them spoke – not about the argument, not about the slammed door, not about the hateful yell, not about anything until they reached the tennis court. There Dad held out the handle of a racket.

“Take hold of this like you would if you were shaking hands.”

Almost two hours later, side-by-side, they returned home. To the best of the Tennis Player’s memory he never tagged behind his father again.

Over the years the shame of the tension which had existed between his father and himself kept the story enshrined in silence, but it was never out of mind whenever he talked about the dynamic mentoring relationship which followed that day – father and son, day after day at that weather-worn tennis court, playing and talking.

“Dad, I’m worried about this math test tomorrow.” “Dad, the guys are getting kind of mean at school.” “Dad, there’s this girl.” The Tennis Player’s present-day fans, and especially the locals, enjoyed hearing how his father would tilt his head, nod, and say with a Norwegian sternness, “Do you have a plan?” Then the two of them would think together about possibilities.

His favorite part of the public story was when Dad said, during an afternoon practice, “Thought anything about joining the JV squad?” That question opened the door to milestones of school trophies, scholarships, and the rugged and often tedious climb up the ranks of professional tennis.

*   *   *

Now, still waiting for the interview to begin, the Tennis Player looked once more at the jungle gym. The ragamuffin was gone, but the youngster left behind the memory of a doorbell on a distant summer Saturday.

The kid who rang that bell on the front porch that day was the last person the high school Tennis Player or anyone else would have wanted to see. A junior higher, he was new in a neighborhood which didn’t know what to do with much of anything new. Aloofness had been his only defense against being ignored or, worse, avoided. Nobody tried to know him and, therefore, everybody felt obligated to distrust him, and he gave back what he was given. That was why he could overcome nervousness with impudence when the door opened in response to the button he had pressed. There was no misunderstanding the uncomfortable surprise in the upperclassman’s face, and the kid met it with the hint of a well practiced smirk.

“I found these over at the court,” he announced and held out a pair of new tennis rackets. “I figured you’re the only tennis nerd I know about, so, here. I guess you’d know what to do with ‘em.”

Then he fished a paper from his pocket and added, “This explains it.”

With the rackets under one arm, the Tennis Player took the paper.

I left a couple of these here some time ago. Maybe you’re the person who found them. Maybe you’re someone else. If you are someone else, please take one and give the other to someone who might like it. If you are the one, I hope you found a friend with the first one. If you did, maybe your racket’s getting worn out. Here’s a new one for you. I hope the experience of a new friend was pleasant enough so you might be interested in finding another.

The kid understood, or he thought he understood why the Tennis Player stared at the note and at the racket and at the note again. What he didn’t understand was why he himself waited longer than he needed to turn away and say, “You can have ‘em, I don’t play girl stuff.”

The Tennis Player shook confused thoughts from his head, blinked, caught the boy’s arm, and turned him back. “Was this stuck to a tube of balls?”

“Yeah. I left ‘em there,” the boy replied and yanked his arm away. “I figured you had plenty.”

“Come with me,” the Tennis Player said abruptly and led him down the steps. 

The kid had intended to be cool - to stroll away with the satisfaction of having rejected rejection. He did not know what to do with someone who wanted to walk somewhere with him. So, with no plan B, he found himself at the player’s side, listening to an explanation of rackets, strokes, and basic rules. At the court the Tennis Player retrieved the container, popped open the lid, pocketed the balls, and extended the handle of a racket.

“Here, take hold of this as if you were shaking hands.”

The boy glanced at him and shoved his hands in his pockets. “I don’t do sports.”

“Go ahead shake hands with it,” the Tennis Player insisted.

With his best expression of boredom, the boy produced a hand, greeted the racket as though it had cooties, and discovered not one, but two friends – the racket and the upperclassman who introduced him to it.

 From that day on the boy and the Tennis Player were often on the court. Still more often they were found side-by-side on projects, pouring over the boy’s homework, and sitting on the river bank behind the church. In the Tennis Player’s senior year they were teammates and high profile players in the school lineup. And their friendship drew in others. Together they developed a mentoring program over which the boy took leadership when the Tennis Player was graduated.

In time that boy, by then a man, accepted a coaching position at the high school while the Tennis Player plunged into the amateur and then the professional tennis world. Though they took different paths, they refused to lose touch. In spite of the growing demands of a world-wide itinerary, the Tennis Player took time to serve as the best man at his friend’s wedding. No matter how many miles separated them, they called each other – especially after every major tournament. And when they were anywhere close, the Tennis Player would join his friend’s young family for a much needed spell of rest and recreation…until now. Today the Tennis Player would sit behind his friend’s wife and young sons in the church across the road. Tomorrow he would leave behind almost his last contact with the world he once hated as much as he had hated his father...and as much as he had hated that ill-mannered seventh grader.

*   *   *

“Ten seconds…” a man’s voice broke through the Tennis Player’s thoughts. “Nine…eight…”

He squared his shoulders, tilted his head instinctively to present his most photogenic side, and waited as the newswoman morphed into her on-screen persona. It had been awhile since he felt the sudden tightness which now gripped his throat.

The woman introduced him to the audience, waited for the splattered applause to fade, and then said, “It’s always wonderful to have you come back when you’re in the area. We never get tired of hearing how your career began right here on this very court.”

He nodded.

She continued. “We’re so sorry that this time you’ve had to come back to say ‘good-bye,’ to a best friend.”

He hoped the camera was focused on her.

“You’ve come all the way from England, less than a week away from your third qualifying appearance at Wimbledon – all the way to the Red River of the North, to a little community unknown to the world. That’s a pretty big change of schedule.”

He stared at a light cable and swallowed.

“The young husband and father who died at our high school exhibition on Saturday coached the team on which you and he played,” she pressed. “We’ve known your friendship runs deep.”

Before she could say more, he heard his voice say, “It runs much more deeply than you know.”

News people try not to be surprised. Today the interviewer failed; and in the awkward moment, the Tennis Player added, “There are some things about my story I’ve never told. But, with your permission, in honor of my friend, I want to tell them now. I think it needs to be understood, I have no right to be the celebrity you think I am.”

*   *   *

The next morning, breakfast with Dad and Mom was quiet. Not an uncomfortable quietness. It was a respectful silence that would not allow small talk. The Tennis Player had never doubted his father’s love or his respect since that day at the old court in the old park in the old village where home still called him to revisit his memories. But this morning he basked in a different atmosphere of admiration. Not the kind that comes in response to talent. Not the kind a parent gives to an adult child who honors the family name. This was one man’s admiration of another man’s grace – the grace of a humility which takes ownership of personal struggles.

That afternoon, with an hour to spare before he would leave for the airport and his flight from Fargo to London, the Tennis Player took time for one more walk to the park. In the cemetery he stood beside the fresh dirt and fading flowers of the new grave. Beside the river he sat and tried to feel his friend’s presence as in earlier days – days when they talked about where the water went in its northward journey to Lake Winnipeg – days when they dreamed of where they themselves might go in the winding currents of life.

It was not easy to keep his resolve not to look at the tennis court until last. He planned that moment as a kind of ceremonial, “good-bye.” From then on, he told himself, although he would visit his parents from time to time, he would walk away from unrealistic nostalgia. His best friend was gone. He and some others were pooling resources to help the widow and her boys stay on their feet and move forward. It was time for him to move forward as well… and not look back.

As he crossed the road, he made himself stare at the pavement. Only when he stepped onto the park lawn did he look up. And, when he did, he stopped short.

At the far end of the court stood a youngster, just inside the fence where the old wooden tennis rackets once were kept. 

He crossed the court quietly and stood behind the boy and watched him run his fingers around the rim of an orange racket. On the fence hung a yellow one of the same make. The Player might not have recognized the youngster had the boy not been wearing the same dirty clothes he wore yesterday when he watched for awhile from a perch on the jungle gym. 

“You okay?" the Tennis Player asked at last.

The boy spun around, jerked back, fumbled, and nearly dropped the racket. In the process he kicked over a tube of balls.

“I wasn’t gonna take it,” he spluttered and pointed his thumb back over his shoulder toward another racket. “I just found it here beside that one, honest.”  

“Wait!” the Tennis Player blurted out as the boy turned to hang the racket on a hook beside it mate.

The boy backed against the fence, held up his hands, took a couple steps to the side, and protested, “I didn’t do nothin’ wrong!”

The Tennis Player’s eyes shifted to the tube of balls now resting against the fence. He nodded toward it. “Is there a note on that container?”

The kid glanced at the can and squinted at the Player. “Yeah there is. I didn’t read it. None of my business.”

“Maybe it is,” the Player replied and stooped to pick up the can.

Curiosity kept the youngster from taking advantage of the moment to escape. His eyes studied the Player’s hands as he lifted the note from the cylinder and unfolded the paper. He watched his face as he read in silence.

I saw this tennis player on the morning show. He talked about someone leaving some tennis rackets and balls at a tennis court. I think it was this one. Last night my boy and I got a couple rackets and some balls. Tomorrow we’ll sign up for lessons. Since I can’t get in touch with the guy on TV to say “Thanks,” my boy and I thought we’d get a couple more rackets to put here for somebody else. Whoever finds these, we would really be glad if you would keep one for yourself and give the other to someone who could use a friend.

The Tennis Player’s mouth twisted awkwardly. The next couple breaths came with difficulty. Now it was the boy’s turn to ask. “You okay?” 

*   *   *

EPILOGUE

There is such a community as sketched here, and it has a tennis court. The village has for some time intrigued the author when he has visited family in the area. However, beyond the sketch there is nothing in this story which reflects any known facts about the character of the people who live there. The author has no firsthand knowledge of either the citizens or the real story of the real place. Rather, he has inserted features he has seen in other small localities over the years to create an imaginary atmosphere in which to dream a dream of the potential value of a pair of tennis rackets.