0-6, 5-6

“Time.”

I sit.

“Time.” A little louder.

I sit.

“Ms. Traiger?”

Nothing.

“Melanie...?”

Fuck. Alright, here we go. I stand. Remember to breathe. Grab racket. I've walked this walk countless times. From chair to baseline. Get three balls from the ball kid. Toss one back. Tuck one away. Bounce the ball one, two, three four, five times. Consider game plan. Ready, set, serve.

This time, though, this time was different. This time could be the last time. My last walk. My last service game. My last match. My last loss. My last everything. I didn't expect tears. I'd cried my last one too long ago. I was going to leave my rackets in the locker room and walk out empty handed. I wasn't sure where I was going to go; tennis had been my life for as long as I could remember. After sixteen years on the tour and eight on the junior circuit, this was it. I was finally going to be done. Done. It sounded so final and I couldn't have been happier.

I hadn't told a soul that I was leaving the game, not my coach, not my girlfriend, not my agent who didn't return my calls anyway. No one. Mary Carillo and Martina Navratilova weren't in the press box waxing poetic about my career and my longevity and about how I was going to get married and have babies and maybe become a commentator on down the road. Nope. There was none of that. And really, even if I'd told the world, it wouldn't be any different. I'd still be out on Court 17 at 0-6, 5-6 serving to stay in the match. My last match. The last fucking tennis match I would ever play. And no one would care one way or the other.

Carolina Wiederhoffer. German. Homophobic as all get-up. Probably a closeted dyke. A year older than me and holding her ranking a lot better than me. I'm still leading head-to-head, but just barely. Sveta says we've played thirty-one times and I've won seventeen of those meetings (Apparently I pay Sveta to tell me these things). She also said twice this morning, over breakfast and again after practice, that once upon a time I had beaten her ten times in a row, but now Carolina's won the last five times we've played. We're four points away from making it six. Win or lose, though right now it looks like lose, I'll still have the career head-to-head. Not that I care.

Breathe out. I hate this bitch. Let's get this over with.

Body serve.

Inside out forehand return cross court.

Winner.

Fuck. Lucky shot.

0-15

I used to be able to get her with that serve. I used to be able to do a lot of things. It's not that I'm old, out of shape, or injured. I just can't do it anymore. I can't make myself care. I can't get over my absolute utter dislike of the game. I hate it. I'm pretty sure I always have. Well, almost always anyway. When I was younger I persevered, made due, sucked it up. Tennis was all there is and all there would be. I was good, very good, and making a decent amount of money along the way. Life wasn't good, but it could have been a lot worse. I could have been spent the last sixteen years working a boring job and living in a boring city. Instead I've been living the dream, someone's dream, and traveling the world playing a game. A game. A fucking game.

I've been ranked as high as #1 in the world (for two months back in 2001) and as low as 123 (right now). A year ago I fell out of the Top 50 for the first time since I broke through at the age of seventeen in 1996 and I've been circling the drain ever since. I lost my sponsorships (once upon a time I had Head and Nike and Gatorade and Coca-Cola clamoring for me) so now I play logo-less. Which really is fine with me (Don't ask Sveta about it – she misses the free stuff). It's a lot less pressure. When you stop producing they stop expecting you to produce. This is freedom. Or at least it is for me. After years of trying so hard to be everything everyone expected me to be, I welcome failure. It feels oddly like catharsis.

Three balls from the ball kid. Toss one back. Tuck one away. Bounce the ball one, two, three four, five times.

Kick serve out wide to her forehand (ooh, second first serve in a row in).

Sharply angled cross court return.

Down the line forehand.

Cross court backhand.

Backhand out.

0-30

The crowd, such as they are, cheers for the Bitch. I don't dare glance at The Vultures in my box. They won't be happy. I've seen it a million times. Sveta with her arms folded, scowl defiling her face. Elizabeth with her head cocked disapprovingly to the side, hands stuffed in her jacket pocket. I'm their meal ticket and first round losses don't pay the bills. I've known Sveta since I was fifteen. My step-dad hired her to coach me after I'd run off a rotisserie of coaches. The last one, a snarky little man from South Africa, I hit in the gonads with three overheads. In a row. Then I tried to run him over with my car as we left the courts. I was hateful, willful, and incorrigible. I was also really, really good. Sveta was tough as nails, Russian, and lacked gonads. Step-daddy dearest thought she was perfect for the job. She cussed at me in five languages. I cussed back in English. She worked my game. I worked her patience. Right about the time she'd had enough, I got to the Semis at the U.S. Open. It was a total Cinderella story. American kid wins U.S. Girls 18s, gets wild card into main draw at the Open, beats the eighteenth, seventh, and fourth seeds before losing to the first seed and eventual champion in three sets. Previous to me, her biggest claim to fame was getting to the Round of 16 at Wimbledon in 1980 something. I might have been a precocious, ungrateful little bitch, but I was money. She wasn't going anywhere. I was sixteen.

So, here we are sixteen years later. I hate her. She hates me. I used to ask myself why she stayed. I'm not the meal ticket I once was. 123 money isn't Top 10 money. And yet through the landslide and quicksand of the past three years she kept coaching and cussing and glaring at me from my box. Then one day, I realized. I understood. It was Elizabeth. My girlfriend. That's why she stayed.

Elizabeth (always 'Elizabeth, not Liz, Beth, Eli, or Liza. Elizabeth. Weird) latched onto me when I was in the top five and had everything going for me. Previous to me, her biggest claim to fame was... nothing. Absolutely nothing. But she was pretty and had the body of a Victoria's Secret model. I was smitten and she was willing to travel the world with me. Women like that are hard to come by. Most want to have their own lives. Eight years later I wished she wanted her own life. I found her pathetic, needy, and demanding. But she made a great personal assistant so I kept her around. I assumed she stayed for the money. However, 123 money isn't Top 10 money. Yet there she was staring down at me from my box with sunglasses both day and night, either half asleep or scowling, never smiling. Then one day I realized. I understood. Sveta. My coach. That's why she stayed.

They spent time together when I wanted to be alone. They trained for and ran a half marathon together. A stolen glance here and comment there. I could see all the signs. Then at Indian Wells this past March, I saw Elizabeth sneaking out of Sveta's room. My intution was vindicated.

I said nothing, but my game went in the tank. I lost in the first round at Miami, Charleston, and in the qualies at Madrid, and skipped Rome due to “injury”. I lost again in the qualies of the French and got a wildcard into Wimbledon (champion 2002) only to lose in the first round. My ranking dropped below 100. I hated the game and hated my life. I resolved to quit without notice before the U.S. Open. And here we are.

At the baseline again. Three balls from the ball kid. Toss one back. Tuck one away. Bounce the ball one, two, three four, five times.

Hit another kick serve to her forehand. Sveta would say vary it. I say fuck Sveta.

“Out”

Pull tucked ball out. Bounce it one, two, three, four, five times.

Second serve.

Same serve again. Kicker to the forehand.

Return down the line.

Backhand cross court.

Winner.

The crowd keeps their seats. The Vultures sit stone-faced.

15-30

I say I've always hated the game, but for awhile I honestly tolerated it. After I got to the semis at the Open, it all just seemed to come together. My ranking went up, prize money flooded my bank account, sponsorships and interview requests rolled in, and I won a Porsche in Germany. Then I hit the big-time. I won my first Grand Slam. Seeded fourth and ranked fifth in the world, I cruised through the early rounds without dropping a set. I beat the first seed in the Semis and the reigning champion and number two seed in the Final. I was eighteen and the unlikely darling of the All England Tennis Club. As I held the champion's plate above my head and flash bulbs popped all around me, I was truly happy. I barely remembered the last time I'd been happy on a tennis court.

Then the happiness faded again. Sveta and I went back to cussing at each other and expectations rose. They said I could be the next great thing. At eighteen, I had my whole career ahead of me. I would win and win and win. And I did. For awhile. Then I didn't. As I slid down the slippery slope, they criticized my game, my serve, my fitness, my head, my coach (couldn't argue with that one), my focus, my attitude, my injuries, my clothes, my twitter posts, my sexuality. Everything was up for discussion. I sucked. I failed.

Eh. I hated it anyway.

Toe the line again. Need this point to stay close.

What am I saying? It's not that I'm trying to lose. I fought my way back into this set for a reason. I just don't know what that reason is. Old habits, I guess.

Three balls from the ball kid. Toss one back. Tuck one away. Bounce the ball one, two, three four, five times.

Serve up the T.

Ace.

30-30

A month after my dad died, my mom and I moved to Tampa, Florida. I was six. Six months later she remarried. My mom thought I didn't like Jim because he wasn't my father. I didn't like him because he was a pompous know-it-all ego maniacal jackhole. And he didn't like me one bit. I was constantly underfoot and always wanted my mom. When I expressed interest in playing tennis, he jumped at it. The more, the better as far as he was concerned. It could have been horse jumping or hockey, whatever kept me out of the house. He was already a member of the local country club so he signed me up for all the lessons he could. Even on the days I didn't have lessons, he would drop me off with my racket and a jug of water. I was the world's smallest court rat and I loved it. I hit some, played ball kid for the members, and watched the older kids take lessons. I soaked it all in.

Then one day, the head pro, Steve, stopped Jim as he was driving away.

“Mr. Paulson,” Steve said, leaning in the passenger side window, “Your daughter here has talent.”

Nevermind that I wasn't his daughter and that he hated me. This was music to Jim.

“Talent? Like how much?”

“Like Chris Evert, Billie Jean King. Champion talent. She's already beating kids almost twice her age.”

Suddenly Jim took interest in my game and my development. He wouldn't leave me alone. He pulled me out of the country club and drove me all over Tampa trying out coaches. Finally he settled on my first private coach. Supposedly the guy had worked with somebody who'd been somebody once upon a time. To me, he smelled like Ben Gay and old cigars. I was seven. And tennis was never the same again.

I kicked and screamed and cussed and got code violations but I won and I won and I won. Steve had been right. I had talent.

Jim adopted me, gave me his last name, shortly after I won the 16s. People talked about me going pro in a few years. Jim saw dollar signs and I became Melanie Paulson. I was eleven.

Win this point and it's game point for me. Lose it and it's game, set, match, career point against. Biggest point of the match. Biggest of my career. Don't think. Just serve the ball and don't fuck up. Sveta's sage advice.

Three balls from the ball kid. Toss one back. Tuck one away. Bounce the ball one, two, three...

What would 'fucking up' be in this case? Winning the point? Losing the point? I want this to end. I've hated it for so long, everything about it. Where in the Hell am I supposed to go when it's over. I probably should have thought of that before now.

Just serve the ball and don't fuck up. Sveta in my head again.

Bounce the ball one, two, three, four, five times.

Kick serve down the middle.

“Let!”

“Out!”

“Second serve.”

Bounce the ball one, two, three, four, five times.

Cut off her angles. Kicker down the T to her backhand.

Double fault.

Oops. I fucked up. Maybe what they say about my head is right. I don't look at The Vultures. I know what they're thinking.

30-40, Match Point

On my eighteenth birthday, in the middle of the French Open at one of the swankiest restaurants in Paris, I told Jim to go screw himself. My mom sided with him. I was on my own. I got a lawyer, an accountant, and changed agents. When I got back to the States I filed the paperwork and went to court. I was my father's daughter again. The next tournament I won, I won as Melanie Traiger. I like to think my dad would have been proud.

He loved tennis, my dad. I don't think he was very good – a self-trained 3.0 maybe. On a good day. But what he lacked in skill he made up for in passion. We lived in Austin at the time and every Sunday morning like clock-work he and three buddies would meet up at Little Stacy Park. The court wasn't the nicest; the fences were too close and the net usually in a state of disrepair, but they didn't care. They played five, six, seven sets. Most Sundays I tagged along. It was better than watching cartoons and eating cereal waiting for my mom to wake up. One day one of the guys brought a little wooden racket for me to play with. It had belonged to his son when he was my age. I went to the other court and pretended to play. I bounced the ball one, two, three, four, five times and then smacked it toward the net. Every week after that, my dad and I would show up early and he would toss me balls. Once I could do that, we played short court in the service boxes. The guys marveled at my hand-eye coordination. My dad beamed with pride. I was five.

One day my dad never came home from work. My mom said he died. We had a memorial service. My dad's tennis buddies showed up. In the days after the funeral, my mom threw a lot of dad's things away. She said we were moving and couldn't haul it all with us. I found his tennis stuff in a pile – his shoes, shorts, shirts, duffle bag, and wrist bands. Underneath it all lay his racket, a T-3000, in it's blue and white cover. I stole it and hid it in my toybox. My mom never knew I had it. A couple days later we left Austin. I've never been back.

Three balls from the ball kid. Toss one back. Tuck one away. Bounce the ball one, two, three, four, five times. I'm ready. This could be it. The last point I ever play.

I stop and walk to my chair. I dig into my bag and pull out the racket that I have carried with me to every tournament I have ever played. It hasn't been restrung and the leather grip looks worn. I toss my Head Extreme on the chair and walk back toward the baseline. The sun shines off the metal frame in my hand. I don't look at The Vultures. I know they're leaning forward in their seats. I can almost hear them saying, “What in the fuck is she doing? What in the Hell is that?” You see, they don't know what I know. They don't know that this could be it and if it is it, I want it to end the way it started. With my dad.

Bounce the ball one, two, three, four, five times.

Just get it in. The serve hits the middle of the box.

Forehand cross court return.

Forehand cross.

Sharper angle forehand cross.

Forehand down the line.

Back hand cross court. Move forward. She's on the run.

Weak back hand down the line.

Forehand approach sharp angle cross court.

Get to the net!

Forehand cross court.

Volley down the line.

Running back hand lob.

Overhead smash to her forehand.

Forehand cross court.

Drop shot to her backhand.

She runs, runs and reaches out.

Winner up the line.

"Game. Set. Match Ms. Weiderhoffer."

I stop and look down at the racket in my hand. My dad's racket. After twenty-seven years, it still had a little something left in it. I smile, the first time I've really smiled in years. I'm happy. My dad would have been proud. I jog to the net and shake Carolina's hand.

“Nice match.”

I shake the chair's hand and walk toward my bag. I leave it where it lays. I pick up the blue and white T-3000 cover and put it on the racket. The zipper is old and metal and rough, but I manage to close it.

I walk past The Vultures, through the tunnel and off the court. I wind my way through the tennis complex toward the locker room. No one asks for my autograph. No one knows what just happened. I know Sveta and Elizabeth will try to chase me down. Something's weird with their meal ticket. They'll investigate. I move quickly through the locker room to my locker. I grab only the essentials – my wallet and passport. With my dad's racket in hand, move toward the exit.

“Mel!” I hear behind me. The voice is familiar. I keep going.

“Melanie! Wait!” It's the other familiar voice.

As I get to the door to the outside world, I stop. I should probably tell them so I do.

“I quit.”, I say quietly with little ire, anger, or fanfare. “I quit.”

I push the door in front of me open and walk out into the sunshine. In that moment, I knew exactly who I was, what I wanted, and where I was going.

“Thanks, Dad. I love you, too”.