Behind the Baseline
Fifteen all.
“Come on!” the crowd yelled. “Allez!”
The stadium lights had come on. The roof was open, but a sheet of cloud covered the sky overhead. From the upper rows, the two men looked like tiny figures on the court below. From up there, you couldn’t see the sweat dripping down their faces, or their breathing becoming heavy.
Normally, by this point in the match, the fans would’ve gotten up for a drink or a cigarette, but no one dared leave their seat.
“Come on Léo!” they yelled.
Léo stood behind the baseline. Just hold serve, he said to himself. One game. Just hold serve, then you’re in the tiebreak and anything can happen.
Léo grabbed the towel from the ball boy at the back of the court and wiped his balding forehead. He could feel the muscles in his thighs. He looked across the net at his opponent, the young Spaniard, who was bouncing side to side. Silly kid, he thought.
Ok, focus. He’s been unloading on your second serve, so take a little off your first serve and get it in. The crowd quieted as Léo approached the service line. He bounced the ball once, twice, and tossed it in the air… into the net. There was an anxious murmur around the stadium.
The crowd was pulling for him. He knew that, the Spaniard knew that, everyone knew. Léo had turned thirty-five earlier in the year, and he’d decided that this would be his last tournament, here in his home country. He’d barely been able to play the last couple years because of the injuries. His body was breaking down. And with Katherine wanting to start a family and all, he decided it was time.
“Shh,” people in the crowd called out. Léo noticed the cameras going off to his right. A reporter standing, saying something to the person behind. The stadium was at capacity, tens of thousands of fans. It had been the same for his first-round match. Afterward, he couldn’t leave the stadium for over two hours because of all the media.
At the press conference, one of the reporters had asked him about his most memorable matches. Those were the type of questions he was getting asked now. Léo gave a weak answer, but at home afterward, as he sat with bags of ice over his knees, he found himself thinking about it. His best memories. It felt silly, but he had never really considered it. You don’t think about it when you’re in it.
Léo stepped up to the service line and hit a high kicking second serve, but the Spaniard was ready for it, already inside the baseline, and hit an easy forehand down the line for a winner.
Fifteen - thirty.
There was a collective groan in the crowd. As Léo turned, he saw movement in the press box beside the court. They were getting ready to come out for the post-match interviews. It was late.
He was in his bed at this time last night, not sleeping, thinking about that stupid reporter. In his mind, all the matches seemed to blend together. They were a series of wins and losses, of flights and hotels, of fatigue and defeat and tears, and motivation and practice and overwhelming joy, and wins and losses…
When Léo thought about his career, specific matches didn’t stand out. It was walking alone through the streets of London after losing in the semi-finals in 2013. He remembered that quite clearly. It was the closest he got to winning a Major. He must have walked around for hours downtown, in no direction whatsoever.
And he remembered running in the winter out in Marseille. He was home visiting his father, and the fields in the country were still covered in snow. It was the whitest thing he’d ever seen. Miles of nothingness.
And he thought about the day he met Katherine, at the coffee shop here in Paris. She was seated on a bench wearing a pair of red pants, and didn’t look up when he walked in. He’d been to the shop several times, but that day he wasn’t sure if he should stay at the counter or sit down and wait for someone to come over. Which resulted in him standing awkwardly around the bar, pretending to look around the shop. He finally sat down at the other end of the bench, and she turned and made eye contact.
Hello
Ok, focus. Next point, Léo said to himself. Léo stepped up and hit a strong first serve. The Spaniard hit a backhand cross-court at his feet, which Léo just got his racket on. The ball floated back, clipped the top of the net, and rolled over.
Thirty all.
The crowd erupted. Léo held his hand up in apology, but the Spaniard wasn’t looking. He was yelling something in Spanish up towards his box. The French crowd frustrating him.
It seemed to Léo all the young players now looked up to their coach and family, almost between every point. It annoyed him. Part of the reason he was drawn to the game in the first place was that it was just you and your opponent. You didn’t have to rely on anyone else.
The next point, Léo stepped up and hit a flat serve at his opponent's body, who managed to chop it back. But Léo timed it perfectly, already coming to the net, and put away a volley for the winner.
Forty - thirty.
It felt like an explosion around the arena. People were standing and whistling.
“Allez Léo!”
Léo tried to calm his breathing. He wiped his palm on the side of his shorts. One more point. He pictured the scene. A massive upset. A five-set thriller. The aging Frenchman looking to make a deep run at the Open.
“Please,” the chair umpire said into the microphone.
There was still chatter throughout the stadium as Léo stepped up to the service line and hit his best serve of the match. The Spaniard lunged and just got a racket on it. The ball looped high to the back of the court and landed on the line, and they began to rally.
Ten shots. Fifteen shots.
Léo hit crosscourt to his opponent's backhand, hoping he would go for too much and make an error, but the Spaniard was disciplined.
Twenty shots. Twenty-five.
Léo knew he wasn’t going to win by pounding the ball back and forth. With the Spaniard far back in the court, Léo hit a drop shot, slicing the ball barely over the net. The crowd shrieked as the Spaniard lunged forward, getting his racket under the ball. Léo tried to lob it to the back of the court, but he short-armed it, leaving it up for the Spaniard to hit an overhead smash down the sideline for a winner.
Deuce.
The crowd, even though they were supporting Léo, stood applauding.
Fuck. Léo called for the towel.
He walked slowly to the back of the court. Come on, don’t go out like this, he thought to himself. As he reached for the towel he glanced at the ball boy. He couldn’t have been older than fifteen. He reminded Léo of himself. He had been a ball boy once. Did everything to be around tennis.
Léo’s mother passed when he was two, so it was just he and his father growing up. There was a building across the street from their house, and after school he’d go over and hit a ball against the wall for hours. Topspin forehands, jumping two-handed backhands. When he was really angry he’d blast serves until his shoulder hurt. And every day, before he went in for dinner, he’d picture himself at Wimbledon or the French Open. It would be the end of a long rally on championship point, and he’d run down the ball and hit a winner down the line, the crowd going crazy.
“Please,” the chair umpire said, trying to quiet the crowd.
Breathe. Next point, Léo repeated to himself.
The clouds in the sky were finally beginning to clear. The moon was visible above the court, but Léo kept his head down, trying to avoid looking in the crowd. The last thing he needed was to catch the eyes of a knowing fan.
You’ve been down hundreds of match points before and come back, he said to himself. Don’t go out like this. Hit a big first serve. Serve and volley, get an easy point.
His legs felt like lead. “Please,” the chair umpire repeated.
Léo took a deep breath and stepped up to the service line. He bounced the ball once, twice, and then tossed… “Out,” the line judge called. There was a nervous buzz in the crowd.
Just get it in. Don’t overthink it. One bounce, two bounces, toss… The ball clipped the net and rolled over.
“Let. Second serve.”
Phew. He was about to turn back for the towel, and then Léo looked up to his box. He knew exactly where to look. There was Katherine, her chin resting on her hands. The same position she was always in at the end of a match. They looked each other directly in the eyes.
Hello
Hello, she replied, uncrossing and then recrossing her legs in the red pants.
The coffee shop had a yellow sign out front, and two large floor-to-ceiling windows looking out to the street. There was a round counter in the middle and benches along one wall, where the two of them were sitting.
Léo didn’t reply for several seconds. He hadn’t planned what to say after hello. But he looked her in the eyes, and he swore he knew at that moment. It was a terrifyingly wonderful feeling. And he had the feeling she knew as well. Like she knew now.
The crowd was still screaming, but Léo couldn’t hear them. He stood behind the baseline looking up towards his box, towards Katherine. And although you couldn’t see it from the upper rows, you couldn’t even see it from the press box beside the court, a tiny grin appeared on Léo’s face. And he felt a lightness.
“Please,” the umpire said through the microphone. “Second serve.”
GLEN BULLOCK is a writer born and raised in Toronto, Canada. Unrelated to writing, he has summited the 3 highest mountains on the African continent. Glen can usually be seen biking around the city with his headphones in, listening to Donny Hathaway.