Risk of Winning

It stung the first time. Second grade. I was picked middle of the pack for kickball. In that last inning I was on deck. One out already. Two to go. Down one score. If Emiliano got out and then I got out, we would lose. But Emiliano kicked deep to mid-center and ran. Fast. Like too fast for elementary school. He passed first, rounded second, slid into third. It was all glory for Emiliano. Tying run in position.

Then my turn. Steve Garza, coolest kid in the class, said, “Daniel, just kick it soft. Don’t kick it up.” I asked why. Steve said because if you kick it up and they catch it, that’s an out. And maybe they catch it and throw it at Emiliano, then that’s two outs. We lose. 

I nodded. If I wanted to win, I should keep the ball on the ground. So, with the pitch, the ball rolling down the center dirt, I saw it all: the way I would shuffle to the plate, draw back my foot, scoop under the ball, and pop it infield to my left. Right where any of three people—pitcher, shortstop, third base—could catch the ball. Out. And maybe get Emiliano leaning off base. Final out. Game over. We lose.

But it didn’t happen that way. I don’t know why, but my foot went under, and the ball sailed over Emiliano on third, deep into the outfield where no one was waiting. Emiliano, tying score, ran home as I jogged toward first. I meandered, still giving time for an out. But the ball had bounced over the fence. Ms. Seto said, “Ground rule double, Daniel. Go to second. You’re safe.” 

My classmates cheered. Steve got up to the plate. The pitch. Then on first kick he booted one to deep right. “Run, Daniel, run,” he said and forced me all the way home. The win. The feeling of winning. Like a punch to the gut. Like blood in my mouth. 

I vowed to never win again. To never feel that hollowness of excelling, to not taste the metallic tinge of victory. I could not look in the eyes across a checkerboard or a game of tic tac toe and know that pain. 

At first, I lost the easy way. I cheated. I threw moves or buried cards. For a while it was satisfying enough. But then it got hollow. I played people who were weaker than me, slower than me. And the losses were hard-earned: to purposely play so poorly, to listen to people say how dumb I was—“No, Daniel. That’s the wrong way.” And to have to feign surprise as if I didn't know. In time, the joy of losing was undone by the taunts of stupidity, the lowering of expectations.

After grade school I avoided competition altogether. That worked, too, mostly. But it wasn’t not-winning that I loved. It was the deep, penetrating pleasure of losing. Oh, shivering heavens, to be in a fist fight on the cusp of dealing a collapsing blow and to be cut—shock of shocks—by a kick to the shin or a knee to the groin. So unexpected. So vile and cruel and sudden. Just like that, to be struck down and defeated after I had given everything to win.

That was the only way to get that rush. To really risk winning. 

I dedicated myself to the risk of winning. First in academics, then in sports. Academics were never satisfying. They had a ceiling. If I got straight A’s, which I did, that was it. Someone else would, too. My junior year four of us had 4.0s. A tie. Almost as bad as a win. 

Surprisingly, athletics were not much better. Most were team sports, and to lose as a team—even if I were the reason for the loss—was no joy. I wanted to feel the complete loneliness of the stage, to fail on my own with no one else to share blame. Besides, in football, I became the team’s leading receiver. I set a record for touchdowns. But all the time and for every game, I ran, sprinting full speed, praying for some corner—my equal or better—to catch me and tackle with such force that I coughed up the ball. Then the luxurious humiliation of that fumble being run all the way back, the other team scoring, stuck with the win as the clock expired.

But that never happened. Nor in basketball. Nor baseball. Three sports, three letters. Each time, winning or the reason for winning. Or contributing so much to the win that even when we lost, my teammates credited me with a spiritual victory. “You did everything you could, Daniel,” said Coach. He turned to the team, “If y’all had played with half the heart of Daniel Meza we would be state champs.” Oh, the embarrassment. Oh, the cruelty.

So that’s when I found tennis. I was dreadful at it. Gloriously dreadful. And the scoring—how quick and constant were the losses. In four good serves, I could lose a game. Lose six games to lose a set. Lose three sets to lose a match. Loss compounding loss. And, except in those tournaments when forced into doubles, the losses were all mine.

But I wanted to lose bigger. I wanted greater stakes. I wanted to lose to people like Steve Garza. I wanted to lose to the best. 

For a while, I got my wish. I made it to varsity. I put together a streak of wins. And in that, I almost gave up. It was almost too much. Homecoming king. Interviews and photo features in the town paper. Scholarship offers. Thumbs up from the principal.

But I pressed through. Each vicious victory, each sickly celebration. I smiled because people demanded I smile. Oh, the oppression of it all—to act as pleased and jolly as a spaniel. And how there were then so many friends, so many people inviting and including me. Love, affection, acceptance. All because I could not lose.

Then state. Another victory. The college team. A national championship. Then the pro circuit. The ranking, the calls from agents, the promises of endorsements. Women in my hotel room, free meals at the finest restaurants. Handshakes and poses.

For a time, yes, I thought about dropping some drug into my urine sample so I could be disgraced, all credit for winning owed to a substance. But, no, such simple shame is nothing compared to the embarrassment of true defeat. Oh, the savor of being controlled, to be honestly beaten and tossed. To be helpless against a greater foe.

Then it came. Wimbledon. I was ranked third. My new shoe endorsement to be signed the next day, a date that evening with an actress. My parents in the front row. And by some luck of the draw, I was set against an unranked. A nobody. Some guy from Iowa who got in because someone else got sick. This was my moment. The Number Three losing to the punching dummy. Something so colossally devastating that it compared with Andre Agassi’s 1996 opening round falling to Doug Flach. The stuff of legends.

My guy was named Bill Stuber. That was his real name. And my dreams of sweet ignominy vanished as I handled him through the first set, 6 to 1. I barely sweat. But then I saw something change in Bill. He pulled a small rosary from his pocket and kissed it. I thought then that, yes, perhaps God would equip him. With that I took all courage and led off the beginning of the second set as focused and ruthless as if I were facing every tennis great. Williams, McEnroe, Sampras. To really lose, I could hold nothing back. I would be savage.

Then in that second set came Bill’s attempt to return my first serve. Bill missed by five feet. So disappointing. The one grace was that the line judge, mercifully, declared a fault. It was not a fault, but I didn’t argue. On the next serve Bill was ready. Oh, he was magnificent. Utterly perfect. A brilliant return that landed just out of my reach. As if he had predicted all my instincts and drives. Soon, I was down a game.

Of course, I know enough not to claim my loss so quickly. I beat Bill back, winning the second game. But it continued like this, a game won, a game lost. It was a delirium of disappointment and pleasure. Such that by the end of the second set, game on the line, I performed the most perfect backhand I had ever achieved. Oh, to this day people still bring it up. How had Bill not miraculously returned the ball, it would have gone down as the greatest backhand in all men’s tennis. 

But Bill did return it. And when people tell me about how they saw my hit, how they had never seen anything like it, I delight still because they then talk of Bill’s return and my loss of the set.

So it continued. For nearly three hours. Bill Stuber, the unknown, winning the stands to his side. Between games I could see the whispers in the crowd. My mom and dad, even. They were afraid. Oh, I tingle thinking of it. They could all feel it: that Daniel Meza was playing the game of his life, but this Bill Stuber—what poise, what skill, what brilliance. 

I knew then that I had been doing this all wrong. A loss against the greatest was excusable. But to lose against the unknown, to fail at every expectation so thoroughly, that was where the greatest humiliation lay. But such losses are rare. They come once or twice in a lifetime. I could not help but think, “This might be it.” But then, no, the game must be played. Oh, it was a fantasy. A foolish heartbreaking fantasy to imagine my isolation and loss. I had to focus on the win. That like so many other matches, I should be prepared to win. 

It was so close. Final set. Final game of the final set. And, yes, the memory of that first kickball game haunted me. If I were to win this match, I would be a hero. My life would teem with new opportunities, with praise, with affection. All that could still happen. And, yes, I had a fleeting temptation to pull back, to be less than exceptional. I hate to admit it, but I knew I could help the loss along. That day, I could place the ball anywhere I wanted. So, perhaps I would place it just to the right of the fault line. Not so much to look deliberate. Just enough that maybe people blamed the line judge. 

But no. Not controversy. If I missed, it had to be clear.

All of that was nonsense. I had come so far. I stood on the cusp of my greatest loss. And if I gave it anything other than my best, I would know. Deep down, the secret would take away all the pleasure. I would brood, year after year, in regret. I would ask whether, if I hadn’t thrown the match, might I have lost on my own merit? Oh, what hellish taunting.

So, I stared down Bill Stuber. He was too far to my left, and a good serve would land just out of his reach. I knew enough about Bill’s limits by then. The match was mine. And I nearly cried. With that last serve I would advance to the second round, and no loss from then on could be as sweet or humiliating or legendary as to lose to Billy Stuber. And more would that humiliation be if Bill were then destroyed in the second round, returned to his place of near anonymity—his only fame being my unseating. Oh, to watch that next match and to see Bill crushed in straight sets. And to hear how much more unbelievable it was that he beat Daniel Meza, who was supposed to go all the way.

Oh, Bill. Just move two steps. Two steps and you have a chance to return. But Bill didn’t move. In fact, he set all his weight on his back heels. Then I wondered whether he was throwing the match. Whether he was afraid to win. 

Such cowardice. It angered me. I had legitimately risked winning, over and over. But what if this man was trying to take away my greatest loss? What if that was Bill Stuber’s whole story—not that he was dreadful, but that he was excellent and had made a career of strategic losing? 

Bill released one hand from his racket, apparently to scratch an itch. But I knew what he was doing. 

I am not proud to say it, but I hated Bill then. And that hatred was probably what changed the serve. Something in me wanted to cast every ounce of fire and terror into physical violence. Every memory of victory, every bit of wealth, every invitation and embrace. All of it, burning, so intensely that, yes, it shaped my serve. It targeted Bill. 

It was no intention, just a blind rage. Rather than hitting the target, the sheer gravity of Bill’s evil presence drew the ball closer toward him, just within his reach. Then he had no choice but to reach, to swing, to volley. And whether Bill intended it or not—for I saw how his eyes closed and how recklessly he swung and how he had no control over his racket or his body—that hit flew at me, direct center. I could neither raise my racket nor straighten my body.

Instead, with all the force of a rubber bullet, the ball struck dead into my forehead. I could not find the ball, whether it was still airborne, where it had bounced. But I heard the crowd. The gasps. I heard them stand and fall. I heard my mother say my name. Me, with what was later called a very minor concussion, reeling on that court and, yes, falling. Tripping over my own shoes. Drooling even.

And the flashes, the clicks of cameras. A moment caught for perpetuity. Then the cheers, the chant of “Bill,” and from the corner of my eye, the jumping Bill now stricken with the curse of winning. So indelible a moment that he would never live it down. 

For the rest of his days, returning back to Iowa, Bill in his small hometown would celebrate that day. Maybe a parade. Bill Stuber would have praise. For generations, people would speak of this day. They would name a street after him. And he could never go home again. 

But me, I would have the rest of my life, no matter whether I won every match thereafter, with this great and public blemish. I could hardly wait to run off court to my hotel room where I would watch the TV play that moment over and over, to hear commentators talk about so great a fall. They would compare how it stood in the pantheon of upsets. But first, I took in the whispers, the avoidances, and the pity. I soaked in all of the second-guessing, the doubts, the shame, and the accusations. All of the failure flowed through me and around me like a great ostracizing sea. And finally, I was fully and blissfully alone.

JOE JOHNSON writes fiction and poetry. His work has appeared in Aethlon, Flash, Heron Tree, Rust+Moth, and The Santa Clara Review, among others. He has won the Editor’s Choice Award for Carve Magazine, was a finalist for both the Ruby Irene Poetry Chapbook Contest and Fiction Southeast’s Ernest Hemingway Flash Fiction Prize, and was a semifinalist for the St. Lawrence Book Award. He is a graduate of the Rainier Writing Workshop at Pacific Lutheran University.