Occasionally they mesmerize me and I get clobbered by a ball. Trent sighs like I've committed a huge sin, then makes me face north, so my view is the club's ugly brown fitness center building. Says if I keep goofing off in practice he's gonna make me hit on condemned court 15, which doesn't even have a net, and
then
I'll be sorry.
“Did you hear me, Hall? North.”
“I heard you. I'm going. Jeez.”
“Hall.” Coach looked at me, jaw set, nostrils flared,brown eyes fierce. Urgency stabbed his words. “Play hard.”
I nodded and shut up.
Skittish Helper Guy materialized on the court and practice began. Trent joined my parents at the set of small bleachers—the very same bleachers that Luke Kimberlin, the Greek God, had occupied two weeks prior.
…
thump
…
thump
…
thump
…
“Hustle, hustle … hit a passing shot, go, go!”
…
thump
…
“Nice! Do it again.”
It was only when I couldn't find Trent's voice that fear set in. Now, with Trent screaming at me, all was well again. Immediately I was in the zone. It's a place where everything is blank: crowds, umpires, opponents— they don't exist. I see only the fuzzy yellow Penn ball. Flying.
The ball is mine. I own it. Dominate it. It travels to me, it's mine. I slam it, punish it. Threaten it, throttle it. Smacking it as hard as I can …
thump
… Goes where I tell it to go. Obeys me. Eager to please. See only the ball, nothing else. Hear the twang I cherish. My head is wonderfully blank. Perfection rests in my blank head. It's beautiful. I'm beautiful. It's only after I win a point that I realize I'm playing at all. It's automatic and it's the sweetest thing ever, the zone.
When a Penn ball hits the racquet, my fingers feel it first. My grip tightens slightly at impact. Pressure enters my wrist, travels into my shoulder, and vibrates through the rest of my body. I hit each ball with every cell of my body. In the zone I don't have to try, it just happens. On impact I exhale, shudder as I hear the twang, and fill with joy.
…
thump
…
thump
…
thump
…
Skittish Helper Guy ran down my passing shots, heaving.
…
thump
…
“Placement,” Coach screamed, “get it, get there …”
“Agg!”
…
thump
…
“Good. Again.”
…
thump
…
thump
…
thump
…
I stole a glance at the bleachers. Thomas Fountain had joined Coach and my parents—he was “the guy.” Coach ceased yelling. Instead, he told my “warrior story.”
“… so she's at this tournament in Vegas—the Great Pumpkin Sectional Championship. It's the semifinals of the toughest draw she's ever faced. Hall's dominating. Destroying the opposition. Going to win, no question.”
“Win, definitely,” my dad said.
“Out of desperation her opponent rushes the net andtries to volley. Hall shoots from the baseline—I'm stunned she even
got
to the damn ball. Brings her racquet back, back, back, the whole court is silent, and then …
Boom!
Slams the ball at this girl, hard.”
“Hit her with the ball,” my dad clarified.
“Yeah,” Trent said, “slams the ball into her and
breaks the girl's arm)?
“It was an accident, of course,” my mom said, worried. “Hall wasn't
aiming
for the girl.”
“Wanted to win,” Trent said. “That's the intensity of her concentration. Hall doesn't
allow
girls to hit winning volley shots. Broke her arm and
wasn't sorry.”
“I'm sure she was sorry,” my mom said.
“No, she wasn't,” Trent protested. “Didn't do it on purpose, but trust me, she wasn't sorry.”
“Hell,” Thomas said.
“No shit,” Trent said, laughing.
“Did she win the tournament?” Thomas asked.
“Aren't you listening?
Of course
she won.”
“I'm sure she was sorry,” my mom said again.
Trent told the story often, to whoever would listen. I was sure in a few years he'd be telling it in a way that had me killing the girl by slamming a ball into her face. Aside from being bossy and impatient, Trent was fond of violence.
The four of them
then
I'll be sorry.
“Did you hear me, Hall? North.”
“I heard you. I'm going. Jeez.”
“Hall.” Coach looked at me, jaw set, nostrils flared,brown eyes fierce. Urgency stabbed his words. “Play hard.”
I nodded and shut up.
Skittish Helper Guy materialized on the court and practice began. Trent joined my parents at the set of small bleachers—the very same bleachers that Luke Kimberlin, the Greek God, had occupied two weeks prior.
…
thump
…
thump
…
thump
…
“Hustle, hustle … hit a passing shot, go, go!”
…
thump
…
“Nice! Do it again.”
It was only when I couldn't find Trent's voice that fear set in. Now, with Trent screaming at me, all was well again. Immediately I was in the zone. It's a place where everything is blank: crowds, umpires, opponents— they don't exist. I see only the fuzzy yellow Penn ball. Flying.
The ball is mine. I own it. Dominate it. It travels to me, it's mine. I slam it, punish it. Threaten it, throttle it. Smacking it as hard as I can …
thump
… Goes where I tell it to go. Obeys me. Eager to please. See only the ball, nothing else. Hear the twang I cherish. My head is wonderfully blank. Perfection rests in my blank head. It's beautiful. I'm beautiful. It's only after I win a point that I realize I'm playing at all. It's automatic and it's the sweetest thing ever, the zone.
When a Penn ball hits the racquet, my fingers feel it first. My grip tightens slightly at impact. Pressure enters my wrist, travels into my shoulder, and vibrates through the rest of my body. I hit each ball with every cell of my body. In the zone I don't have to try, it just happens. On impact I exhale, shudder as I hear the twang, and fill with joy.
…
thump
…
thump
…
thump
…
Skittish Helper Guy ran down my passing shots, heaving.
…
thump
…
“Placement,” Coach screamed, “get it, get there …”
“Agg!”
…
thump
…
“Good. Again.”
…
thump
…
thump
…
thump
…
I stole a glance at the bleachers. Thomas Fountain had joined Coach and my parents—he was “the guy.” Coach ceased yelling. Instead, he told my “warrior story.”
“… so she's at this tournament in Vegas—the Great Pumpkin Sectional Championship. It's the semifinals of the toughest draw she's ever faced. Hall's dominating. Destroying the opposition. Going to win, no question.”
“Win, definitely,” my dad said.
“Out of desperation her opponent rushes the net andtries to volley. Hall shoots from the baseline—I'm stunned she even
got
to the damn ball. Brings her racquet back, back, back, the whole court is silent, and then …
Boom!
Slams the ball at this girl, hard.”
“Hit her with the ball,” my dad clarified.
“Yeah,” Trent said, “slams the ball into her and
breaks the girl's arm)?
“It was an accident, of course,” my mom said, worried. “Hall wasn't
aiming
for the girl.”
“Wanted to win,” Trent said. “That's the intensity of her concentration. Hall doesn't
allow
girls to hit winning volley shots. Broke her arm and
wasn't sorry.”
“I'm sure she was sorry,” my mom said.
“No, she wasn't,” Trent protested. “Didn't do it on purpose, but trust me, she wasn't sorry.”
“Hell,” Thomas said.
“No shit,” Trent said, laughing.
“Did she win the tournament?” Thomas asked.
“Aren't you listening?
Of course
she won.”
“I'm sure she was sorry,” my mom said again.
Trent told the story often, to whoever would listen. I was sure in a few years he'd be telling it in a way that had me killing the girl by slamming a ball into her face. Aside from being bossy and impatient, Trent was fond of violence.
The four of them
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