The sister said, I don’t know what that means.
I said, No one does.
I told her it was something to do, a reason to live. I told her everyone needed a new way of life and this was the beginning of it. I talked about purpose, something to look forward to, goals and dreams. I talked about what I’d seen from my window, how I couldn’t imagine any of it. I talked about defenestration, said it might not be the right answer, but it was indeed an answer. She said, But I don’t understand the question. I told her, You and me both.
I knew the sister was a great tennis player, which was part of the thrill, to play someone on that level, to challenge myself like this with something at stake.
I’d seen her play years before. I think this is when my plan started to come together, watching her toy with those overmatched teenaged opponents. The skirts she wore back then, that ponytail bouncing behind her, as playful as a little dog.
But this plan never took shape until recently. Back then it was an idea, a best guess, something akin to fantasy, one that I’d never realize, in all likelihood.
I guess things changed after I realized that life was everyday tedious and who cared anymore.
Part of the deal was I’d release her brother either way, after the match, regardless of the outcome.
Still, she might’ve felt a certain pressure to throw the match if she cared at all about her brother.
I didn’t discourage this.
I may’ve even said, I hope this works out, for your brother’s sake.
To make it more cinematic, I had to tune up her brother a little. It’s more effective if the Polaroid indicates the hostage has been beaten.
I took no pleasure in beating my friend like that.
I told him this. I told him, I take no pleasure in having to beat you like this. I told him I had no choice.
He took the beating like a man, I’ll say that much for him.
The match started early in the morning, before the sun could get vindictive, before the rain could go sideways and the wind, as well.
The weather promised to be an issue all day. They were calling for temperatures in the mid-90s come early afternoon, with the possibility of thunderstorms.
We warmed up together, as tennis players do, starting with mini for a few minutes, then to the baseline for ground strokes. Then she came to the net for volleys and overheads, then I did, then we served into both courts, both deuce and ad.
I could tell she was focused.
There was a buzz as the crowd gathered. Apparently, word had gotten out.
I was a legend by the time I turned fourteen, so it’s no surprise. By then I was already the biggest and strongest in our neighborhood and could serve upward of 140 miles per hour.
I was on the lookout for a film crew, as I’d heard that a famous documentary filmmaker had gotten wind of this.
But that was years ago, I think. I hadn’t played since the injury, since my friend low-bridged me during a friendly game of touch football.
I did think of this as I tuned him up earlier. I may’ve even said this out loud. As I broke his jaw, I may’ve said, Remember the friendly game of touch football in the park.
He said he was sorry, but I didn’t believe him. He said it was part of the game, that he didn’t mean it, that it wasn’t illegal.
I spun the racket and said, Up or down? My friend’s sister waited a split second and said, Up, and when the racket fell to the court, the logo was indeed pointing up.
I prepared to return her serve and situated myself a solid foot behind the baseline, with my legs straddling the sideline. I knew she tended to go out wide on the deuce court, so I started to lean that way as she tossed the ball high in the air.
Her toss was elegant, like the way a ballerina would serve.
Graceful arm extended skyward, ball rolling off long fingers as though she was inviting it into the air not two feet above her head.
She blasted one down the T, which I managed to get a racket on. The ball floated deep enough into her court for me to have a chance in this first point, but her next shot pinned me in the backhand corner and she followed behind it for an easy put-away.
She won the first game at love and had a smirk on her face as we changed ends.
I responded in kind and held serve and then she held serve and this went on for eight games, until I broke for a 5–4 lead.
For some reason, I tightened up at this point, double-faulted twice during my service game, and was broken right back.
She took the tiebreaker.
We were playing a best of five sets, so I wasn’t worried. I figured I’d let her win the first set to get her hopes up, get her overconfident.
Shortly after this first set, my chest began to hurt and my limbs tingled. I lost feeling in my right foot, which had been broken by my friend during a friendly game of touch football.
I tried not to think of my friend during the match. I knew he’d be fine, more or less. I’d given him a certain freedom of movement, so he could attend to function and need, eat food, drink water, relieve himself, et cetera.
There was no way he could do himself in, I don’t think, not that he ever indicated an interest in doing so.
We’d never discussed the nuances of defenestration.
I had him chained to a radiator and reminded him that if he tried anything, he probably wouldn’t live to regret it, but his sister would.
I think I kissed him on the lips after I said this.
I thought it an effective maneuver.
I sometimes wear a headband around my head, but this day I tied myself up in a black bandanna. Years ago people would talk about that black bandanna, how it, along with my imposing figure, could intimidate anyone in the world.
The second set was back and forth. The games were all well contested and several lasted a great long while. I believe three of them featured multiple deuces, one lasting until a ninth such deuce, which mercifully ended when I struck a service winner that handcuffed my friend’s sister and rendered her helpless.
There were any number of long rallies that concluded with someone doing something spectacular, an impossible get, a well disguised drop shot, et cetera.
The crowd would explode whenever something like this occurred.
To be fair, it seemed as if the crowd leaned toward my friend’s sister in terms of support. This was probably due to the size differential, as most root for the underdog. She is no more than 5′ 2″, maybe 110 pounds if she’s retaining water.
She’d prompt the loudest ovations, which were either spurned on or accentuated by her joyful exultations.
Whenever she did something dramatic, she’d yell, Come on.
I never speak while on court, as I find such behavior coarse and vulgar.
I can’t say I recognized anyone in the crowd, which continued to gather as the match went on. You’d think I’d have seen someone I knew, as I’d spent any number of hours at my window, looking out and down at my neighbors.
I’d recently purchased binoculars so I could see even more, so I could look into the windows of the surrounding buildings. So far I haven’t seen anything worth noting.
I haven’t learned a damned thing.
I did notice that the courts emptied of other players as our match went on. Most of these players took a seat and looked on in awe, I’m sure.
I took this second set 7–5 and everyone had to settle in for a long afternoon.
During the changeover, my opponent called for the trainer. Apparently, she was complaining of a sore shoulder. I overheard her saying something about a rotator cuff, but I suggested it could be a torn labrum. I told her I’d once suffered a torn labrum. I said, More often than not it requires surgery.
I told her if she decided to retire that it would count as a loss. I said, I’m sure your brother will be proud either way.