Page 25 of It’s All in How You Fall
Alex just finished his spring season, making the all-district and all-state teams (duh), but his non-KSHSAA tennis stuff happens at Northfield with his longtime instructor, Coach Bev. That’s how he and Nat and the other basketball dudes got their jobs at the country club in the first place—Alex’s connection.
Northland High looms before us a few minutes later. It’s ancient redbrick that’s been added onto eight bazillion times—being the oldest school in the district will do that to a floor plan. The actual boundary too, which isn’t so much a square as it is a particularly creative puzzle piece. Alex loops into the circle drive where drop-off occurs during the year and parks under a shady maple that’s probably as old as the building’s cornerstone. He gets out and retrieves a fancy Babolat tennis bag from the trunk, plus an unopened can of coconut water.
Both courts are empty and Alex picks the one on the right, winding through the fence and setting his stuff on the bench. He unzips his bag and hands me a silver-and-blue racket with pink tape on the handle.
It’s lighter than I thought it would be. I take a swing, but Alex stops me on the backhand and examines the way my fingers cup the grip. I suddenly wish I’d taken the time to remove the polish I picked off when Forrest was comparing life to a box of chocolates.
He spins the racket so it’s totally up and down and leans in over my fingers. Alex nods to himself in the way the dentist does right before he tells you to floss more.
“What?”
“It’s a little big but it’ll do—I guess LJ’s hands are larger than yours.”
I’ll take his word for it. It feels fine.
He doesn’t move away. “Put your other hand on the racket.”
“How?”
“However. I just want to see what you’ll do naturally.”
I immediately place my left hand on the racket.
“Good, now take it off.”
My hand flings away as if it’s on fire.
Alex nods again and digs through his bag for his own racket plus a can of balls. He stuffs a ball in each pocket and lets the third one bounce, dribbling it with his racket as he walks to the sunny end of the court.
I chase him. “Wait. What was that? Do I have some fatal tennis flaw?”
“No. You have a natural semiwestern grip. It’s interesting.”
I gape at him.
“It’s what most pros use these days. It’s fine.” I’ve been Amanar-ed. He grins. “Get on the other side. We’ll warm up with some simple volleys.”
I step into the shady side, grip the racket with both hands, and sink into a squat—just like I saw on repeat over and over on TV. My thighs lock into place because they know how to do this.
And, just like when we were on the volleyball court, Alex doesn’t spare me with his first shot. It’s not a serve; it’s a volley as promised, but there’s juice behind it. And distance.
I’m standing in front of the baseline and the ball hits so close to my toes I have to shuffle back to get swing time. My racket goes back in my right hand and rockets forward. I make contact and almost cheer… before it line drives right into the net.
“I hit it! Into the net, but I hit it!”
Alex laughs at my excitement but doesn’t let me revel too long. “You did. Your turn to volley it back.”
I retrieve the ball and line myself up in basically the same position he’s in on the other side of the court—we’re noon and six on a sundial. Like he did, I bounce the ball a few times, getting a feel, and then when it’s at waist height, swing it his way. It makes contact, but is again super flat, just missing the white tape at the top of the net. Alex easily returns it with a backhand, guiding it right back at me, and I’m surprised.
So surprised, in fact, that I completely whiff it. I gesture toward the other end of the court. “I thought you were going to hit it over there.”
Alex examines the strings of his racket. “You did? I don’t see you over there.”
Oh right. “Well, I anticipated you were going to hit it over there and I froze when you hit it straight to me.”
“The point of volleying in warm-up is to get a feel for the ball. Iwantyou to hit it. You’ll know when it’s time for you to move around the court.” He nods, ball cap dipping low enough to shade his eyes. “Retrieve it and let’s do it again.”
And we do.
