Page 85 of It’s All in How You Fall
It’s 5–4.
Alex needs two more points to win the tiebreak. Well, unless his opponent wins the next two. It’s confusing. He needs to get to seven points, but only if Barrington has five points or less. If he has six or more, Alex has to beat him by two.
This could be endless.
His opponent spits some choice words at his racket and stalks across the length of the baseline. Alex pays exactly zero attention and crosses to return serve. His mom and sister have twin knuckles kissing their lips, while his dad sits calmly with his arms crossed and still (no champagne yet). Coach Bev looks sour as shit, and Coach Brandt has locked arms drilled into place on either side of his seat, all his weight seemingly braced on his palms and the aluminum bleacher beneath him.
End it as soon as possible, Zavala. Come on.
Barrington dribbles the ball and sits back into his serve. He tosses the ball over his head, and it comes crashing back down with everything he’s got.
“Fault!”
The ball was out.
Barrington moves forward as if checking for a mark—which is way harder to do on a hard court than other surfaces, from what I understand—but doesn’t put up too much of a fight.
“Second service.”
Barrington nods at the chair umpire, returning to his service spot. He takes a long look at Alex across the net—wide stance, racket forward, waiting for his chance at a response. Again, Barrington goes through his service ritual—dribbling, taking a controlled sit back, and then tossing the ball. And again, he crushes the ball, putting all his weight and frustration behind the movement.
This time, the ball’s trajectory is completely off, and it dumps into the net on his side of the court.
“Double fault. Tiebreak is 6–4, Mr. Zavala. Match point.”
Barrington lets off an aggrieved scream and swings his racket in a devastating arc toward the court, pulling up to avoid bending the frame only at the very last moment. His face is red, he’s sweating like a pig, and he’s pissed as all hell.
I don’t blame him. But that’s not Alex’s fault.
My heart is in my throat as Alex readies for his turn to serve.
Sunny shrinks further into a ball, Peregrine’s grip on her forearm is leaving marks, and my water bottle threatens to shatter.
Come on, Alex. Come on.
Though Alex is at the baseline and ready to go, ball bouncing, Barrington is still angrily making out with his towel and cursing himself. Asshole.
As soon as the intentional slowpoke is back in position, Alex leans back for his toss. For a moment he’s as still as a statue, knees bent, trunk straight, arm extended toward the sky. He smashes the ball straight at Barrington’s body this time, his aim eighty million times better than when I tried the same thing during my match on Friday.
But Barrington has seen this one from Alex before—in this match and so many others—and anticipates, swinging around to his forearm side. He goes for a winner, deep and angled to catch the very baseline corner that’s crosscourt of where Alex is stationed. My teeth clench as I watch the ball’s trajectory, Alex hunting it down with a straight-on sprint. The ball catches at the crosshatch of lines—in—and Alex slides in behind it, his long body stretching as his legs straddle outward, the foot closest to us sliding smoothly on the hard court as Alex gets as low as he can without diving.
Alex manages to get the ball back over the net. Immediately he rights himself, prepared for Barrington’s return on an awkward ball that wasn’t hit as hard as we all know he can.
Barrington lines up a smashing forehand, going for the opposite corner. Alex tracks it, sprinting, racket out. This time, though, he gets to it earlier and is able to get his full weight behind it. With a resounding thwack, his forehand connects and he shoots it straight down the line. No angles, no tricks, just raw power.
Barrington has to shift directions, running the opposite way. But the ball sails past him, thudding hard into the court wall behind.
A clean winner.
“Game, set, match, Mr. Zavala.”
Alex raises his hands to the sky. His head is tossed so far back, his cap falls off as the crowd cheers. He bends down to scoop it up, dimples flashing. And then he spins toward his coaches, his parents, his sister, and us.
The chair continues, in a melodic voice that plays out as perfectly as a dream. “Please give your warmest congratulations to Alex Zavala, back-to-back Northfield Tennis Championships winner.”
39
Everything after Alex’s win is a dance known only by the peoplewho have been here before—which is pretty much everyone but us.
