Page 53 of It’s All in How You Fall
“My parents and Coach Bev think I can and should go pro after high school.”
He’s good enough. State champion. Beating the best in the city at the Northfield tournament—teens and full-grown adults alike. He’s gone to national and regional tournaments. He’s got scholarship letters arriving. Actually, he’s a lot like Sunny—not on the national team, but hanging out in the wings, so close the spotlight glitters just feet away.
He tilts his head. “They would rather I drop soccer and basketball altogether because of the possibility of injury.”
Okay. Sure. I get that. Suddenly, Coach Bev’s passive-aggressive behavior makes perfect sense. “So… why don’t you?” I know I don’t need to tell him that from my personal experience, singular focus on only one thing outside of school is much easier than playing air traffic control with color-coded scheduling.
He sighs. And when he glances up, there’s a sadness settling into his features that makes me want to scoot my chair next to his and place a hand on his slumping shoulders. My heart jumps in my throat, and my calves tense—I’m prepared to leap his way, no matter my new convenient-for-me rules.
“I did. For a season. After I made varsity soccer and basketball freshman year, they wanted me to focus full-time on tennis in the spring and summer and play up in 16s.” He’s getting all jargon-y but I know enough from my recent Wimbledon obsession to recognize he means the junior age categories—12s, 14s, 16s, 18s. “We compromised by letting me join the high school tennis squad freshman year and keep my slot on the mathletics team.”
As he rolls through this turn of events, I page back, trying to remember how much I saw of him then. Not much? It’s hard for me to figure out because I was doing my own training for thirty hours a week as an eighth grader and then freshman.
“But I dropped everything else and went out and did all the big junior hard court tournaments. Just as sophomore year started, I got invited as a wild card qualifier to the US Open junior tournament and made it three rounds in. It was cool being there, feet away from the big guns. After that, it rolled into the fall season, all the way up to the Orange Bowl, which is likethebig year-end tournament in Florida.” That’s the one Dr. Kennedy mentioned. “All the best juniors go.”
“And you were runner-up?”
“Yeah. But by then I was… sapped. Exhausted. Done.” His eyes lift to the broad sky above. “Everything I loved about tennis became lost in the business of the pursuit. And worst, I was lonely. Constantly everywhere and nowhere. With Dad, Coach Bev, and my own head.”
Alex bites his lip, more coming. I watch him, waiting—I’d known tangentially that he’d gone and done big things, but at that point I was going and doing big things too, moving up to the “optional” gymnastics levels—eight and above—where shit gets real.
Color rises in Alex’s cheeks, and all those squishy insides I’d discovered when his crush surfaced are now tangible, and real, and out on the table. A mess of emotions and lessons learned.
“So, what I found out about myself is that while I might be good at tennis, I’m best when I also play sports with my friends.” He putzes with his straw and hauls himself back up straight. “I mean, sure, I have friends on the tennis circuit, but it’s… not the same as working toward a common goal with your best buds.” He drops the straw. “I know you know what I mean.”
“I do.” Gymnastics competition is solitary—one girl, one routine at a time—but the experience is not.
“It’s been clear to my coaches and family that tennis is my best shot. It’s my college scholarship. It’s maybe even a real career, with money involved, if I somehow decide to do the circuit again as a junior or even a senior, professional. You heard Coach—I’ve turned down wild cards and she thinks I’m dumb for doing it because it’s not like they offer those to everybody.” Alex smiles and it’s sad. “They’re afraid I’ll look back and regret not making the most of my abilities. All because I want to just… be normal.”
“You’re not dumb. Being well-rounded isn’t stupid. Taking time off isn’t stupid.” I think of Sunny—giving up regular high school, and apparently giving up on dating, simply because she didn’t want to squander her shot. I understand that just as much as I understand those who love and push Alex. But… Alex is right. Aren’t we more than our talents? A pang of guilt hits me as I envision Dad at my bedside in the ER, imploring me to understand that I’m more than my goals in the gym.
“But what if in trying to be normal… I blow my ACL in a soccer game? Or screw up my shoulder in basketball? Adverse effects, most especially to tennis, to my best shot—myspecialshot.” He glances up from his hands and the pain in his eyes makes my heart lurch. We’re two sides of the same coin, Alex and I—my body betrayed me when my brain told me to go on, and his brain is putting his body and his future in harm’s way. “Can’t I have all of it, Caroline? I’m hungry for all of it.”
Our waitress magically appears at the word “hungry” like we’ve summoned her. For once, Alex is not on top of things, still vibrating with all the real-live Alex Zavala feelings he’s laid out on the table before us.
I stare at him. “Want to share a pizza?”
He pauses mid-grab of the menu he hasn’t looked at yet. Then he grins. “Never more in my life.”
I don’t break eye contact. “Large Mozza-Monster?”
His dimples flash. “Hell yes.”
Our waitress flits off to get us the Bruno’s equivalent of a “triple cheese,” aka the least-like-salad food available other than, say, the Meat-a-Tarian, which is so laden with sausage et al. that it can only be consumed with a fork. Nat’s fave. Obviously.
When she leaves, the tip of Alex’s shoe gently tags my shin under the table. “Cheese is not the enemy, but it might consider you one, Caroline Kepler.”
I laugh but then tilt my head. “Alex… about tennis. I appreciate your coaching me. I appreciate your encouraging me. But if working with me becomes too much—if you start to feel sapped or exhausted, or cheated out of the time you want to do all the things.… please know that you’ve already given me so much.”
I try very hard not to do that Midwestern thing where I shortchange what I’m saying with a laugh. And Alex nods and accepts what I’ve given. I glance down at his phone, wondering when or if he’ll ever cash in on the only thing I feel like I was able to give him in return for his help. I don’t say a word about Sunny or her number or anything else, but Alex’s eyes dip to his phone too, and I know his line of thought is following mine.
I gather my courage and reach across the table and pat his giant hand with my much smaller one. “I want you to have it all.” His eyes spring up to meet mine and I hope he gets what I’m not saying—subtlety is not my strong suit. “If anyone can have it all, it’s you.”
22
We’re definitely a hit on some sort of worldwide cheese Interpolafter demolishing the entire Mozza-Monster between the two of us. Okay, Alex did seventy-five percent of the demolishing (and agrees he’s totally on an international most-wanted list) but I ate two large slices, which is most definitely way more than what I’d typically do on a pizza night with Dad and Nat.
My sweat’s dried to the point where my skin itches and my clothes drape funny, but I’m more content than I’ve been in, well, months. My cheeks ache from smiling and my legs are sore from all the lateral motion. It feels good to be this bone-tired yet replenished. Relaxed. So much so that I only half-heartedly try to decline Alex’s offer of a ride home. It’s almost my curfew, and because Alex has insisted I take Lily Jane’s racket with me until I get my own, I’d be a lone teenage girl wandering through dark neighborhoods with nothing but a cell phone and a tennis racket.
