Tennis Match Wisdom, 1990s, by Molly Rankin

From MemoryArchive

Who: Molly Rankin 
What: Beating a boy in an epic fourth grade tennis match
When: Summer in the 90's
Where: Alpharetta, GA

As the hot July sun beat down, the shrill hum of the cicadas, and the buzzing of the bees in the blackberry bushes was punctuated with the delighted shrieks of tan children and an occasional dog bark--the symphony of summer, of youth. These sounds swirled around my ears as I spun rapidly on a black tire swing, staring fixedly at my bobbing feet and the rotating earth. When my world was still once more, I raised my eyes and was met with the mischievious grin of Brad Chitty, the neighborhood stud.

"Hey loser, I bet I could kill you in a game of tennis."

A classic elementary school pick-up line, his challenge elicited the giggles of my girlfriends and the jeers of his buddies.

"You're on, dirtbag," I replied, eyes twinkling. I too, was well-versed in the protocol of fourth-grade flirting.

"Fine, I'll see y ou tomorrow, one o'clock. Prepare to die."

As he and his cronies swaggered off, the girls began whispering excitedly, sounding very much like the mosquitoes that plagued the summer playground.

"Molly, you are so lucky. After you lose, I bet he'll ask you out!"

After I lost? Though my friends and my experience told me that beating a boy would jeopardize any hopes of dating, my love for tennis would not let me lose passively. If Brad Chitty had thought I would just roll over for his sandy blonde hair, dark brown eyes, and straight, white smile, he had another thing coming.

The next day brought no relief from the broiling heat, but it was no matter. The match was scheduled, and no temperature was worth losing the chance to play Brad in a game of tennis. The same brash smile was spread over Brad's face when he and his friends arrived, melting my heart, an arousing my desire to win simultaneously.

"Ready to lose, Molly?"

"No, but I hope you are."

With the blood pounding in my ears, we entered the court and took sides. There would be no warming up beforehand--this was a matter of utmost importance. Our premature egos and naive hearts were held in the balance.

"P or D, Molly?"

"P." The racket spun and clattered on the pavement.

"It's D. I'll serve first."

That was fine with me, I told myself, now slightly nervous. I liked to receive first anyway, or at least, now I did. The laughter of the girls and loud taunts of the boys fell as the fuzzy ball rose into the air. No longer concerned with anything but that tiny green sphere, I was reduced to only one sense--sight. The cheering, the taste of sweat on my upper lip, and even the pounding of the sweltering sun on my back escaped my attention. An eternity was in even the shortest points, and when I finally noticed the score, it was tied at six games each.

Both taking a much needed break, we retreated to our respective benches and coaches, the various kids who had come to watch the great summer drama unfold. We were our own Wimbledon. Drenched in a mixture of water and sweat, I sat down on a scalding metal bench, and the reality hit me that winning was actually a possibility. The tension in the air was as thick as the humidity--both were practically palpable. I trudged back onto the hot clay, and after two more intense games, it was all over. The match had been a blur of equally powerful sweat, heat, and pride, and I had emerged from it the victor.

As he shook my hand over the net, the familiar grin on Brad's face was replaced by a twisted grimace. Wounded pride, anger, and astonishment were all present in his dark brown eyes. Already aware of the fragility of the male ego, my naive mind searched unsuccessfully for the right words. Instead, my lips unwillingly cracked into a sheepish smile. His mouth flickered, flirting with the idea of returning to its most comfortable position. Throwing off the burden of pride, his face finally crinkled into a huge smile, and his beaming eyes sent waves of relief through my body.

"Good game, doofus."

The universe returned to normal, and all was made right in the world with that one phrase. No words had ever sounded nicer.