Page 1 of Game Point
1
Dylan
Simmer – Hayley Williams
A lifetime of giving up everything for this sport had led to this. Arthur Ashe Stadium, US Open final. One set already hers, a single game point separating me from another failure. I was a nervous wreck on the baseline, one hand gripping the handle of my racket, the fingertips of the other pressing into the green material of the ball, gripping so hard I felt like I might never let go.
Across the net, my eyes caught on the serve clock rapidly ticking closer to zero. I was running out of time. The options were: win this point and claw this set back, or miss and the past few months will have been for nothing.
I bounced the ball, repeating the simple words over and over again.
I can do this. I can do this. I can fucking do this.
Catching the ball, I felt prickling against the soft palm of my hand as I tried desperately to hold down the vomit churning in my stomach, the mantra only serving to increase my anxiety and exhaustion. I’d barely slept the night before, tossing and turning and dreading this exact moment.
The moment I lost. Again.
I should be familiar with it by now, but every time is just as devastating as the last. I was staring defeat headon, and she looked like a 5’7” American who had already smelt blood in the water.
Just before the clock reached zero, my arm stretched back, instinct and practice throwing my body into the trophy position. I tossed the ball upwards, swinging my racket forward to meet it, and the final game began.
It landed inside the box and Jasmine Carter lunged forward, returning the shot. She aimed for the open court to my right, but I still carried enough strength in my legs to meet it. The incredible speed of her returns was still hard to adapt to, even after almost two sets.
Jasmine played long and hard from the baseline, glory within her sight while failure was in mine, and I was doing everything I could. She aimed again, making me run to the left as if I was her dog playing fetch, a plaything. She was making it easy to give in, but I couldn’t help but try and use the last bit of fight my body had left. But I was bone tired and weary, my initial surge of last-stand adrenaline burning away under the hot September sun.
I got to the shot, managing to hit it back. I was almost caught off my feet by the speed when she fired it right back at me.
Swing and return. Swing and return. She trapped me in a rally, the ball flying back and forth between us, screaming across the net. My arms ached with the intensity, Jasmine’s own grunts filling the air along with mine.
I felt the pressure of the moment, the tension of this last battle rising.
Jasmine broke the rhythm of the blistering baseline rally, slicing low over the net. I adjusted, pushing forward on my feet, stretching out to meet the shot. My backhandtook everything I had left in me, praying over and over it was enough to end this. To give me one last shot at pulling this set back from the brink.
The ball connected with my strings, refracting back over the net. And then my racket shattered, the head breaking off, leaving only the handle in my hand. Horror filled me as it disintegrated, Carter easily meeting the ball, hitting it softly over the net and winning the point. Closing out the set and taking the match.
‘Game, set, match – Carter. 2 sets to love. 6–1, 6–2.’ The voice of the chair umpire was cut off by the roar of the congratulating crowd, embarrassment sinking into my soul and yet again, the roar of the New York crowd was for somebody else.
In a mortifying two sets, Jasmine Carter had claimed the trophy as her own and finally put me out of my fucking misery.
My legs wobbled under my body, but somehow I remained standing up, my attention focused on only the pieces of the handle I still held in my grip.
How the fuck had this happened?
I let out a single laugh, unable to contain my shock any longer. Even my equipment was giving up on me. I looked up, noticing Jasmine standing beside the net.
‘Are you okay?’ she asked, worry creasing her brow. I took a moment and swallowed down my own feelings, remembering how I’d screwed this up two years ago against Scottie Sinclair. I’d been mean and vindictive in a moment when it was uncalled for. I uncurled my hand, wiping my sweaty palm on my skirt as I closed the gap between us.
‘Congratulations,’ I said, pushing down my jealousythat another win had escaped me. Losing was becoming too much of a bad habit. ‘You played a good match.’
‘So did you.’ She smiled brightly as we shook across the net, braids framing her beautiful face. Victory looked good on her. She winked, adding, ‘It’s true what they say about playing against Dylan Bailey.’
I wanted to ask exactly what they said about me, a million versions of Dylan, the ‘cunt’ running through my head, but I didn’t dare ask. Forcing a painful smile to my lips, I released her hand, allowing her to turn and face her celebrating audience.
All throughout the ceremony, I wanted to scream. I stood there; my condolence prize held tightly in my hands as Jasmine rightfully took the trophy. She held it above her head, a huge smile spread across her face, the one thing I wanted more than anything in the world held triumphantly in her arms. I smiled so hard my cheeks started to hurt, my jaw clenching through the force of emotion. I bottled it down, held it all in, and tried, really fucking tried, to be happy for her because she deserved it. She won. She won, and I lost. Again.
She walked around the court, claiming it as her own, as she took it all in, basking in the cheer from the crowd, and finally I got to go inside.
There was nobody waiting for me. No coaches or support staff, my friends all off at other matches supporting friends or preparing for their own. My family were on the other side of the world, my sisters running after my nieces, my parents working. They were where they should be, safe in Melbourne.
