Page 2 of Breakpoint
Under Mike’s guidance, Jaz realized how much she still had to learn. He focused on paying attention to the smaller details and being more consistent. He didn’t really try to change her game, just add to it. Mike introduced data analytics, providing a new level of insight into her own performance and her opponents’ weaknesses. His approach propelled Jaz back to the top of the game. She won eleven of her seventeen titles under his watch.
“Great match, Jaz.” His voice was always calm and chill, no matter the occasion.
She couldn’t even lift her head to look at him. “I played like shit, Mike.”
“Let’s skip the cool down today. We can do a recap and massage after your media,” Mike compromised.
Jaz let out a groan. “Kill me now.”
She hated giving interviews and talking with the media. She just wanted to play tennis. The media had already been giving her shit about playing well into her thirties. Almost everyone asked when she was going to retire since she turned thirty, the age when most professional players’ careers ended. So, she definitely wasn’t looking forward to this one after another Grand Slam loss. But it was part of the deal she struck as a professional. Plus, it was a requirement for every tournament to do post-match media.
She showered and walked to the media room. The heavy door hissed open, revealing a stark conference room filled with expectant faces. The room was a hive of activity, filled with the murmurs of journalists and the rhythmic clacking of laptop keys. She dragged her feet and weary body across the room to sit in front of the dias with the Australian Open logo; the weightof the world embedded in the soles of her tennis shoes. She settled into the plastic chair, the bright lights of the cameras almost blinding after the relative gloom of the hallway.
A forced smile touched her lips. She hated this so much. And she was sure the press wasn’t a fan of hers either. She heard many sports commentators say it was like pulling teeth to get more than a one-sentence answer out of Jaz Mason. She had gotten better at faking it over the years to sound less like a robot, but not much.
The moderator droned on, introducing her, reciting her accomplishments, which somehow sounded hollow in the wake of the present disappointment. The sting of defeat was fresh, raw, a gaping wound that wouldn’t heal for days, perhaps weeks. Yet, here she was, obligated to face the assembled press, to dissect and analyze the very loss that was currently tearing her apart.
A voice, gentle yet firm, broke through the haze. “Jaz, can you describe your emotions right now?”
The question hung in the air. It was the question she dreaded, the one that demanded she articulate the chaotic storm raging inside her. How did this idiot think she felt? She just lost, again, after giving it her all for over two weeks. Over the years, she’d learned to keep her facial expressions neutral, less give them something else to write about. “Disappointed... obviously,” she managed. “I tried... but it wasn’t enough today.”
“Jaz, how do you think you played today?”
She strained to smile, and it probably looked like a sneer because the muscles in her face felt stiff and unfamiliar. Just an hour ago, she had been battling on the court, every muscle screaming in protest, her hopes soaring with each point won, only to be dashedagainst the sharp rocks of her opponent’s superior play. “There were some things I could have done better, there were too many unforced errors, but Isla capitalized on them and was the better player today.”
She had done this hundreds of times: offered platitudes, the expected responses of a defeated athlete, the gracious acknowledgment of her opponent, and the quality of the match. But inside, she wanted to scream, to rage against the injustice of it all, to explain how close she had come, how much it hurt to fall short at the very last hurdle. But she couldn’t. Not here, not now. She was already labeled as cold and angry on the court, for not smiling and playing with “too much intensity,” whatever that meant. She couldn’t give the pundits more fodder to run with.
Another reporter jumped in. “You came up short again. What did you learn from the match to move forward?”
These first few questions were predictable, a blur of queries about her performance, the pivotal moments of the match, her opponent’s strengths. Jaz answered mechanically, her voice steady, her gaze fixed on a point just beyond the sea of faces. They dissected her game, her strategy, and her mental fortitude. She answered them all with practiced composure, her voice a monotone drone that belied the turmoil within.
Each answer was carefully crafted, devoid of any real emotion, a performance as well-rehearsed as her forehand. Even when she wanted to rage, she remembered her father saying, “They’ll be watching you, Jazzy, every move you make, on and off the court. You gotta be better than good. As a black woman, you gotta be perfect.” He explained how any misstep, any outburst, any sign ofimperfection would be magnified and used against her. They’d be quick to judge, quick to criticize.
“What do you think about Daniela Kappas and the run she had here to the round of sixteen? Some are calling her the next big thing in American tennis. What do you think about that?”
The question came from the back of the room, and Jaz struggled not to roll her eyes. It was a respectable showing for a debutante, but hardly the stuff of headlines, especially not on this day, after this final. She’d seen the headlines about the woman from tennis royalty as the next big star. But Jaz knew Daniela Kappas was just another in a long line of players who stole the media’s attention with their looks but would never win anything. Her striking appearance and athleticism would captivate the public, generating significant hype and expectations, only to fold under the pressure.
Jaz took a deep breath, trying to compose herself and find the words. “It’s great for American tennis,” Jaz conceded, her voice carefully neutral. “The tour is always looking for fresh talent.”
Why were they asking Jaz her opinion on Daniela Kappas’ “meteoric rise” and “potential to be the next big thing.” She had just battled for three grueling sets in a Grand Slam final, and they were asking her about a player who hadn’t even made it to the quarterfinals. It was a punch to the gut, again. Plus, the assumption about Daniela Kappas’ potential success annoyed the hell out of Jaz. This girl hadn’t won anything, but they were already crowning her the next big thing. Another reason why Jaz hated the media.
“Do you see her as a future champion, perhaps evenyour successor?”
She didn't even try to smile or give a hollow gesture of diplomacy. “She has a powerful game and clearly possesses a lot of potential.” She couldn’t bring herself to say more, to elaborate on Daniela’s strengths or speculate on her future. It felt like a betrayal of her own hard work, her own years of dedication, to lavish praise on someone who was just starting out, especially in her moment of personal defeat.
“How does it feel to have played on tour with both Brittany and now Daniela Kappas?”
Jaz again tried not to roll her eyes at the question including the obvious ascertain surrounding her age and how long she had been playing. “I think that just shows my longevity in this game.”
The questions about Daniela Kappas continued, relentlessly and persistently. Was Jaz worried about the younger generation? Did she see Daniela Kappas as a threat? More questions, all centered on Daniela, the phantom player who wasn’t even present, her ghost somehow more compelling than the flesh-and-blood woman who had just fought her heart out on Centre Court.
Jaz felt a surge of frustration, a wave of something close to indignation. Here she was, a seasoned veteran who just gave her everything out there today, a player who had reached the pinnacle of her sport multiple times, only to be overshadowed by the hype surrounding a newcomer. It was as if her defeat, her pain, were merely a footnote to the burgeoning narrative of Daniela’s ascent. She wanted to scream, to remind them she was the one who had reached the final, the one who had battled for every point, who had poured her heart and soul into the tournament.
But the rules of engagement were clear. Especially as a black woman in this sport. She knew she had to be above reproach about everything and couldn’t step out of line for a second. As the minutes ticked by, the press conference became an exercise in endurance. Finally, after what felt like an eternity, it drew to a close. Jaz rose from her seat, her legs stiff and heavy, and made her way out of the room, the glare of the cameras following her every move. She managed a polite nod to the assembled journalists, a final act in the face of their insensitivity.
She was a warrior exiting the battlefield, defeated but not broken. She just needed a little time to heal her wounds and to find a way to forget about Daniela Kappas.
Scott’s knuckles kneaded into Jaz’s back, muting out the conversation around her. Each stroke loosened the knots that had tightened with every forehand and backhand. She felt the sharp pains in her lower back throughout the match, and it radiated down her butt and legs. She closed her eyes, the rhythmic strokes of his hands a lullaby against the backdrop of the conversation in the room. Scott moved lower to work his magic on Jaz’s calf, kneading and coaxing the knotted muscle into submission, eliciting a groan that was more relief than pain.
