Page 5 of Breakpoint
It was Chris who spoke first, as usual, taking all the oxygen in every conversation. “Well, speaking of dream team, we’ve got some amazing news.” She looked at both of them expectantly, and Chris continued, “We got a call from the USOC, and you’ve made the Olympic team for the summer games in Atlanta!”
“WHAT?!?” she shrieked. Heads in the facility turned to look their way.
The Olympics? That felt like another universe altogether. She covered her mouth as a choked sob of pure joy escaped her lips. The Olympics had been a distant dream, a shimmering mirage on the horizon of her burgeoning career. She thought that would be a few years from now, maybe at the next games in Rome. Though she’d beaten some of the best in the world and risen through the rankings faster than anyone anticipated. Her showing at the Australian Open likely helped.
“No way,” she gasped, her voice barely a whisper. “Seriously?” Tears welled up in her eyes, tears of joy, of disbelief, of sheer, unadulterated happiness. She made it. She was going to the Olympics.
“You’re an Olympian,” Chris declared, a bright smile spread across his face.
The reality of it crashed over her like a tidal wave. Atlanta. The Olympics. Her name alongside the legends she had idolized since she was a little girl, clutching a racket bigger than her arm.
“You’ll be playing doubles only,” Tom stated, throwing cold water on her high.
Doubles?That was it? Her triumphant grin faltered, replaced by a slow, dawning wave of disappointment. She’d dreamt of this moment since she was a little girl, picturing herself standing alone on the Olympic court, bathed in the roar of the crowd, with a gold medal as the singles champion.
Chris could see the disappointment, “Olympic doubles is really good for where you are in your career right now.”
“But I’ve never really played doubles. Training for doubles won’t take away from my focus on singles and competing in the main draw of tournaments?” She looked over at Tom.
“This is the Olympics on home soil. Who cares?” Chris butted in unhelpfully.
She looked at Tom for an unvarnished answer. “No, it won’t take away, and you may actually learn a thing or twenty playing doubles. Besides, nothing breeds winning like winning.”
She had only been on tour for a year but was moving up with some quality showings at tournaments and starting to win more consistently. So she guessed he was right, but it still stung she wouldn’t get to play singles at all. Her only chance of a medal, she had to partner with someone else.
Chris cut in, “We can really market this leading up to the Olympics and get your face out there beyond tennis fans. You’ll be America’s sweetheart, and everyone will soon know your name. I’m seeing media campaigns with the American flag behind you. Your face on cereal boxes.”
Tom cut Chris off, bringing them back to reality. “She needs to train and learn how to play doubles. It has a different space, pace,and skill set than singles, or she’ll be a flop, and none of that will matter.”
Tom was correct. She had never really played doubles. It was like a completely different game, with different tactics and strategies. Many of the best doubles teams were specialists and played with the same partner year-round. “Who am I playing doubles with?”
Tom again ripped off the band-aid. “Jaz Mason.”
Jaz Mason. The Machine. The ice queen. The biggest mystery in the tennis world. She barely gave interviews besides those that were mandatory at tournaments and those were often one-word answers or short factual statements.
Also, Brittany Kappas’ last professional match was alossto Jaz Mason.
A memory, vivid and poignant, stirred within her. She was a child again, perched on the edge of her seat in the stands, her small hands clutching a miniature tennis racket. Her eyes were glued to the figure on the court. Her mother, Brittany Kappas, winner of eighteen Grand Slams, a legend in her own right, was battling in what would be her final professional match.
She remembered the tension in the air that day, thick and heavy. Her mother, usually a picture of composure and grace, was fighting tooth and nail, her face etched with a determination that bordered on desperation. Kappas against the fresh-faced newcomer rising in the ranking, Jaz Mason. The crowd was on its feet; a sea of faces filled with anticipation.
The final point arrived, a decisive forehand winner on the line sealed the match. Dani watched as her mother, her idol, walkedoff the court, head held high despite the defeat in only the second round of the US Open.
She remembered walking to her mom in the tunnel after she walked off the court and giving her a hug that lasted several minutes. When they got to the locker room, her mother broke down in her father’s arms, still sweaty from the hour-long match.
“I just can’t do this anymore, Georgios. It’s not in me to bust my ass and flame out in the second round. I think I’m done.”
Her father tried to bring her back from the edge. His tall, lean form held her tighter. “Honey, it's just the adrenaline from the match talking, and we all think that after a tough loss. Let’s reevaluate after you’ve had a chance to come down from the match.”
But her mother never played in another professional tournament. Her last match was not only a loss but a bad loss of 6-2, 6-0 to Jaz Mason. The memory of that final match, a bittersweet blend of sorrow and inspiration, served as a constant reminder of the legacy she was now entrusted with, a legacy she intended to build upon, to honor, and to ultimately surpass.
And now she had to partner with the woman who broke her mother’s will to play. “No fucking way.” Dani shook her head.
“You don’t have a choice in this. If you want to play in the Olympics, then you partner with Jaz. End of story.” And when Tom said, ‘End of story,’ there were no other options, and the conversation was closed.
The chain-link fence vibrated with each ferocious forehand, the rhythmicthwackechoing across the quiet practice courts. Dani leaned against the wall, watching and waiting for Tom to arrive. He thought it would be a good idea to grab the bull by the horns and talk to Jaz now in private before it leaked to the media, likely by Chris, that they were playing doubles together.
She held her breath on the impact of each of Jaz’s shots. With each grunt, Dani could feel the exertion and the force of her forehand against the ball. Like Jaz, Dani loved a good grunt or scream that came out when she made contact, especially on big points. Most people thought grunting was for show, but it was actually a way of breathing through each point. She had seen Jaz playing dozens of times, but she still couldn’t help being captivated, her gaze glued to the figure dominating the court. Even from a distance, Jaz Mason commanded the space.
