Page 47 of Rhymes with Metaphor
“He’s not a tennis player, Flip.”
“You couldn’t do any worse than you’re doing now.”
“Do you want to play, Joel?”said Reg.
“I don’t have a racket,” said Joel.
“I’ve got an extra one.”Flip fished it out of his racket bag and held it out, handle first.
Joel took it, and Reg showed him how to grip it properly, while Flip stood by and watched.
Seeing Joel and Flip in such close proximity was disorienting.Reg was surprised by how small Joel was, in contrast to the space he occupied in Reg’s mind.Reg wasn’t used to thinking of Flip as big, as he was only an inch taller than Reg, but compared with Joel, Flip was huge.And Flip was rangy.If Joel had been healthy and taller, he would have been rangy too, but at five foot ten and still recovering from mono, he looked thin and vulnerable.
They began, at Reg’s suggestion, hitting a few practice ground strokes for Joel.Joel had a natural, fluid motion, particularly on his backhand side, but he wasn’t quick on his feet, and he soon got out of breath trying to chase balls down.Reg wondered how much of that was due to his recent illness.
When they played properly, Reg had to direct Joel where to stand and shouted, “Mine!”for most of the balls, to spare Joel having to run for them.But it wasn’t long before Joel was sopping with sweat and shaking his wet bangs out of his eyes.Reg stopped the play, got a headband out of his racket bag and pulled it over Joel’s head, tucking his damp hair underneath.
Until now, Flip hadn’t been trying, content to tire Reg and Joel out and move them around the court.Now, Flip started aggressively hitting the ball, cutting angles across the court, playing drop shots and trick shots.Showing off.As Flip hit what looked like an easy winner, Reg lunged at the ball and put up a weak lob.Flip casually positioned himself and smashed the ball straight at Joel.The ball struck him with a loud thump.Joel crumpled and dropped to the court.
Reg ran over and knelt beside him.Joel cradled his arm across his chest.He was gritting his teeth, but he didn’t make a sound.
“Did he hit your spleen?”said Reg.
Joel shook his head.
“Where, then?”said Reg.
Joel pointed below his chest.
“Feels like you can’t breathe?”said Reg.
Joel nodded.
Reg squeezed his shoulder and looked into Joel’s frightened eyes.“You’re not dying.You’re just winded.You’ll get your breath back soon.It’ll be all right.”
Reg stayed with him until Joel began breathing again and gingerly pulled himself up.Reg helped him to the chair beside the court.Joel shot a hard look at Flip, who was standing on the other side of the net, hands on hips, looking impatient.
Reg bore down on Flip like a hawk on a hare.“That was deliberate.”
“I was trying to jam him,” said Flip.
“You drilled him in the solar plexus, you vindictive fuck.”
“Come on, Smithy.It’s a legit shot.If he can’t hit a volley, he’s got no business being that close to the net.”
“Pack your things and go.”
“What?”said Flip.
“You want me to call the paparazzi?”said Reg quietly.“Send them pictures of us together?”
“You wouldn’t,” said Flip.
“I will if you don’t go.”
Flip looked at him, looked at the ground.Then he went to the side of the court and packed his racket bag.Without saying a word to Joel, he slung the bag over his shoulder and walked away.Reg followed him into the house and stood in the open bedroom doorway as Flip packed the rest of his things, then stepped aside to let him pass.
“Keys,” said Reg, holding out his hand.
