***
On Thursday morning, April convinces me to fill in for her usual doubles partner, who is home with a stomach bug, in a practice match against Romy and her longtime partner, Mary Catherine—known in tennis circles as MC because she occasionally bursts out with “Hammer Time!” when acing her opponents. In short, all three women take their tennis very seriously, and I am sure that my high school tennis team prowess won’t live up to their religious ten hours a week of dedication to the game. And I’m even more sure when I see Romy and MC strut onto the indoor tennis court at Dedham Golf & Polo with their all-business, full-makeup game faces, and perfectly coordinated outfits, down to their matching wrist bands and sneakers—Romy in powder blue, MC in lavender.
“Hello, ladies,” MC says in her husky voice. She removes her warm-up jacket and shakes out her arms, her biceps rippling like an Olympic swimmer’s.
“Sorry we’re late,” Romy says, slipping her short blond hair into a nubby ponytail and then stretching her hamstrings. “Nightmare of a morning. Grayson had another meltdown on the way to school. My decorator showed up thirty minutes late with positively loathsome fabric samples. And I spilled a bottle of nail polish remover all over our brand-new bathroom throw rug. I knew I shouldn’t try to give myself a manicure!”
“Oh, honey! That sounds dreadful,” April says, her tone changing as it always does when she gets around Romy. It’s as if she wants to impress her or win her approval—which I find odd given that April seems smarter and more interesting than her friend.
“So, Tessa. April says you’re a great player,” MC says, cutting to the chase. She is the matriarch and captain of their tennis team, and apparently looking to fill one spot in their spring lineup. In other words, I am clearly auditioning today. “You played in college?”
“No!” I say, appalled with the misrepresentation.
“Yes you did,” April says, running her hand across her newly restrung racket and then opening a can of balls.
“No, I didn’t. I played in high school. And I didn’t touch a racket for years until I quit my job last year,” I say, setting the record straight and lowering everyone’s expectations, including my own. Still, I feel a surprising current of competitiveness, something I haven’t experienced in a long time. I want to be good today. I need to be good today. Or at least competent.
For the next few minutes, the four of us make small talk and warm up, hitting ground strokes as I replay my tennis instructor’s advice from a recent lesson—keep my feet moving, my grip tight, approach the net on second serve returns. But as soon as we begin the match, all my competency melts away, and thanks to my inability to hold serve or win a point on my return side, April and I quickly find ourselves down a set and three-love.
“Sorry,” I mumble after one particularly embarrassing return, an easy shot that I hit directly into the net. I am speaking mostly to April, but to Romy and MC, too, as I know I’m doing nothing to help hone their skills or elevate their level of play.
“No worries!” Romy shouts, barely winded, her makeup still perfect. “You’re doing fine!” Her tone is patronizing, but encouraging.
Meanwhile, I gasp for air and wipe my face with a towel, then chug from my water bottle, returning to the court with fresh determination. Fortunately, my play seems to improve slightly from there, and I even hit a few winning points, but within thirty more minutes, we are still facing match point, which MC announces as if speaking into a microphone on Centre Court at Wimbledon.
I feel a sudden surge of intense nervousness, as if the next point could prove life-changing. Gripping my racket in the ready position, I watch MC line her toes up behind the baseline, bounce her ball three times, and stare me down, in what is either her pre-serve visualization or an obvious attempt at intimidation.
“Serve already,” I hear April mutter, as she finally tosses her ball in the air, simultaneously coiling her racket behind her head, crushing a slice serve with a Monica Seles—esque grunt.
The ball whizzes over the net, spins sideways, and slides off the singles line in the wide corner of my deuce service box, pushing me off the court. I spot the spin and the angle, stretching into the tennis version of a warrior-three yoga pose as I fully extend my arm and flip my wrist. The frame of my racket barely makes contact with the ball yet I still manage a high, deep forehand return. Feeling satisfied, I watch the ball lob its way down the line toward Romy, who yells “Mine! Mine!” a crucial instruction when playing with MC.
Romy hits an overhead up the middle.