“We invented the vocabulary,” Andre said, with a small, proud smile. “The English invented the boredom.”
Blake threw the tennis ball at him. Andre caught it without looking.
“After deuce,” Blake continued, ignoring Andre’s smirk, “the next point is called advantage. If the person with advantage wins the next point, they win the game. If they lose it, it goes back to deuce.”
“So it could go on forever,” Liam said slowly.
“Theoretically, yes.”
“Has it ever?”
“The longest game in professional tennis had thirty-seven deuces,” Blake said.
Liam stared at him. “You’re joking.”
“I am not joking.”
“Thirty-seven deuces. That’s…” Liam did the math on his fingers, gave up, and drank more wine. “That’s too many deuces.”
“Drink every time he says deuce,” Talia suggested, and Liam immediately raised his glass.
“Deuce,” Andre said.
They all drank.
“Deuce,” Blake said, grinning.
They drank again.
“This is going to end badly,” Talia observed, but she was already laughing.
Over the next hour, as the wine bottles emptied and were replaced, Blake and Andre walked them through the rest: the difference between a forehand and a backhand (“One is elegant, one is functional,” Andre said. “Like the difference between Shakespeare and David Mamet,” Liam offered), the purpose of a serve (“It’s the only shot where you have complete control,” Blake explained. “Everything after that is a conversation”), the etiquette of the crowd (“No talking during points. Nophone sounds. No standing up to go to the toilet during a game”), and the particular agony of a five-set match that goes to a fifth-set tiebreaker.
“So you’re telling me,” Liam said, now on his fourth glass of wine and sitting on the floor for reasons that were unclear, “that two men can play for five hours, be completely equal, and then the entire thing comes down to one point?”
“Yes,” Blake said.
“That’s the cruelest thing I’ve ever heard. That’s Greek tragedy. That’s Euripides.”
“It’s sport,” Blake said.
“It’s the same thing,” Liam insisted, pointing at Blake with his wine glass, sloshing a small amount onto the rug. “The Greeks understood this. Competition as suffering. Victory as divine intervention. Defeat as fate.”
“You’re drunk,” Talia said fondly.
“I’m inspired. I’m going to write a play about tennis.”
“Please don’t,” Andre said.
“Too late. It’s happening. Two men. One court. Five acts. I’ll call it Deuce.”
“Drink!” Talia shouted, and they all raised their glasses.
By eleven o’clock, Liam was lying flat on his back on the living room floor, holding Blake’s racket above his head like a sword, while Talia demonstrated what she had learned by providing commentary on an imaginary match.
“And Moreau serves — oh, that’s a beautiful toss — and it’s an ace! That’s when they can’t touch it, right?”
“Correct,” Andre said, deeply amused, his legs stretched out on the sofa, his head resting in Blake’s lap.
