PART ONE
FRENCH OPEN SWING
PARIS
One
PEOPLE THINK TENNIS is glamorous. They think of huge crowds at grand slams, of hot men stripping off sweaty shirts, of press conferences, houses in Monte Carlo, and photoshoots for expensive brands. But tennis is really about sweat. Sweat as effort, sweat as an accompaniment to blood and tears, and sweat dripping endlessly from my goddamn brow.
At the other end of the court, Arthur Geroux was faring no better. The sun seemed determined to bake us into the red clay beneath our feet, but with synchronised swipes of our sweat bands, we were ready for the next point. Or at leastIwas. He kept bouncing the damn ball, on and on for fucking ages before every serve like he needed to get his ten thousand steps in. It was slowly pissing me off.
When he finally served, I slid across the clay and ripped it back full-force, leaving him scrambling.
All right, rapidly pissing me off.
“Fifteen thirty,” the umpire called, and the rowdy crowd didn’t cheer. Over a smattering of polite applause, they waved signs andshouted encouragement to the man across the net as he began his endless ball-bouncing routine again.
It was hot, but it was also the first day of the French Open and the crowd at Roland Garros had a countryman to cheer for, packing our small outer court with French flags and noise. Not that Geroux was a star, just a local wildcard lucky enough to be playing a nobody.
“Fifteen forty.”
You’re not a nobody, Mat,Danny might have chided as I knocked the clay from my shoes, but my coach wasn’t even on the same continent let alone here. Besides, being a nobody was better than the truth. Because to those who had heard of me, I was just that Australian guy who hadn’t made anything of his great potential. The up-and-comer who hadn’t up and come. The rising star who’d sunk. Or to some people just, “hey, isn’t he the gay one?”
“Thirty forty.”
That shit usually made me angry, although today it was this French crowd cheering all my mistakes because each one got their man closer to a win.
That and his damn bouncing.
“Game, Russo. Russo leads four games to two.”
I wiped still more sweat from my brow and prepared to serve, determined not to lose. After all, I had a whole crowd to disappoint.
Mum
Congratulations, love! You played so well! We’re still up if you want to call, but all good if you’re busy xx
Nico
MAT! THAT WAS AWESOME!
Katie Zhang
Second round! Fucking finally. We should celebrate later. You know, so long as it’s not expensive, doesn’t involve going out and I get a good sleep. Haha
THE BUZZ OF winning lasted through my cool-down and into the shower, and might have lasted longer if not for the compulsory press commitments. While most other poorly-ranked players could skate through with just staple questions, I had made myself eternally interesting to a certain kind of journalist.
Stepping into the press room always made me feel slightly ill and today was no exception, my stomach swirling as I headed to the cheap table draped in black. Microphones sat waiting. A few desultory cameras flashed. Part of me wanted to say ‘look, we don’t have to pretend you give a shit about me’, but a deeper part wanted to believe they did.
The chair felt too small, the table too close, the lights too bright. But there was water and soon it would be over.
“Mr Russo,” a journalist said—local by the accent. “This is your first time reaching the second round here at Roland Garros, how does it feel?”
I swallowed a mouthful of water and the observation that it was a stupid question. The chair creaked beneath me. “Yeah, you know, of course I’m disappointed that it’s taken this long, but it’s important to always look forward. I know what I’m capable of and it’s more than I’ve been achieving, so hopefully this is the start of something better.”
Terrible answer. Utterly full of myself. I gulped more water and wished someone would enforce dim lighting and comfortable armchairs in these damn things. The whole room smelled of synthetic carpet and a tangle of overwrought perfumes.
A hand went up. “It must be difficult returning after such a serious accident as you had,” the woman said, brushing aside her fringe with the hand that wasn’t clutching her phone. “Did you ever think about not coming back?”
