I took a deep breath and let it out – a rule I enforced whenever someone asked about my accident. It had been over four years and they still couldn’t think of a better question. Although the better question would have been ‘why is your comeback taking so long?’
“No,” I said. “Tennis is my life. It’s all I’ve ever wanted to do. Of course, there was a time I thought I might not be able to play again, but I never wanted to give up.”
A beat of silence fell as each journalistic mind turned over the potential for yet another piece of inspirational slop, as though my determination was somehow special rather than the result of a mile-wide stubborn streak.
“Matteo,” another said—an Australian from his accent and easy familiarity. “Australian fans have been watching your career since you won the Australian Open junior title, so they’ll be thrilled by this win, especially with so few Aussies in the draw. Any chance of you going all the way?”
Somehow, the questions were getting worse. “There’s always a chance.” I forced a laugh. “The great thing about tennis is that anything can happen. I’m proud of those junior titles, but once you’re on the main tour they don’t mean a lot. So, I’ll just play my best and take it one match at a time.”
“Well, your next match will likely be against Miles Callahan, ifhe wins today,” a woman said in a tone of faint triumph. “How do you feel about that match up? Last time you met, he knocked you out of Wimbledon, first round.”
I didn’t need the reminder. “Oh, well, yeah.” I coughed out something I hoped sounded like a laugh rather than a hiss of panic, and fell back into trite tennis speak. “Miles is an amazing player and he’s having a great season. He’s always tough to play—was even as a junior—but I’ll just go out there and play my game, and try not to think about who’s on the other side of the net.”
Lies, but they swallowed them because they had to. A few seconds of silence slid from brief reprieve into awkwardness at the speed of collective embarrassment, but before one of the tournament staff could wrap us up and usher me off, another journalist lifted a hand. “Mr Russo, you came out a year after turning pro. How do you think it affected your career?”
“Coming out or being gay?” I asked, forgetting to take a deep breath before replying. “Because I’m pretty sure my dick doesn’t play the tennis.” A few sniggers, likely as much at me as the man asking the apparently evergreen question. “But honestly,” I went on, reining in my temper with an effort. “I hope being open about my sexuality hasn’t affected my career at all, but who knows.”
The feeling in the room tightened as another journalist leaned forward. “Does it bother you that you’re still the only openly gay professional tennis player?”
I shrugged one shoulder, the sudden exhaustion engendered by the question making the other an impossibility. “No? I came out to be true to myself, not to start a flood of admissions. I just hope young players don’t feel pressured to lie like I did as a junior. It’s nota big deal outside tennis, yet for some reason, inside tennis, it is. So, if all I achieve is helping people see that it’s fine, then I’m happy with that.”
More lies, but facing the press wasn’t a good time for introspection.
“Why do you think it’s a big deal inside tennis?”
“Ideas about masculinity?” I said. “Fear of losing sponsors? Inertia? I don’t know. You would have to ask a player who hasn’t come out.”
Seemingly determined to plumb the depths of this problem, the same man asked, “You think there are some?”
“Statistics vary, but somewhere between three and ten percent of men aren’t straight, so you do the math.”
“You don’t think elite tennis might attract a more . . . normal—?”
I was on my feet before I realised anger had won, sending cameras flashing all around me. “Normal? I’m going to pretend you didn’t use that word. But do I think only straight,realmen play elite sport? No. Though perhaps such assumptions are what keep people silent. Are we done here?”
Cameras went on flashing, and the silence prickled up my arms and the back of my neck, every shocked, staring face a reminder that I’d stepped outside the role shaped for me. I’d forgotten to stick to trite tennis words and good sportsmanship, forgotten to be grateful and vague and just smile. Now, they were thinking that while the inspiration porn would have been good for clicks, stories about a bitter, gay failure were better. Hopefully, some idiot would smash a racquet into an Escher sketch and shout at an umpire today so I could be forgotten.
With anger cooling into horror, I strode out, needing to find a convenient pillow to stick my head under and scream.
Katie Zhang
Hey, I’m out hitting with Helen but I’ll be back for dinner
No hurry. I’m just laundrying
Oh, did you take the small pile I left near the couch?
Sure did
You’re the best
At laundry
Nope. Too soon after winning for self-deprecation and that’s an order
I LEANED BACK with a hollow laugh and let the ambient noise roll over me, all mechanical whirr and the thump of errant shoes. While most people travelled the world to see the sights, I had become a connoisseur of laundromats. People often asked what Shanghai or Prague or Cancún had been like, and all I could say was whether the courts had been nice and I’d found a laundromat with machines that didn’t squeak.
Paris had pretty good laundromats.
