There he was again, caught in that magnetic current. Above him, the lights of Arthur Ashe burned against the crimson sky. He closed his eyes, but brighter and brighter the lights grew as he basked in that harsh glory.
He wrenched his eyes open, a familiar, vicious coldness, as unwelcome as it was welcomed, crept into them. The man across the net, a bow pulled taut, clenched the racquet in an unforgiving vice. He forcefully spread a grin across his face, wider and wider, until it threatened to split in two. Meeting the man’s carefully masked glare, he shot a cute little wave over the net.
For a heartbeat, he felt himself soften, his wife’s wave answered from the flickering past, fingers fluttering jauntily above the crowd, her crooked, effortless grin crinkling beneath the lights. Then she was gone.
“Time”
The murmuring of the crowd dissolved, and in its place came the fragile hush before the eruption of their private contest.
“Brandt to serve for the Championship, Reiner to receive. Five games to four. Two sets all.”
In his hand, the ball exuded a soothing warmth, a remnant of a brutal exchange. Spinning it in his grasp, he savored the caress of artificial nylon against his burning calluses. He caressed it back, squeezing it lightly, just enough to feel it give, then softened his grip, watching it spring back into itself. There was something intoxicating in that perfect little submission.
He released it
It struck the court with a hollow, echoing thud;
Right back into his inviting grasp.
Again, and again. There was something almost sacred in this ritual, the certainty in the trajectory, in the force with which the ball hits his fingers, in that sound reverberating through the silence, as the tennis world held its breath.
Across the net, a hesitant scrape of rubber against the grooves of the hard court. A minute adjustment in stance, the tightening of a grip already beyond breaking point. Brandt perceived it all, and reveled in it. The pleasure left a faint, familiar, undesirable aftertaste.
He bounced the ball again.
When the ball was in his hand or caught within the black strings of his racquet, he felt omnipotent. A feeling so narcotic that he had long neglected to question its purity.
The US Open officials allotted 25 seconds for the preparation of serve. Brandt could bounce the ball 31 times in that period, and he was prepared to use every single one of them.
So he did, again and again, counting wordlessly, letting Reiner stew in his ever-present doubts; each bounce held Reiner in his crouch a little longer, his rhythm rusting.
With the corner of his eye, Brandt observed Reiner intently. He twirled his racquet in a practiced yet almost erratic manner.
A smile threatened to breach the corner of Brandt’s mouth, and beneath that, an almost imperceptible unease scratched at the surface.
The ball struck the court.
He caught and held it.
For a moment, he simply felt its weight resting in his palm.
He saw Reiner in anticipation, felt the smile break through, and made him wait a little longer.
Bouncing the ball once more,
He caught Reiner shift.
In that minuscule hesitation, Brandt unleashed his trademark, a slicer out wide, that Reiner barely nicked with the tip of his outstretched racquet.
“15-love”
Brandt felt that old exhilaration bloom inside his chest. Pure. Immediate. Beautiful.
He caught a look of disgust from Reiner, though he beamed back, the smile felt foreign on his face. Involuntarily, Brandt’s focus drifted upon the players' box.
He pumped his fist into the air, feeling a foreboding emptiness. He was, for an ephemeral moment, free. Yet, as he dropped his gaze to the furry yellow ball in his left hand, he was once again engulfed by the familiar current.
He bounced the ball once, again settling back into his unbreakable routine.
Reiner relaxed into his return stance, no longer taut. He had learned to expect the wait.
Brandt knew it.
Instead of a second bounce, Brandt dropped the ball into his open racquet face, delivering a deadly kiss that sent the ball barely teetering over the net.
For one suspended instant, both men were rooted to the ground.
Then Reiner tumbled into a desperate lunge.
Too late, the ball brushed tenderly against the court and lay at rest.
“30-Love”
Brandt stood perfectly still, and a seemingly effortless smile spread across his face.
He remembered how his wife hated that smile.
Indian Wells 2018, his first major tournament win. Driving to the hotel, the city unfurled with incandescent possibilities. The match lingered upon his fingertips; his hands trembling upon the wheel with uncontrollable ecstasy.
He had barely noticed her silence.
Streetlights passed over them, one after another, briefly illuminating her face before surrendering it again to darkness.
Then she said, without looking at him, “I hate the way you play”
He laughed, softly at first.
“What are you talking about?”
“Sometimes, I don’t even recognize you out there”
He sat in silence, eyes stuck upon the road.
“You smile,” she said. “But you don’t look happy.”
Another streetlight swept across her face.
He turned toward her.
“I won.”
“I know.”
He gripped the steering wheel tighter.
“You could at least try to be happy for me.”
“I am.”
“Doesn’t feel like it.”
He drowned out her answer, turning the radio up.
She never came to another match.
“Time violation. Warning, Mr. Brandt.”
He doesn’t spare Reiner a second glance. He served savagely, 140mph, just wide; He lined up his second, a high kicker to Reiner's weaker backhand side. Reiner caught it early, pushing it deep down the line. Brandt sprang to life, bursting across the court and screeching to a grinding stop after smacking a forehand crosscourt. Reiner came out of nowhere, hooking one right back behind Brandt. Two boxers in the ring, dancing around each other, trading blows with fluid artistry, the furry yellow ball is but a paintstroke across canvas.
Each breathtaking hit brought back to Brandt a speck of a memory long buried. An orange racquet dragging across the cracked green surface, too large for little Nico Brandt to carry, its handle slipping against his tender palms. His father stood on the other side, tossing over ball after ball, his terrifying, incessant howls softened by the languid haze of the summer afternoon, insignificant on the court that seemed to stretch into an infinite oasis. That was his first experience of striking the ball perfectly in the sweet spot. A little boy producing the twang of an angel on the harp.
For one brief, foolish moment, Nico Brandt played like that little boy.
He lunged at a dropshot delivered by Reiner, floating, flying, even as he dumped the ball into the net.
“30-15”
Nico smiled.
He sauntered back to the baseline, 5 grueling hours of distress upon his joints dissipating into his memories. The stadium faded, the flashing lights bleeding into the summer haze, the signature blue of Arthur Ashe flickering into green.
Then suddenly, before he knew it, it was 30 all.
He snapped out of his ridiculous daydream. The current had found him again. It slipped beneath his skin, familiar as blood, and the world sharpened with it.
Brandt marched towards the line.
The serve came fast and flat, dragging Reiner out wide, his return floating towards the middle of the court.
Brandt stepped into it; instead of finishing the point, he feathered the ball short.
Reiner rushed forward, stretching and barely digging up the ball, his body pitching helplessly towards the net.
Brandt had the whole court to his whim.
He glanced at the open angle
The inviting empty space beyond Reiner,
The easy winner,
But his eyes lingered on Reiner instead, on the heaving chest beneath damp fabric.
Brandt savored the helplessness of a body caught in desperation.
He struck with all his might, the ball tearing through the air straight at his target.
Too hard
Too high
It was going out
Brandt intended it
Reiner knew it
He twisted, raising his racquet instinctively, yet the ball was already upon him.
Striking with a sickening thud upon Reiner's flailing torso.
Silence.
A collective gasp from the crowd.
Reiner stared down Brandt with murderous indignation.
Brandt felt himself almost fold, recoil.
He could apologize, but instead, the corner of his mouth lifted.
“40-30, championship point to Brandt.”
Brandt bounced the ball.
Once.
Again.
Again.
And again
Reiner's jaw clenched. He glanced toward the umpire, then back at Brandt.
Thud
Thud
Thud
Brandt’s gaze never left Reiner: steam rose from his burning skin, or was it smoke from the fire in his eyes?
Brandt smiled
He bounced the ball once more.
Caught it.
Waited.
As he tossed, he imagined millions of eyes following his, fixed upon the furry yellow ball.
He relished this attention.
He took a little off his stroke, inviting his opponent in for the kill.
Brandt watched Reiner's eyes light up, watched him lick his lips at the weak little shot. His racquet carved violently through the air, and the ball erupted from the strings. Both player and ball howled with belligerence, and for one moment, Brandt let him believe the ball obeyed him.
Then it kept rising.
Brandt watched it sail beyond the baseline.
Silence.
“Game, set, and match, Mr. Nico Brandt.”
He crumpled to the ground. He had done it. His holy grail: a grand slam.
He remembered clambering up towards his player's box, the way he saw every other champion had done. He embraced them, cried into their chests, jumped up and down in exuberance, just like all the champions before him. Still, amidst all those ecstatic faces, his eyes continued to search, stretching towards the empty space beyond them.
His name roared through the stadium as he raised the silver cup into that magnificent kaleidoscope of light, blinding him. He smiled. He laughed. He raised the trophy again; it was heavier than he could have possibly imagined.
He was alone in the locker room. The fluorescent lights hummed overhead. He could not hold the smile any longer. He looked down at his hands. They were trembling. He turned them over slowly, again, and again, as if they belonged to someone else. Above him, the lights seemed to burn brighter and brighter. He shut his eyes, but the lights only grew brighter still.