Short Stoking

by R. Daniel Planesi

He was a kid out there but he was good, with a funny serve that made him twist his body into a corkserew when he went up and almost made you laugh until he came down on the ball and spun it away with a curve that put it just inside your elbow, where you couldn't get it if you held the raquet orthodox-at the handle. And I only got away with it because I'd starting choking up on the raquet as a kid and picked it up after I sprained my wrist and then broke it. I was recovering pretty good from that and that's when I ran into him.

I'd been using the backboard regularly, hitting the ball in spurts like I was attacking the net and moving back to rest when my wrist got tired. I'd come back and lob the ball and try to keep it playing until I was rested and ready to work again-and he walked up during one of those rest periods and waited until I dropped a shot.

He was standing east of the board, holding his raquet under his arm with the butt pointing to the front, in a clean, new tennis outfit-sharp blue shorts and a white shirt with some red trim around the edge of the collar and an insignia on the pocket, and he was saying, "Want to play a couple of games before my friends come?" and I thought, "Now that I'm half beat out someone wants to play ..." and then I thought, "Hell, I never get on the courts-I might as well," and said, "Yeah, I'd like that," and he walked away toward the courts.

I picked up the ball and walked back to the wall for a run while he warmed up. I bounced it hard of the wall and then started working on a rhythm and then led hard into it, off the top like lobs and came down into a hard slam and moved up on it. When I missed the last one I looked over at him and he looked like he was ready so I hit the ball one more time and stopped it on its way back. Then I gathered my gear, thinking of his new metal raquet and me with my beat-up junk wood and his sharp clothes and shoes and my broken down running shoes and beat-up chord's and I thought, "If I don't beat him, I'm going to make that son-of-a-bitch think I did," and I walked over to him and we Nipped a coin for side and I went over to the north side of the court.

His first serve was easy and loping over the net and I had a lot of time to get it and return to his off side and he backhanded to the middle of my court. I thought about putting it away, but I wanted to keep it in play so I could catch his rhythm, so I bounced if off the far side of my backhand and into the middle of his court, expecting him to drill it to my forehand and he did, but close to the elbow, and I dropped the raquet into choke and slammed it back into his court. He was waiting for it like it had to be weak and the power caught him off guard and it went right by him. It was my point.

I knew what he was going for-catching the inside of the elbow made a good return almost impossible-but short stroking gave me the edge to drill it, put it where he wouldn't think it could go. I had what I wanted from him, and he was looking at me like he couldn't figure out what had happened and I swung the raquet down and dropped the butt away so he wouldn't notice. His next serve was a hard burn down the middle of the court, with good topspin arc, and when it bounced I sidehanded it and spun it into the east side of the court, to his forehand, and away from him, and again the move surprised him. It was a low ball, about eight inches away from where he expected it, and he was late on it.

I dropped the butt into my palm before he could look at me and walked over to wait for the next serve.

I choked again as he went up into that funny twist and thought, "You've got to be kidding," and the ball surged away from him and was inside my court and next to my arm and I took a swipe at it and it bounced outside the court. He had his point.

I was ticked. I'd wanted the first three. I figured then he would get careful. But that was gone. He had one and I would have to work for everything I could get. I'd have to take three or four more to make him think like I wanted him to and he was too good for that.

I ran the serve through my head again so I could see where it came from and set back for the next one.

He tried again, going high and coming down like he was going to twist in half and the ball was going for the inside again. I tucked the raquet for a backhand and short-stroked. It popped back into his court, weak, but accurate, with topspin, and landed close to his foot where he'd have to scoop it. He picked it off the ground and lobbed it back to me, weak, like it had to be-long, on the east side off my backhand-and I jumped on it, slamming with heavy sidespin so it arced like it was going toward him and then turned away and dropped into his forehand corner and he couldn't get it.

I had another one, and he was confused as hell-that much sidespin couldn't come from holdng the the racquet at the handle. I knew he couldn't trust his old reflexes any more. He had to come up with some new ones. That would force him into thinking-into making new mistakes. And that's what I wanted.

Then we started trading points. He was playing hard, his best, and trying to maneuver the ball deep, and I kept coming up on him and short-stroking it into his corners.

Finally, on the backside of the set, after I'd taken two games, going hard for the last points and taking the first and him making a mistake on the second, he went up for that serve and the racquet arced over and down and the ball came at me and started to the outside and I'd been waiting for it to come inside and he had his ace. I thought about it hard, knowing I should have anticipated the switch in the serve, as I walked over and got the ball and popped it back over to him for the next serve.

I waited inside the line for the serve, holding the racquet low, with both hands in a crouch. I knew I would go left and he was going to try inside again and I was right. I had the racquet choked in plenty of time and as the ball came whizzing over the net I planted my foot and backhanded it deep into his back-court and caught him right off guard. It had slapped short of the line and passed him before he knew it was coming He looked shocked-almost angry, like I'd taken his best toy away from him, and I walked back to the baseline thinking, "That worked on a lot of guys who knew it was coming and couldn't do anything about it anyway."

He played the rest of the game hard and I started making mistakes and he'd take the points in the clutch. He was better than me in the deep court and I couldn't get him away from it and if I came up too short he drilled it in the corners. But I hung on and caught some at the net and spun them to his feet and he couldn't get under them. We came to the last point and I knew he was going to try everything with his serve so he wouldn't lose out on the set, and when he went up I started to short-stroke and then changed my mind and held it just short of the handle-less than half way up-and he slammed it over the net and into the box in the center, neat, and spinning away, and I barely got to it and sent it deep, without any power, and he picked it off the line and powered it back to my forehand. I wasn't ready but I caught it high, near the top wood, and laced it to his forehand. He drove it right at me, like his serve, and I short stroked and slammed it with a backhand to the west side, off his backhand, and he was coming up on it and the spin backed it into him. It was the same spot he was shooting for, but I was short-stroking and he wasn't and he couldn't get it.

I knew his next move would be to force me to play deep, and make me run-play his game, where he was good and I wasn't.

I short-stroked again as he went up and he tried to play it wide and faulted.

I caught the ball and tossed it back at him, thinking, "He won't try that again, not hard, because he wants it too much." Then he went up and I saw the racquet coming over and knew he was going to put it right through me if he could, and sure enough, it came at me like a mad dragonfly and I stepped to the inside and it hit like it was a steel ball. I plowed it to his feet and it richocheted off the clay next to his right foot and I could see him get mad as he swung and couldn't get his foot out of the way-all he could do was hit himself with the racquet. I had my add.

I dropped the racquet low and switched it to my left hand. I knew he was mad. He'd kill me if he could. I walked to the baseline thinking, "This is my point."

I set myself for him to go up high again, but he didn't. He tried a straight drive, flat, down the side of the court, but it caught the tip of the net and bounced lightly-just enough. Fault. I didn't move. He tossed the other ball up and I saw his elbow bend to the outside and I knew. He was going to try for the outside of my backhand. The only close-in shot he hadn't tried yet-it had to be his long shot. I shifted weight to my right foot and chopped a step as he was coming down on the ball and I was right there, standing hard on the racquet and when it hit it felt like a punch. With my left hand bracing my forearm, I just let the ball bounce off the racquet, on the sweet, but I was damned because he was waiting for it, deep, down his forehand side, and 1 couldn't get back as he wedged, hard, to my forehand, and it was like rain in the wind- I caught it low, chopped, with the bottom of the ball hard on the racquet as I drove down and spun it under and a little to the side. He didn't expect the sidespin, or even that much under, and it almost looked like he tripped trying to get under it, but it came straight at me, like it was going for my forehead, but I was on-moving up and choking on the backhand and not caring where it went because it had to be in the shallow near the net. He would have to return with either a slow lob, coming up, or a weak drop near the net. He elected to try deep, driving from below, no topspin, and swinging it right at me. I spun my shoulder to the outside, coming up on a forehand, and the ball was in front of me. I connected, sweet, full on, and felt my hand vibrate as the ball went away. He came up, switching from forehand to backhand and got there in plenty of time. But he was holding orthodox and the ball went through him-between his racquet and armpit, arcing to where he couldn't hit and couldn't know it would be. He didn't even look at the ball. He was looking at me and I was swinging the racquet on the follow-through and thinking, "I turned his ace and used it against him," and he was looking at the way I was holding the racquet.

He came up to the net and put his hand across and said, "Good game," and I said, "Thanks," and that was the last I saw of him.

Then I turned on the tube this afternoon and there he was-raking the hell out of some kid on the way to the finals with fifty thousand on the side, short-stroking once in a while, close to the net, like I'd done to him. And he was good at it-better'n me-and he was confusing the hell out of them because he was only doing it once in a while-just when it counted.