Match Point

It was set point, a pivotal moment that could tilt the balance of the match. Losing the first set wasn't ideal, and I couldn't afford to let the second one slip away. With laser-like focus, I locked eyes with Alex across the net, tuned into my Zen-mode, and watched as time seemed to slow down. Every move, every twitch of his muscles was crystal clear.

His high ball toss, the deep knee dip into a crouch, the coiling of his trunk and shoulders—it all pointed to a slice. I made my move, leaping right and straddling the alley. But just as I thought I had him figured out, Alex pivoted his racket and sent a blistering ace down the T. The ball whizzed past me, and Alex couldn't help but grin. "It's all fun and games, right?"

For Alex, tennis was a lighthearted affair, a game to be enjoyed. But for me, it was much more. My dad had introduced me to the sport in second grade, teaching me that a racket was a weapon meant to draw blood. Despite the competitive edge, it was hard to hold a grudge against my best friend, even when my usually reliable cross-court forehand failed me.

We had a unique rapport, shouting conversations across the net between points.

"I'll go easier on you this last set."

"Don't even think about it, old man," I retorted, reminding him of our nineteen-day age gap.

Our roles on the high school team had shifted over the years, with Alex surpassing me in ranking after graduation. College tryouts had been a humbling experience for both of us. While we once toyed with the idea of going pro, those dreams had faded over time.

Yet, our shared love for winning remained unchanged. As we traded shots, I could feel the momentum shifting in my favor. I broke Alex's serve twice, taking a 5-3 lead and serving for the set. But just when victory seemed within reach, Alex unleashed a scorching two-fisted backhand that caught me square in the forehead.

Shaking off the impact, I retrieved my racket and acknowledged his shot. "Nice return, Alex!"

"You okay?"

"Yeah. You're not getting off that easy," I quipped, serving up a body-shot to claim the set.

As we started the fourth set, Alex teased me about leaving the court a winner, but I was determined to prove him wrong. Our banter continued, with each of us trying to gain a mental edge. I noticed Alex attempting some old-school shots, like a one-handed backhand slice, to throw me off my game. But I stayed focused, winning the fourth and fifth sets convincingly.

"Alright, I'm done. You played like a younger man today, Max," Alex conceded.

"I am younger. Maybe your reign is over," I replied, echoing his earlier taunts.

Alex dismissed my victory as luck, but I knew better. I had played my best tennis, and it felt good to come out on top. As we parted ways, Alex declined my offer for a celebratory smoothie, claiming he had errands to run.

Feeling satisfied with my performance, I sat back on the bench, replaying the highlights in my mind. My reverie was interrupted by a teenage girl and boy peeking through the court gate.

"Excuse me, sir?" the girl asked tentatively.

I corrected her, "You don't need to call me 'sir.' I'm not that much older than you."

I gathered my gear and headed toward the gate when the boy approached me with an old wooden racket. "Is this yours?"

Examining the racket, I recognized it instantly—it was a Dunlop Maxply Fort, the same model my father used to play with. Etched into the frame was my father's name, written in his distinctive handwriting.

"It's a relic," I told the boy, my voice tinged with emotion.

As I held the racket, memories of my father flooded back. The lessons, the matches, the shared love for the game—it all came rushing back. The old wooden racket wasn't just a piece of equipment; it was a link to my past, a reminder of the bond I shared with my father.

I thanked the boy for returning it and walked away, clutching the racket close to my chest. It wasn't just about winning or losing; it was about honoring the legacy of the game and the people who shaped me along the way.