Page 21 of Match Point

Tristan

When I was healthy, I was the best male tennis player in the world. And yes, that’s my totally biased opinion, but I also happen to think it’s the truth.

I won my first major, the US Open, when I was eighteen. I defeated Djokovic—the world number one at the time—in three straight sets, dominating him with my powerful serve and then finishing him off at the net. I followed up that win with three more majors in the next four years, cementing my place as one of the top men in the game.

But since that hot streak, I had struggled with physical limitations. First was an injured rotator cuff that sidelined me for six months. Then a sprained ACL. One by one, the little injuries piled up; just when I would heal from one thing, another would pop up. For the past five years, there has always beensomelingering problem with my body. It was frustrating having a body that would not cooperate with my ambition.

I’ve gotten a lot of advice over the years, both good and bad. My coach told me to take some time off and heal. My best mates in Sydney told me to harden the fuck up and play through my injuries. I usually tried the former, allowing my body the rest it needed to keep up with such a grueling schedule. But I was in my thirties now, and I couldn’t afford to take time off. Time was the one resource I was rapidly running out of. When I went to bed at night, and when I woke up in the morning, that clock was ticking in the back of my head. Reminding me that I couldn’t do this forever.

The one major I had never won was the one that mattered the most to me: the Australian Open. The one that took place in the city where I grew up. My window for winning in Melbourne was closing. It felt like a noose tightening around my neck. Soon, I wouldn’t be able to breathe. I needed help if I was going to accomplish the one goal I cared about.

And the woman who was supposed to give me that help had stood me up.

Again.

I checked my watch and glanced at my coach, who only shrugged. We were on the first court of the indoor practice arena, which was blocked off from most of the fans. But there was a roped off section over on the side where fans with a special Platinum Pass could watch us practice. They had been respectful so far, watching quietly without screaming for autographs. Since Miranda was late, I grabbed a pen from my bag and wandered over there.

Signing autographs always lifted my spirits. It reminded me that I was only herebecauseof the fans; without them, there would be no prize money, no tournaments, no endorsements. I owed my entire career to them. The great Australian player Lleyton Hewitt had signed an autograph for me when I was ten, and it made my day. Hell, it made my entireyear.

Interacting with the fans did raise my spirits a little bit… until one little boy walked away, muttering to his friend, “He used to be fun. Now he just seems annoyed all the time.”

I clenched my teeth and finished signing a tennis ball for a teenage girl. “Sorry, that’s all I have time for. Need to get back to practice.”

The smattering of fans thanked me and gave a little cheer as I walked away. But all I could hear in my head was that little boy claiming I wasn’t fun anymore. It didn’t sting because he was wrong—it stung because he wasright. It had been a long time since tennis was fun to me. Now it was just a job, and one that I was consistently failing at.

“She’s late,” I said to my coach.

“It’s only a quarter past,” he replied. “She’s probably getting mobbed by fans on the way here. Let’s warm-up while we wait.”

Even though he was probably right, her absence was like a dagger to my gut. It was the same pain I’d felt fourteen years ago. Hopefulness, followed by crushing disappointment. I still didn’t know why it bothered me so much, but it did. The last thing I needed was to go through that again.

“I’m not convinced I should switch to a two-handed backhand,” I said while my coach and I lightly hit the ball back and forth.

“The alternative is continuing to struggle,” he replied. “Or drop out entirely and rest up before the French Open.”

No,I thought bitterly.I can’t drop out of another tournament. I need to win the Aussie.

“You could switch to doubles in the short-term,” my coach suggested. “For the French, and maybe Wimbledon. Your partner could pick up the slack on your backhand side. It would keep you sharp while you rest, and the doubles pool is weak this year.”

“I don’t want to play doubles,” I said stubbornly.

My coach rolled his eyes, but didn’t press the issue further.

I knew when Miranda was arriving because the fans in the Platinum section started shouting for autographs. The sight of her took my breath away: a short black tennis skirt and a deep blue top, her dark hair pulled back in a ponytail. The tennis bag over her shoulder was almost as large as she was.

“Miranda!” one little girl shouted. “Are you helping Tristan Carfrae practice?”

“He doesn’t need my help,” she replied. “We’re just old friends getting together to hit the ball a little.”

Old friends. Is that what she thought we were? Before last night, I hadn’t spoken to her in over a decade.

“Sorry I’m late!” she said in a chipper tone while joining us. “Still jet-lagged, I think.”

All of my frustrations melted away as she smiled at me. “You’ve only been retired a month, and you’ve already gotten used to sleeping in, eh?”

Her smile widened. “It’s so nice not having to wake up at four in the morning.”

“Rub it in, why don’t you?” I replied.

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