Page 27 of Match Point

The rest of the tournament was a blur. My agent Hamilton had scheduled several more interviews during the two-week span, and I even put on a microphone and gave television commentary during one of the women’s semi-final matches. But it was the men’s tournament that Ireallycared about. Dominic crushed the competition in his bracket, losing just two sets in his first six rounds.

On the other end of the bracket, Gabriel Moreau was even more dominant, losing just a single set on his way to the finals. The two men were like a pair of bullet trains speeding toward each other.

The men’s final was on a Sunday at the end of January. Rod Laver Arena was packed for the match, and I was grateful to have a reserved seat in a box down close to the action, which I was sharing with several past champions. Despite playing professionally for a decade and a half, I still felt honored to sit next to legends like Martina Navratilova, Steffi Graf (and her husband Andre Agassi!) and Kim Clijsters. It was a good thing Serena Williams wasn’t there, or I might haveactuallyembarrassed myself by weeping with happiness.

“How can you sit there, glued to your phone?” I whispered to Hamilton in the seat next to me. “We’re surrounded by three of the best female players in history!”

“Four, counting yourself,” he replied without looking up from his phone. “But I’m on the clock right now. A new opportunity has popped up that is time sensitive.”

“It feels like you’re cheating on me, handling business for your other clients while we’re together,” I teased.

Now he did look up. “This opportunity isn’t for one of my other clients. It’s for you. I’m emailing a producer from CBS. The next season of Celebrity Survivor begins filming next month, and someone backed out. I might be able to get you on the show.”

I gasped. “Survivor? Really? That’s my favorite reality show.”

“I know this,” he replied,” because I’m your agent, and I am eminently good at my job. Also, they’re offering this much money.” He held the phone up so I could see the six-digit number.

“They would pay me that much?” I asked. “Hammy! Tell them I accept!”

“I can get you more. Sit tight and let me negotiate.” He returned to tapping on the screen.

I wanted to tell him to forget the money and accept the offer immediately, but the crowd noise grew louder as the two players walked out onto the court. Dominic deGrom looked dashing in white shorts and a blue technical shirt that fit his broad-shouldered frame perfectly. Behind him, Gabriel Moreau was wearing all black, except for a red stripe that ran diagonal across his shirt next to a red Wilson logo. With his hair slicked back behind a red sweatband, and the cocky way he strutted out onto the court, he looked like the villain in a Disney movie.

Not being able to see Dominic for the past two weeks had been frustrating. At least twice a day I considered texting him to see if he wanted to meet up for dinner anddessert. But now that I saw him here, competing in the finals, I was glad I hadn’t bothered him. The last thing I wanted to be was a distraction.

When his name was announced over the loudspeaker, I stood up and cheered louder than anyone.

The two players—who were ranked #1 and #2 in the world—went back and forth for the first hour of the match. Dominic won the first set, but Gabriel came right back and won the second. It was like they were testing each other out, playing conservatively while waiting to see what strategy the other would employ.

After Gabriel won the third set, I could feel the championship slipping away from Dominic. But he battled back and broke the Frenchman’s serve in the first game of the fourth, eventually winning that set and evening them up at two sets each.

The fifth set felt like a heavyweight boxing match, with both players hammering their opponents with everything they had left in the tank. Dominic’s shots were perfectly placed, but Gabriel managed to chase most of them down. Gabriel rushed to the net to volley on most points, forcing Dominic to hit a flawless shot around him, or a lob over his head. The two men grunted, and groaned, and pumped their fists after every single point.

After several brutal games, Gabriel was up 6-5 in the final set. A player had to win a set by two games, so he needed to win this game, or else it would go to a tiebreaker scenario. Dominic was serving, and hit an unforced error to start the game. After a flawless serve return from Gabriel, and another unforced error from Dominic, the American found himself down 0-40.

“Match point,” I whispered. “Come on, Dominic. Fight back!”

And fight back he did. The next serve was an ace to make it 15-40. Gabriel hammered the next serve down the line and then rushed up to the net, but Dominic got to the ball with just enough time to flick his wrist, sending the ball soaring over Gabriel. The Frenchman leaped, but missed it by an inch. Now it was 30-40.

I was sitting on the edge of my seat, barely able to watch. Paradoxically, nerves were easier to deal with while I wasplayingtennis. I felt helpless as a spectator.

The crowd went silent as Dominic bounced the ball in front of him. Then he tossed it into the air, bent backwards like a boomerang, and uncoiled like a spring to strike the ball. It was a perfect serve, landing right on the line down the middle.

But Gabriel had anticipated it, and hit a blistering forehand return. Dominic darted after the ball, but he had so much ground to cover. The arena held its breath as he leaned toward the ball, extending his racket, flicking his wrist…

The ball glanced off the racket frame, dribbling pitifully into the net.

“Game, set, match,” the chair umpire tried to say, but the crowd noise drowned him out. Dominic slumped his head for a moment, then proudly walked up to the net to shake his opponent’s hand.

But Gabriel wasn’t paying attention to him. He threw his racket into the air and pumped his fist. He tore his shirt off and tossed it into the crowd, then strutted around while beating his sweaty chest. Dominic stood at the net, politely waiting the entire time.

“I’ve seen peacocks act more modest than him,” Hamilton muttered.

“No kidding.”

After an extended period of celebration, Gabriel made his way to the net to shake Dominic’s hand. The American was a good sport, clapping him on the arm and saying something congratulatory, but Gabriel quickly hurried over in our direction. I was sitting in the front row, so I had a perfect view as Gabriel went to the box next to ours and reached up to take his girlfriend’s hand, squeezing it tightly and blowing her a few dramatic kisses.

Our paths had crossed dozens of times over the years, but we never actually interacted. We just happened to be at the same event at the same time, at welcome dinners or award banquets. But this was the closest I had gotten to him since we were teenagers.

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