Racket
January 26th, 2021
Starring: Stringer (early/mid 20’s)
A minimum security prison, the outdoor basketball court. Stringer sits/stands, in a tan colored uniform:
STRINGER
I grew up very religious. The kind where everything happens for a reason, and none of it’s up to you.
I saw the BS early, when I realized I had talent. I found it on the tennis court, ripping backhands down the singles line. I preferred hitting where people couldn’t reach. I’d watch as they’d scramble, dive, fling themselves at the ball before the second bounce. It was self-affirming. They were running because I hit the ball. I did that.
But scripture dictated my gift wasn’t mine to claim. All glory went to the thing that was moving through me, allowing me to do it. How lucky I was! How awed I should be!
...
It’s robbery. You figure out who you are, then the holy one sticks you up at knifepoint and drives away in an unmarked van. And it’s legal.
...
My parents didn’t disown me. It’s not in their nature. They dismantled my rebellion with kindness: moved me out of day school, ceased the testament thumping. They gave me what I wanted. And in doing so, took away what I needed. Robotics camp, not tennis lessons. Science Olympiad instead of USTA tournaments. My talent got put down. Euthanized, slowly, before it could see what it could be.
The learning issues were apparent by middle school. No lack of intelligence, but no focus made it useless. I needed meds. Mom and Dad deferred, ever skeptical of non-spiritual healing. Or maybe they were just in denial I had problems. By the time I got on the right stuff, college loomed. My grades were garbage, so I punted. Community college. “Time to figure things out.”
At this point, my parents had disowned me. They weren’t going to tell me outright, or even kick me out of the house. But the disconnection was there. They had sold their equity in my future. My issues were mine now.
I took refuge in the college tennis center. The courts were pretty nice, as were the people. I started playing again, for fun. Before classes, between them, sometimes skipping. It was my requiem. Every match I played made up for one I had missed. The drop-shots and cross-court winners felt even sweeter now. Angelic, one might say.
They gave me a job in the pro shop. Part-time, stringing rackets. I loved it. I learned what it meant to focus. What would happen if I did. I could help people. I could give them the power to actualize their potential.
Answers flowed from there: I could start my own store. Or work for the pro tour. I could be a racket designer, or write a blog, or teach, or coach. Build some courts somewhere, if I wanted to. I saw every possibility, all at once. I just had to get out there.
And money. I needed that too.
The local high school used our courts for practice. Some of the guys would stop in after and get Powerades. They were all top-line players; state-ranked, college commits, four rackets in their gear bags. I’d become friendly with one of them, their top singles guy. I liked his approach. Aggressive, with a power backhand and good volleys. I imagine it’s how I would’ve played, had I stayed competitive.
It came up casually. He’d done three straight weekends of travel tournaments, with no time for school. Despite his D-I offer, he needed to pass.
“I need to focus,” he said. “Like, really hard.”
“Do you know anyone who could help me focus really hard?”
I stopped using my meds a few months before. I thought I’d outgrown them. But I kept accepting the refills, in case I was wrong. I was sitting on a stockpile. All that focus, with nowhere to go.
I sold him half a bottle. I taped it to the inside of the vending machine, like an episode of Narcos. Clean and easy. Money in the bank.
He came back for more the next week, followed by visits from #3 doubles duo, the girls’ #2 and #4. Then came texts from the field hockey captain. A private school pitcher. A redshirt quarterback post-ACL tear.
Like me, they had big dreams. They were willing to do anything to chase them.
You can see where this is going. To this day, I still don’t know the details. There was a drug test, or a nosy parent, or someone blabbed to the wrong person. For the local authorities, it was a short trail back to me.
…
We have no tennis courts. Only basketball. I’m not leaving soon, so I’m trying to embrace it.
You see people embrace a lot of things in here. Painting, cards, weights. But the most common? Religion. Bibles and Qurans on every shelf.
I don’t think I’ve rekindled my belief, but I get it now. How it could be freeing. It’s a lot easier to face your faults if something greater’s in control.
What if? What if it’s not me?
What if this was the plan all along?
What if it’s happening exactly as it should?
…
That would be nice.