Swetha Amit

Match Point

Finals

1-6, 7-6, 4-5 - receiving the serve in the deciding third set.

You stand at the baseline and watch your opponent about to serve. Your heart is beating rapidly. You feel the cold sweat on your back. Your calves ache from the long duration of the second set. What a close shave. When she was on the verge of the two-point gap, you narrowed it to 5-6, 6-6, finally to 7-6, winning the set. You had to work hard to win every point, exert every muscle, and deplete your energy reserves. Most importantly, you were battling your inner voice that said you weren’t good enough to play here in the finals. But you remind yourself it was a good comeback, especially after losing the first set miserably. There are just a few more points before you win the tournament. You watch your opponent bounce the yellow ball a few times. She lifts her racket with her right hand, tosses the ball, and snaps her wrist. You don’t take your eyes off the ball. You don’t think of anything else. Not the snide comments about your brown skin by an insensitive spectator behind you. Not the remarks about how your second set win was a fluke and how your opponent will finish you off in the final set. Your quads are hurting. But it hurts more when the crowd is hostile. The ball lands before the service line, and you return with every ounce of power you have. She hits the net. The crowd sighs in disappointment. You managed to get the first point.

0-15

Your heart leaps, and you see your coach, John, nodding in approval. Your parents are clapping hard. You stare at your opponent again. The way she runs after the ball in her short skirt that shows off her slender legs. You try not to feel the pangs of envy whenever you see her tall physique moving across the court with a certain grace. You watch her lengthy blonde ponytail bounce across her shoulders. You feel like an impish schoolgirl, in comparison, even though you are nineteen. You sometimes feel self-conscious wearing a short skirt and a razor-cut top. Do not worry about your short height or stocky physique. You are strong, not skinny. Do not worry about your dark brown skin or thin black hair tied into a braid. You are just different. Not an alien, like one of the kids labeled you when you were in fourth grade. It doesn’t matter if you look different or if there is a cultural gap. This time, the ball lands to your left.

With your double-fisted backhand, you return her serve. A fierce rally ensues. Then you land a drop shot, taking her by surprise. She runs towards the net but misses it by a whisker. The crowd groans. Do not let their lack of support dishearten you. She is a local here. The public watched her play while growing up in this city. Do not let the record of her tournament wins deter your spirit. So, what if you started playing tennis only during fourth grade when your parents moved here from India? What matters is your aptitude. Your coach, John, recognized your skill for the game. He said you have talent and potential. Despite being a white man, he looked beyond the brown skin. The factor that differentiated you from the other kids at that summer camp. He always treated you with respect and warmth. Otherwise, you wouldn’t be playing in the finals in this significant tournament, would you?

0-30

Her first serve is a fault. Your heart does a little jig. She isn’t that perfect, after all. You watch the ball like a hawk as she gears up for the second serve. It lands on your right side. You leap and return her serve. It’s a tough one. The crowd gasps in surprise. She tackles your return with equal ferocity. She wants to tire you out. Something snaps inside you. You don’t want to give up without a fight. Not after those years of being taunted for your South Asian accent or how hard your parents fought to survive since they entered this country.

Adjusting to a new culture, ways of speaking, and mannerisms. They didn’t give up. Neither will you. It’s a long rally—a long wait for the crowd to see who wins the point. Just like your parents’ wait as Indian immigrants to acquire their permanent resident status. Those pep talks by your dad, perfecting your strokes and moves under coach John, who believed in you more than anyone else. You consider your mom’s sacrifices to take you to those practice sessions, between managing her work, picking you up and dropping you off at practice sessions, and paying exorbitant fees to your coach so you could live your dream of playing in a major tournament. It took a long time before they earned enough respect to naturally blend in a white world, like mixing decaf with milk for their morning coffee. Your opponent hits a drop shot. She is too close to the net. She is expecting another volley. Instead, you angle the ball and hit it to the vast gap on her left side of the court. You score a crucial point. Before the match, you didn’t even think a win was within reach. You just wanted to win the crowd’s respect. You wanted them to see the potential in you, like your coach did, instead of a brown-skinned outsider. And here you are on the verge of a hard-earned win. You wonder if you will manage to reduce the gap between your Indian roots and this Western world. 

0-40

Your legs begin to feel wobbly. The hard court beneath you almost feels nonexistent. You cannot give up now. Not when the win is just within your clasp. Remember, you have endured more challenging times. That time when you were the only girl in class not invited to the most popular kid’s party. Or when some kids left the cafeteria table because you sat next to them. Or those stone-cold stares whenever you tried to speak in class. There is pin-drop silence in the crowd now. You wonder if the spectators can hear the echo of your pounding heart.

You grit your teeth and replay your coach’s advice to maintain focus. You keep your eyes on the ball and return her serve with an unrelenting fury. Your opponent shrieks like a banshee. It startles you and causes your attention to lapse. The ball whizzes right past you. You watch her jump high with her fist pumped up. The crowd roars.

15-40

You are determined not to let her shrieks get to you this time. You focus and combat every return of hers, leading her to run helter-skelter across the court. You want to give her a taste of your journey—running from pillar to post. Feeling a sense of unsettlement on foreign soil. She looks tired from all the running. You continue to hurl volleys and drop shots. Then she hits the ball at an angle, hoping to smash it to your left side. It lands in the net. The crowd gasps. You watch her stumble in shock, covering her face with her hands. You glance at your parents and coach. Tears streaming down their faces. Your coach, John, gives you a thumbs-up sign.

At first, you feel a little dizzy. The entire crowd feels like a blur. Your heart leaps in jubilation. You want to scream aloud. Nothing matters now. Not the alienation, not the slurs. You raise your racket high, showcasing your brown hands clasped tightly around the handle. Those same hands will embrace your maiden trophy in a short while. You acknowledge the crowd clapping for you politely. You feel the gap narrow, though it is still there. You hope time will eventually bridge that narrow gap.

Swetha is an Indian author based in California and an MFA graduate from the University of San Francisco. Her works across genres appear in Atticus Review, Had, Flash Fiction Magazine, Maudlin House, and Oyez Review. (https://swethaamit.com). She has received three Pushcart and Best of the Net nominations.