False Impressions by Stanley Woods-Frankel

Author:Stanley Woods-Frankel
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781618130365
Publisher: eBooks2go

17

The Tennis Match

Steve left City Island early Friday morning and sailed north to Orienta Point in Rye. He picked up a guest mooring and took the club launch to the dock. “Which way to the tennis courts?” he asked the launch operator.

“Today’s ladies day,” she replied.

“I was supposed to play a match with Dr. Nagle today.”

“Oh, you’re the one.”

“The one what?”

“Dr. Nagle’s the club champ. He told everyone he had a match with another ranked player. All the members will be there. You’re on court one. Just follow the path past the main house and the pool. You can’t miss it.”

Fucking terrific, thought Steve. I’m playing the goddamn club champ, and I haven’t held a racket in three months. That prick Nagle invites his entire club to watch me make an ass of myself. I’m going to have fun explaining this to Gagliardi. Steve walked past the sunning Westchester matrons as if he were going to his own execution.

Nagle was holding court in the front of the clubhouse surrounded by a group of admiring members. He affected surprise when he saw Steve coming up the walk. “Bonjour, my good man. I was expecting you to come in from the parking lot.”

“It was easier to come by boat.”

“Yes, of course, how forgetful of me. You live on board. How’s your lady friend Nita getting here?”

“She’s taking the train to Rye and a cab from the station.”

“Excellent. Are you ready to warm up? I reserved the court for two hours.”

“Sure, but I’ll need some time. I haven’t played for a few months.”

“Certainly. I’m sure you’ll do admirably. How quaint! You still play with an aluminum racket. You ought to get one of these graphite models. It gives you much more power.”

I’d like to shove this metal racket up your smug ass, Steve thought as they walked to the court. A gaggle of teenage girls giggled at their obvious difference in style. Nagle was resplendent in the latest tennis fashion—white shorts with a rainbow outline on the left side that extended to a crisp, form fitting white polo shirt. His tennis shoes had the built in pump advertised on billboards.

Steve wore his usual white jeans cutoffs, Nelson Mandela T-shirt, and scuffed running shoes.

As soon as the warm up started, Steve knew he was in trouble when Nagle, with superb classic form, blasted the ball inches over the net into Steve’s court. He barely had time to get his racket on it. The rest of the warm up followed the same pattern. Nagle punished the ball while Steve could only block the return, rather than taking his full swing.

After ten minutes, Nagle cheerfully called, “Ready to play?”

“I need five more minutes.”

Nagle agreed with obvious reluctance. When it appeared Steve’s timing was improving, Nagle impatiently declared, “Time to begin! We’re losing the gallery.”

Steve looked questioningly at Nagle as the last of the club members settled in the seats around the court. Steve felt like a Christian in the coliseum with the Romans betting their togas on how fast their gladiator would grind him into submission.

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