Divine Inspiration

Dear Boo and Bubble,

This morning, Captain and I played tennis with our regular group in Sugar Mountain.  It’s a fun mix of people and we shuffle partners after each set which makes for lively and diverse games.  I had finished one of my sets and decided to watch Captain’s match.  At one point, he was receiving serve and made a blazing return down the alley and past the netman.   I yelled to him “Schaefer would be proud!!”

Great granddaddy Schaefer loved making that passing shot, but he knew that you had to always guard against it.  Whenever I was his partner and he was serving, he would say “Guard that alley, Beth.  Don’t move.  I can get everything else.”

Just thinking of this had me reminiscent about how, growing up, Granddaddy spent so much time with me, teaching me how to play tennis.  We had such fun around the game and his influence on me reignites every time I take the court.   Then, I remembered that somewhere in my closet, in a box filled with a hodgepodge of clippings, pictures, articles and writings, I had saved a copy of a story I wrote over 25 years ago.  It was actually the first writing that I ever submitted for publication – to Seventeen Magazine.  The rejection notice is still clipped to the first page.

I want to share it with you now.  It might take a little time to read, but when you do, you’ll probably figure out pretty quickly what inspired it.

Divine Inspiration

Margaret sat in the folding chair, her head hanging momentarily as she wiped the sweat from her forehead.  She reached down for the water bottle at her feet and brought it to her lips.  As she sipped the tepid liquid, she closed her eyes and sighed.  The rapid beat of her heart pulsated in her eyelids.

“Get a grip on it,” she muttered.  “Quit beating yourself.” 

It was, in fact, do or die time.  As the number-eight seed in the tournament, Margaret was supposed to be a contender.  That was on paper……reality was a different story.  The morning paper summed it up.  “Unless something unforeseen occurs, Santorez should have little trouble with Waldrop in today’s finals of the U.S. Indoor Championships.”

Alicia Santorez…. The darling of the women’s tennis circuit, encyclopedia of strokes and strategy, nemesis to Margaret.

Leaning back in the chair and taking one last swipe at her face with the towel, Margaret gazed upward at the pattern of steel girding in the Metrodome.  “I miss my dad,” she whispered.  Her throat was tightening to the point that tears were beginning to pressure her eyes.  “He would tell me what to do, would tell me how to adjust.”

For years, Sam Waldrop had stalked the baselines coaching, cajoling, encouraging Margaret.  He pitched countless balls to her forehand and backhand; returned thousands of her serves and volleyed with her until she could place the ball anywhere on the court.  Now, he was gone….taken from her suddenly by a heat attack.  She didn’t get to see him before he died.  She was in Los Angeles at a Federation Cup meeting.

“Time!” the umpire barked.

Margaret dropped her towel at the base of the chair and picked up her racquet.  It was the second set.  She had lost the first 6-4.  The glaring 2-5 of the scoreboard gave her no comfort.  Neither did the fact that it was her serve and she had lost the last one.  The ball boy tossed her the balls at her signal.  She juggled them in her hand, then approached the service line where she canvassed the scene across the net.  Santorez swayed smoothly from side to side, ready to pounce on Margaret’s serve as she had done all afternoon. 

She bounced the ball a couple of times, set her feet and racquet to begin the serve.  She looked up once more before starting the motion, and as she did, she caught sight of a familiar face positioned just to the right and above Santorez.

Margaret’s heart sank as she virtually froze in place.  She strained her eyes to get a better look.  Of course it couldn’t be and she shook her head, looking down once again and bouncing the ball.  But as she rocked back to begin the toss of the ball, she heard the familiar phrase – “Patience is my best friend!” – being yelled above the stadium noise….and she knew without any doubt that it was her dad.

She backed away from the service line, feeling dizzy. Santorez looked puzzled and immediately lifted her arms in question at the umpire to do something.

“Play!” the umpire instructed without hesitation.

Raising her hand in apology, Margaret approached the service line again.  She focused on the face in the crowd.  He was still there, grinning and nodding, the brilliant blue eyes penetrating her like lasers.  “Patience is playing with me,” she mouthed, and watched as a wide smile engulfed his face. 

An incredible surge of pent up emotion surged through her, leaving her relaxed for the first time that day.  She took a deep breath to clear her head and began her service motion.  Margaret tossed the ball higher, more confidently than before.  As she came across the ball, her feet propelled her towards the net.  The sharp angle of the serve took Santorez by surprise and she popped the ball up high and short.  Margaret poised herself to hit the overhead.  Santorez made a move to come back to center.  Margaret smashed the ball behind Santorez, completely wrong-footing her.  The crowd roared its approval, eager to see a close match.

Margaret gazed into the crowd to see her father jumping out of his seat, clinching his fist as he pumped his arm up and down in a signal of defiance to the odds.

Her legs had lost their leaden feeling, the feet bouncing as she went to the ad court for the next serve.  This time, she rolled the ball over her head and spun the serve into Santorez’s body.  The ball kicked high, and Santorez, eager to silence the crowd, flailed away at it.  Margaret waited at the baseline as the ball floated well out. “Out!” yelled the linesman and Santorez threw her racquet up in disgust.

Margaret was afraid to smile, even a little.  She was totally focused now.  The stadium settled as she prepared to deliver the serve at 30-Love.  A short toss in front allowed her to power the ball, but Santorez was ready and answered with a blazing return, sharply angled and hitting about half court.  Santorez followed her shot to the net as Margaret raced to the sideline in a full stretch.  When she reached the ball, the only thing she could do was half-volley it into a lob.  Hugging the net, Santorez was stunned and frantically retreated to the baseline, but the ball spun away from her when it hit and she had no play.

Pacing herself as she went back to the corner, Margaret took a towel from the ball boy.  She wiped her face slowly, caught her breath and glanced into the stands.  Her father was chanting “Go, go, go!”  Margaret walked deliberately to the baseline where she methodically bounced the balls, rocking back and forth in preparation for the serve.  The minute she tossed the ball up, she knew it was perfect.  Her shoulder rotated smoothly over, the outstretched arm firm.  The contact with the ball made a resonant “thwack” and her eyes followed it over the net and into the deep, forehand corner of the service box.  Santorez thrust her body towards the ball, but couldn’t reach it.  An ace!  And the game!

Margaret never let up for the remainder of the afternoon, her father wildly cheering each successful point.  She evened the match with a second set score of 7-5.  The third set was a rout.  Santorez left the court after politely, but curtly shaking hands with Margaret, who found herself winning the first major tournament of her life.  She blew a kiss to her father who was shaking hand and slapping backs with well wishers in the stands.

The traditional television interview took place at mid-court.  “It seemed that you changed out there when you were down 2-5 in the second set.  What happened?” the announcer asked.

“I don’t know,” Margaret replied.  “I guess I got inspired or something.”

As she left the court, she glanced around looking for her father.  He was not there.  The seat was vacant.

With the aid of tournament officials, she pressed her way through the crowd to the locker room.  The reality of what had just happened overtook her and she felt almost nauseated.  As she pushed open the door to the players’ lounge, her escort asked if she were all right. 

“Yes, thank you, I’m fine.  It’s just the excitement of it all.  Please, if you don’t mind, I’d like just a few minutes before the press conference.”

“Sure, Margaret, take your time.”

She welcomed the silence of being alone.  The only sound came from the steaming hot shower of Alicia Santorez.  Margaret took the sweatbands from around her wrists.  She slung her tennis bag over her shoulder and headed into the locker room.  She stopped at the water fountain and put her whole face in the ice cold spray from the spigot.  From across the room, she could see her locker.  Something was taped to the door.  As she approached it, her eyes filled with tears as she made out the old, familiar handwriting that had etched so many encouraging, important words to her over the years -------“That was one hell of a match.  I’m so proud of you!”

Margaret blinked her eyes and wiped the falling flood of tears with her forearm.  She looked again…..the note was gone.