Fiction
Match Point.
the endgame
A solitary drop of sweat trickles down my gasping mouth. My heart pounds against my arid chest. Each breath is an ache, each moment standing is of untold pain. Yet, all these shall soon be over.
I serve in match point.
All around me, the crowd goes to a blur. I can sense their rapturous cries, yet I can’t see their eager faces. I get to see one finger — one point that’s required of me to win this tournament.
Yet, he must win too.
I glance at him for once. His face is set in stony determination, yet I see the apparent fear that lay beneath it. Yes, he shall do whatever it takes to deny me my victory but he too fears losing — a single shot that lands wide shall seal his defeat. He is restless. So am I. We both wish the suspense to be over right now, but we are too tired to try.
I see the ball bouncing in my hand and a racquet that seems to be obeying every command of mine. My wristbands are soaked; I am drenched in sweat. God, I feel heavy with these soaked cotton clothes. I wonder when I shall return home and take a shower.
Yet, the bath can wait. I have fought all my way to the last point, and I shall not let my fear get the better of me. It is now that I require the utmost confidence in my abilities instead of regretting my fears. I clutch my racquet grip firmly and take a deep breath.
This is no dice of Fate I throw.
I bounce the ball one last time and through it up in the air. I then bring my racquet down with all the strength I possess, only to see it crashing against the net.
Another and it shall be deuce once again.
I take an even deeper breath this time. “I don’t need to serve it out.” I tell myself. “I shall do what I do best — wear him out in an arduous rally. He shall be bound to make a mistake.”
“Yet, what if I fall before him?”
I push these worries and serve a second time. The rally is long, with powerful groundstrokes being the safety norm and the crowd gasping in anticipation if one of them goes close to landing outside. In my immersed mind, I play superbly and manage to make him run to both ends. He too fights back, grunting fiercely to whip up excitement, but eventually after 39 shots. He finally hits out.
The match point is mine.
It takes a while to hear the cry of the lineswoman saying “Out!”. It takes a while for me to hear the referee’s announcement. Yet eventually I return to my senses. I have won it despite all odds.
Being cheered by my coach and team, I hardly pay heed to their words. I am in a trance, one who cannot think straight after toiling so hard. All I can think about now is this:
When shall I take a shower?
