Al Stark

Al Stark threw the ball high, then cracked a serve that his opponent could only watch as it whizzed by his outstretched racquet.

            “That’s the match”, Al said as he walked to the net, “Same time next week?”

            They shook hands. “I’ll let you know,” his opponent gasped, “Not winning a game is getting discouraging.”

            Al Stark grinned and nodded politely, feeling more elation than sorrow for the man’s situation. Al picked up his bag, waved to the man who sat on the bench trying to catch his breath, and stepped from the court to the stone covered path that led to the clubhouse and the parking lot. As he moved down the path, people, almost everyone who past, greeted him kindly, asking if he wanted to get a drink or a bite to eat at the club’s café after such a display of tennis. He politely declined all invitations. He just continued down the path, without hurry, but swiftly, his racquet swinging rhythmically, as if it were an extension of his arm. He passed a row of hydrangeas, misty blue in hue this time of year, and through the ivy crusted archway. He stepped from the serenity of the hydrangeas and casual doubles matches all around him, and onto the hard, sun scorched blacktop.   

Al walked past the Aston Martins, the Mercedes, the Jaguars, past the Lexuses, and the Cadillacs until he passed the last line of cars in the parking lot. Al paused before continuing, as if half bracing himself for the rest of the day. He stepped onto the gravel path, he wound through the pine trees and brush as the path mandated. He stopped again where the path stopped. He looked up observing the cold, metal structure of the maintenance shed.

            Al was inside the shed now, slipping off his tennis shoes and shirt, exchanging them for work boots and a club-issued, sun hewn collared shirt. He placed his racquet, shoes, and dirty shirt carefully into what he considered his locker (it was really a wooden cubby).

            I better go sweep court No.5, he thought, the Buchanan’s won’t want to play until it is swept.

            He quickly got in the golf cart and set off to groom court No.5, the court he had just played on. When he rolled up to the gate of court No.5, he stopped, got out and opened both sides of the black gate. Al drove onto the court, proceeding to circle the court; the large sweep attached to the cart followed, erasing the footprints, the ball marks, and all other evidence that Al had played on court No.5 only ten minutes earlier. Al’s elation had slowly left him after leaving the court after playing, and now, on the court again physically at least, his expression turned completely solemn.

            Sitting on the patio, legs crossed, while sipping a rum and coke, a member looked across the stone path and spotted Al still sweeping the court.

            “Poor fool,” the member muttered as he gazed at Al.

            “Pardon?” The member forgot that he has a guest with him from the city and so did not know Al, or what happened. The member decided no to gossip but did not want to be rude to his guest and future business partner.

            “Oh,” the member started, “the man sweeping court No.5 is an amazing tennis player. He could beat anyone in the state, I believe.”

            “Then why is he a court groomer?” his guest retorted snobbishly.

            A bit irked by such a comment, the member decided to divulge a bit more about Al’s past than he originally intended.

            “He used to have everything: a big house, a beautiful wife, membership to clubs like this. Tennis is the only thing that hasn’t forgotten or left him.”

            Then, remembering Al then and now, the member decided only to play tennis with his guest.

Al finished sweeping the court, swept the lines, then left the court in a much different fashion than before. After playing, he strode off the court, his presence almost gloating as you walked by. Now he drove off quickly, trying not to get in anyone’s way. No one greeted him or tried to start conversation with him this time. There was only the occasional cordial nod or smile. He parked the cart- piled with tools, broken sprinkler heads, and dead tennis balls- in the far corner of the club, where he could see every court, but nobody could see him, not that anyone was looking for him.

He sighed. I used to rule everywhere, not just on the court, he thought dismally. I know I’m not invincible on the court, but I’m a hell of a lot closer there than in real life. It’s better this way, he thought. I don’t have anything so I can’t fuck it up again.   

By many people’s standards, Al Stark had been perfect: a brilliant investor who couldn’t pick a bad stock, but who still placed importance on family, or at least enough to fool colleagues. Now he knew better, but back the he was convinced that he was invincible. He would work all day, drink with friends all night, then play five sets of tennis the next morning. He capitalized on the most dangerous but fruitful business ventures.

When he lost his golden touch, everything else followed. His wife left him immediately and remarried almost as quickly. He convinced himself that he could rebuild, come back stronger. But after a year of begging for investors and jobs in New York, he found himself serving his former social class.

Al now lived for every Wednesday and Friday morning when he played tennis with any member bold enough to challenge him.  Al could show his superiority on the court, but when the match ended, his opponents would walk to their new, limited edition cars, and drive back to their summer estates where their families waited. Al realized that he did not care. Why should he?

I had all of those things and more, and they had all abandoned me, he thought again. But it was he who forced them away; he knew it must be true but did not believe it. It can’t be my fault, the thought, I can still play tennis like I used to. For now. The words echoed in his mind. He tried to force them away like he had done with so many other things.

“Al, court No. 9 now,” a voice commanded buzzing over the cart’s radio, “the sprinkler broke again, water is spraying everywhere!”

            Al had just fixed that sprinkler yesterday. It had taken two hours. Al felt a familiar frustration begin to form in his diaphragm. But when he exhaled only sharp laughter came out. At that moment, things going wrong stopped surprising him. This was his life now. He went back to his shed to get some tools, which he could not find. Instead he put on his tennis shoes, picked up his racquet and ran as fast as he could to court No.9. As he ran, members stared and murmured to each other. Al ran across court No.8, picking up three balls members had left on a table after using them only once.

The sprinkler soaked him instantly once he stepped onto court No.9. He was standing on the baseline now, ready to serve. He stared intensely across the net where nobody was standing. Al bounced the ball six times then began his service motion. Water was swirling around overhead, falling constantly and ubiquitously. One could barely see the lines of the court. It had been transformed into a pool of dark green mud. Al made contact with the ball at its apex; the sound made by the contact of the yellow felt and the nylon strings reverberated throughout the club.

              “Ace!” Al Stark screamed, moving to the ad side. Before he could serve again, the club’s security guards grabbed him and carried him away. Al lost his grip on his racquet and it slipped onto the muddied court, where it would lay for the rest of the day.