breath.
“Nothing like a good hunk of beef to remind you of home!” Odi snarls.
“You got that right,” Ira agrees. “Now, Jack, I have a special surprise for you.”
Jack smiles and wonders what lurks ahead.
“I did a little research before we left for Paris. And guess what I found.”
Clueless, Jack shrugs.
“I Googleplexed ‘deaf sign language’ and went to the letter s and taught myself how to sign for stupid !”
Looking fiercely into his son’s eyes, Ira knocks his fist violently against his forehead, then emits a diabolical paroxysm of raucous laughter that elicits dirty glances from all the surrounding tables. Odi joins in on the hilarity.
“So, when you meet that little Italian sonuvabitch in the finals, I want you to pick an appropriate time in the match and then— boom! —lay the sign on him. Now whaddya spose he’ll thinka them apples?”
Jack Spade gives his father this funny look and has a sudden urge to toss his cookies.
* * *
Monday, May 29, 2045 is finally here.
And the French Open Juniors and, potentially, the big first showdown between the two most exciting and promising talents ever to grace a tennis court.
This won’t be easy for either of these fifteen-year-olds, between playing on the thick, moist, tricky clay of Roland Garros and dealing with their youthful nerves and the boisterous host French fans and perhaps the strongest field of competitors ever, most of whom are three years older than they.
Outside the Court Philippe Chatrier, the main stadium court at Roland Garros, a huge blue electronic scoreboard posts the main draw (singles, doubles, and mixed), the Juniors draw, and the Seniors draw, as well as all the seedings for these competitions.
Ira Spade and Odi Mondheim stand at the base of the scoreboard and search for the posting of the top eight seeds for the Juniors. There, there they are:
1—Ugo Bellezza (IT)
1—Jack Spade (USA)
3—David Oswin (USA)
4—Marc Kripptoid (UK)
5—Lance Donald (AUS)
6—Allen Peters (USA)
7—Petter Hållerstam (SW)
8—Tristan Corbière (FR)
“Bastards!” Ira rants. “They’re co-number one seeds, and they listed that little Italian sonuvabitch first!”
* * *
Through the opening five rounds, there are no surprises, as the first four seeds wend their ways through their respective quarters of the draw. Losing a total of only twenty games in his first five matches, Ugo Bellezza plays spectacularly as he turns aside Simone Nicolescu of Romania, France’s Julien Sorel, the Swede Björn Spendrups, the Dutchman Ard Verkerk, and the tough Aussie, Lance Donald, in the quarters.
On the opposite half of the drawsheet, Jack Spade grunts and blusters and curses his way through ho-hum victories over the Argentine Guillermo Mastroianni, Kurt Hühnerleiter of Germany, the Russian Vassily Botvinnik, the clever Italian Antonio Caprioni, and the strapping Swede from the village of Mjillkrøk, Petter Hållerstam.
The semis match Jack against the gritty little American, David Oswin, and place Ugo on the opposite side of the net from the Manchester redhead, Marc Kripptoid. Should they get through these matches, the two fifteen-year-old wunderkinder will at last have their long-awaited assignation, the emotional lead-up to which has been building for over two years now.
David Oswin is the wiry, wily favorite son of Bala Cynwyd, PA. He is a brilliantly talented eighteen-year-old blessed with court intelligence, stamina, guile, and a wicked topspin forehand. He is ranked number three in the Juniors and is one tough dude on clay.
In one hour and eleven minutes, Jack Spade eats him up and spits him out into little Oswins, 6-1, 6-0, 6-1.
Marc Kripptoid is an eighteen-year-old bulldog who never gives up, makes few unforced errors, and has a killer topspin backhand. He is ranked number four in the Juniors and is one tough chap on clay.
In fifty-six minutes, Marc is summarily disposed of by the elegantly ruthless pressure of Ugo Bellezza,
“Nothing like a good hunk of beef to remind you of home!” Odi snarls.
“You got that right,” Ira agrees. “Now, Jack, I have a special surprise for you.”
Jack smiles and wonders what lurks ahead.
“I did a little research before we left for Paris. And guess what I found.”
Clueless, Jack shrugs.
“I Googleplexed ‘deaf sign language’ and went to the letter s and taught myself how to sign for stupid !”
Looking fiercely into his son’s eyes, Ira knocks his fist violently against his forehead, then emits a diabolical paroxysm of raucous laughter that elicits dirty glances from all the surrounding tables. Odi joins in on the hilarity.
“So, when you meet that little Italian sonuvabitch in the finals, I want you to pick an appropriate time in the match and then— boom! —lay the sign on him. Now whaddya spose he’ll thinka them apples?”
Jack Spade gives his father this funny look and has a sudden urge to toss his cookies.
* * *
Monday, May 29, 2045 is finally here.
And the French Open Juniors and, potentially, the big first showdown between the two most exciting and promising talents ever to grace a tennis court.
This won’t be easy for either of these fifteen-year-olds, between playing on the thick, moist, tricky clay of Roland Garros and dealing with their youthful nerves and the boisterous host French fans and perhaps the strongest field of competitors ever, most of whom are three years older than they.
Outside the Court Philippe Chatrier, the main stadium court at Roland Garros, a huge blue electronic scoreboard posts the main draw (singles, doubles, and mixed), the Juniors draw, and the Seniors draw, as well as all the seedings for these competitions.
Ira Spade and Odi Mondheim stand at the base of the scoreboard and search for the posting of the top eight seeds for the Juniors. There, there they are:
1—Ugo Bellezza (IT)
1—Jack Spade (USA)
3—David Oswin (USA)
4—Marc Kripptoid (UK)
5—Lance Donald (AUS)
6—Allen Peters (USA)
7—Petter Hållerstam (SW)
8—Tristan Corbière (FR)
“Bastards!” Ira rants. “They’re co-number one seeds, and they listed that little Italian sonuvabitch first!”
* * *
Through the opening five rounds, there are no surprises, as the first four seeds wend their ways through their respective quarters of the draw. Losing a total of only twenty games in his first five matches, Ugo Bellezza plays spectacularly as he turns aside Simone Nicolescu of Romania, France’s Julien Sorel, the Swede Björn Spendrups, the Dutchman Ard Verkerk, and the tough Aussie, Lance Donald, in the quarters.
On the opposite half of the drawsheet, Jack Spade grunts and blusters and curses his way through ho-hum victories over the Argentine Guillermo Mastroianni, Kurt Hühnerleiter of Germany, the Russian Vassily Botvinnik, the clever Italian Antonio Caprioni, and the strapping Swede from the village of Mjillkrøk, Petter Hållerstam.
The semis match Jack against the gritty little American, David Oswin, and place Ugo on the opposite side of the net from the Manchester redhead, Marc Kripptoid. Should they get through these matches, the two fifteen-year-old wunderkinder will at last have their long-awaited assignation, the emotional lead-up to which has been building for over two years now.
David Oswin is the wiry, wily favorite son of Bala Cynwyd, PA. He is a brilliantly talented eighteen-year-old blessed with court intelligence, stamina, guile, and a wicked topspin forehand. He is ranked number three in the Juniors and is one tough dude on clay.
In one hour and eleven minutes, Jack Spade eats him up and spits him out into little Oswins, 6-1, 6-0, 6-1.
Marc Kripptoid is an eighteen-year-old bulldog who never gives up, makes few unforced errors, and has a killer topspin backhand. He is ranked number four in the Juniors and is one tough chap on clay.
In fifty-six minutes, Marc is summarily disposed of by the elegantly ruthless pressure of Ugo Bellezza,
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