off. In the end, it’s a greater mercy.
“How’s your blister?” Mrs. Rogers inquired. The blister was nothing more than a small red rub at her heel, but all athletes are hypochondriacs, so in Rainey’s mind this was serious.
“I’m putting moleskin on it.”
“Good.” Mrs. Rogers picked up the shoe and pressed the back of it with her thumbs. “That shoe company! How many times have we told them exactly what we want? This is a little tight.” She pressed on it some more. “There, that ought to help.”
Carmen hastened one busboy’s nervous breakdown the morning of the LA finals. She snarled at the garageman who brought up the rental car. She glowered at her brother who for once in his life shut up, and she drove like an Indy 500 contestant on her way to the coliseum. Harriet, sitting in the front seat, tried to ignore the blur of buildings whizzing by. For Carmen, speed was a release and a feeling of power.
When they got to the courts, Harriet headed for her seat.There was little to do for Carmen when she was in a mood, and as far as Harriet was concerned, Carmen had a right to her moods. But Harriet also felt she had a right to clear out. When Carmen fumed in psyching herself up, she spewed her venom on whomever was at hand. Rainey was a tough opponent. Carmen was infuriated by her style of tennis, she hated to play her, and her mounting discontent couldn’t be contained.
The women’s indoor surface was carpet laid over, in most cases, wood. This fast surface favored Carmen. Short of the flu, cramps, or disinterest, Carmen should win on carpet. If her first serve soured, life could be rough because she needed to get her first serve in deep so she could rush the net. Against a backcourt player of Rainey’s caliber, the first serve was crucial. If Carmen couldn’t get to the net, she couldn’t win.
Her serve resembled a rocket. Carmen enjoyed such a good day that she squashed Rainey in two sets flat.
After the match, Rainey, her coach, and her mother dissected the defeat. Mrs. Rogers diagrammed each point for Rainey to study later.
Rainey used every defeat. She’d practice hours to widen the angle on her backhand crosscourt. She’d never own a demolishing serve but she intended to own the most accurate, which in the long run was more deadly anyway. Rainey believed that time was on her side. Her disciplined personality and the nature of her game would wear down the Carmens of this world, if not this year, then the next.
Exultant, Carmen drank a much deserved beer. A portable tape deck blared in the background. She lifted the beer bottle. “On to Dallas.”
“Vulgopolis,” Harriet toasted back.
“I don’t know why, but that reminds me of what you told me once when I wanted to buy that Gucci chair.”
“That awful thing.”
“You said, ‘Money without taste is like sex without love.’ ”
“How clever of me.” Harriet kissed Carmen on the cheek. Someone knocked on the door.
“Who is it?”
“Miguel.”
Carmen grunted and got up to admit her brother.
“Migueletta, my tiger.”
“Where were you? I thought you’d come to the press conference.”
“Business.”
“Martin Kuzirian pissed me off. I wish you’d been there. He asked the stupidest questions.” Martin Kuzirian, sports reporter for a huge Long Island newspaper, wrote a nationally syndicated column. In the sports world that spelled big cheese.
“Sports reporters represent the lowest form of journalism,” Miguel commented as he sipped out of the beer bottle. “If they could be athletes, they would be. If they could be writers, they would be. In short, they can do neither.”
Carmen punched her brother on the bicep. “That’s right!”
Miguel scanned Carmen’s dresser. “What are you doing, leaving your jewelry out like that?” He turned to Harriet. “How can you let her do that?”
“Miguel,” Harriet coolly replied, “I am not her mother.”
With his right hand he swept the bracelets, necklaces,
“How’s your blister?” Mrs. Rogers inquired. The blister was nothing more than a small red rub at her heel, but all athletes are hypochondriacs, so in Rainey’s mind this was serious.
“I’m putting moleskin on it.”
“Good.” Mrs. Rogers picked up the shoe and pressed the back of it with her thumbs. “That shoe company! How many times have we told them exactly what we want? This is a little tight.” She pressed on it some more. “There, that ought to help.”
Carmen hastened one busboy’s nervous breakdown the morning of the LA finals. She snarled at the garageman who brought up the rental car. She glowered at her brother who for once in his life shut up, and she drove like an Indy 500 contestant on her way to the coliseum. Harriet, sitting in the front seat, tried to ignore the blur of buildings whizzing by. For Carmen, speed was a release and a feeling of power.
When they got to the courts, Harriet headed for her seat.There was little to do for Carmen when she was in a mood, and as far as Harriet was concerned, Carmen had a right to her moods. But Harriet also felt she had a right to clear out. When Carmen fumed in psyching herself up, she spewed her venom on whomever was at hand. Rainey was a tough opponent. Carmen was infuriated by her style of tennis, she hated to play her, and her mounting discontent couldn’t be contained.
The women’s indoor surface was carpet laid over, in most cases, wood. This fast surface favored Carmen. Short of the flu, cramps, or disinterest, Carmen should win on carpet. If her first serve soured, life could be rough because she needed to get her first serve in deep so she could rush the net. Against a backcourt player of Rainey’s caliber, the first serve was crucial. If Carmen couldn’t get to the net, she couldn’t win.
Her serve resembled a rocket. Carmen enjoyed such a good day that she squashed Rainey in two sets flat.
After the match, Rainey, her coach, and her mother dissected the defeat. Mrs. Rogers diagrammed each point for Rainey to study later.
Rainey used every defeat. She’d practice hours to widen the angle on her backhand crosscourt. She’d never own a demolishing serve but she intended to own the most accurate, which in the long run was more deadly anyway. Rainey believed that time was on her side. Her disciplined personality and the nature of her game would wear down the Carmens of this world, if not this year, then the next.
Exultant, Carmen drank a much deserved beer. A portable tape deck blared in the background. She lifted the beer bottle. “On to Dallas.”
“Vulgopolis,” Harriet toasted back.
“I don’t know why, but that reminds me of what you told me once when I wanted to buy that Gucci chair.”
“That awful thing.”
“You said, ‘Money without taste is like sex without love.’ ”
“How clever of me.” Harriet kissed Carmen on the cheek. Someone knocked on the door.
“Who is it?”
“Miguel.”
Carmen grunted and got up to admit her brother.
“Migueletta, my tiger.”
“Where were you? I thought you’d come to the press conference.”
“Business.”
“Martin Kuzirian pissed me off. I wish you’d been there. He asked the stupidest questions.” Martin Kuzirian, sports reporter for a huge Long Island newspaper, wrote a nationally syndicated column. In the sports world that spelled big cheese.
“Sports reporters represent the lowest form of journalism,” Miguel commented as he sipped out of the beer bottle. “If they could be athletes, they would be. If they could be writers, they would be. In short, they can do neither.”
Carmen punched her brother on the bicep. “That’s right!”
Miguel scanned Carmen’s dresser. “What are you doing, leaving your jewelry out like that?” He turned to Harriet. “How can you let her do that?”
“Miguel,” Harriet coolly replied, “I am not her mother.”
With his right hand he swept the bracelets, necklaces,
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