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T HE BALL BLURRED for an instant as it boomed from Rusty Maxwell's high-swinging racket and came slicing across the net. It struck the asphalt
court near the right baseline, bounced up and took a little sidewise twist.
The serve was a good one. Kevin O'Toole grimaced as he prepared to return the shot. Rusty's best play was his serve, and it
had put him ahead in this game as it had in so many others.
Whoom!
Kevin met the ball with a solid forehand swing, holding the racket with both hands, and sent it streaking back over the net.
His return brought a hint of a smile to Kevin's lips. The ball was heading far to Rusty's left side and Rusty was running
after it full tilt.
He failed to get to it and the ball bounced past him for a tied score, 15–15.
A smattering of applause, and the cheer of a familiar voice, followed, embarrassing Kevin so that his face grew flushed.
He shot his sister a dirty look. “Oh, cut that out, will ya, Gin?” he said, though hardly loud enough for her to hear him.
Ginnie, a year younger than he, flashed dark eyes at him and gave her black hair a shake that left the long waves dangling
over her shoulders. Although almost a head shorter than he, Ginnie could swing a racket with the best of them. Often she beat
her brother by margins he was ashamed to talk about.
A dry laugh rumbled from a boy sitting on the bottom row of seats flanking one side of the court, and once again Kevin felt
his face grow pink. Roger Murphy, a skilled tennis player and Rusty Maxwell's friend, had a knack for bugging opponents without
saying a word.
Kevin took his eyes off Roger and looked over the small crowd that had come to watch the game. Ordinarily he hated being watched
as he played. But, he realized, a crowd of some sort always gathered to watch a good tennis match.
He looked across the net and saw Rusty ready to serve. Spreading his legs and grabbing hold of the racket's long smooth handle
with both hands, Kevin waited.
Up went the ball, and up on his tiptoes went Rusty. He met the ball squarely, driving it like a shot toward the net. It was
too low, though, striking the top of the net and dropping on his side.
He tossed up the other ball that he had, rising again on his tiptoes as he offered the serve. This time the blow was softer.
Kevin followed it easily and banged it back across the net, aiming it toward Rusty's left corner. Rusty got there in time
and hit it back. Kevin, waiting near the back court, ran in and struck the ball hard on the peak of its bounce and sent it
like a bullet toward Rusty's right corner. The shot was good and Kevin went into the lead, 15–30.
Again came the smattering of applause which Kevin pretended to ignore. He'd just have to talk with Ginnie after the game,
that's all there was to it.
An out of bounds serve, then a driving serve that hit the net, scored another point for Kevin, making it 15–40, his favor.
He stepped back into the corner, taking a deep breath of the warm June air that carried with it the smell of pines from the
nearby woods.
Rusty's next serve was good, and for a while he and Kevin knocked the ball back and forth, neither getting a good shot.
Then Kevin made a return from the throat of his racket. He groaned as the ball went askew toward the side of the court, striking
the net and dropping on his side. 30–40.
He scored the next point, winning the game, as Rusty belted the ball outside the right baseline. He was now leading two games
to one in the first set.
He walked off the court, wiping his sweating face with a handkerchief.
“Quit making all the noise, will you?” he said in a low voice to Ginnie.
“What noise?” she said.
“You know what noise,” he answered.
“You mean my cheering for you? What's wrong with that?”
“Nothing, except that you're the only one I hear. Just calm it down a little. O.K.?”
She shrugged. “O.K. But beat him, will you? I want you to play that Roger codger
T HE BALL BLURRED for an instant as it boomed from Rusty Maxwell's high-swinging racket and came slicing across the net. It struck the asphalt
court near the right baseline, bounced up and took a little sidewise twist.
The serve was a good one. Kevin O'Toole grimaced as he prepared to return the shot. Rusty's best play was his serve, and it
had put him ahead in this game as it had in so many others.
Whoom!
Kevin met the ball with a solid forehand swing, holding the racket with both hands, and sent it streaking back over the net.
His return brought a hint of a smile to Kevin's lips. The ball was heading far to Rusty's left side and Rusty was running
after it full tilt.
He failed to get to it and the ball bounced past him for a tied score, 15–15.
A smattering of applause, and the cheer of a familiar voice, followed, embarrassing Kevin so that his face grew flushed.
He shot his sister a dirty look. “Oh, cut that out, will ya, Gin?” he said, though hardly loud enough for her to hear him.
Ginnie, a year younger than he, flashed dark eyes at him and gave her black hair a shake that left the long waves dangling
over her shoulders. Although almost a head shorter than he, Ginnie could swing a racket with the best of them. Often she beat
her brother by margins he was ashamed to talk about.
A dry laugh rumbled from a boy sitting on the bottom row of seats flanking one side of the court, and once again Kevin felt
his face grow pink. Roger Murphy, a skilled tennis player and Rusty Maxwell's friend, had a knack for bugging opponents without
saying a word.
Kevin took his eyes off Roger and looked over the small crowd that had come to watch the game. Ordinarily he hated being watched
as he played. But, he realized, a crowd of some sort always gathered to watch a good tennis match.
He looked across the net and saw Rusty ready to serve. Spreading his legs and grabbing hold of the racket's long smooth handle
with both hands, Kevin waited.
Up went the ball, and up on his tiptoes went Rusty. He met the ball squarely, driving it like a shot toward the net. It was
too low, though, striking the top of the net and dropping on his side.
He tossed up the other ball that he had, rising again on his tiptoes as he offered the serve. This time the blow was softer.
Kevin followed it easily and banged it back across the net, aiming it toward Rusty's left corner. Rusty got there in time
and hit it back. Kevin, waiting near the back court, ran in and struck the ball hard on the peak of its bounce and sent it
like a bullet toward Rusty's right corner. The shot was good and Kevin went into the lead, 15–30.
Again came the smattering of applause which Kevin pretended to ignore. He'd just have to talk with Ginnie after the game,
that's all there was to it.
An out of bounds serve, then a driving serve that hit the net, scored another point for Kevin, making it 15–40, his favor.
He stepped back into the corner, taking a deep breath of the warm June air that carried with it the smell of pines from the
nearby woods.
Rusty's next serve was good, and for a while he and Kevin knocked the ball back and forth, neither getting a good shot.
Then Kevin made a return from the throat of his racket. He groaned as the ball went askew toward the side of the court, striking
the net and dropping on his side. 30–40.
He scored the next point, winning the game, as Rusty belted the ball outside the right baseline. He was now leading two games
to one in the first set.
He walked off the court, wiping his sweating face with a handkerchief.
“Quit making all the noise, will you?” he said in a low voice to Ginnie.
“What noise?” she said.
“You know what noise,” he answered.
“You mean my cheering for you? What's wrong with that?”
“Nothing, except that you're the only one I hear. Just calm it down a little. O.K.?”
She shrugged. “O.K. But beat him, will you? I want you to play that Roger codger
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