I kept having this dream where my girlfriend screwed Roger Federer. From the back, at least, he looked like Roger. I'd wake up with a jerk and she'd wake up and ask me what, what's wrong, and what the hell could I tell her? I'd tell her I dreamed that I was at work and my pants fell down, or we had a baby and we ate it, something, anything else.
I like Roger Federer because he makes no wrong moves. I like him because he plays the game everybody wants to play.
I like Roger Federer because he makes no wrong moves. I like him because he plays the game everybody wants to play. A tan, fluid, grinning wristflick-fleetfoot ripping wins from thin air. No one wants to play the game the way a robot would, or sweating through brute dumb luck you'll never have again. He doesn't hit long rallies that end with a fumble. He shrinks the court. Cuts off all ways out quicker than you thought was possible, then quicker than that.
But I only started liking Roger when I saw him lose Wimbledon 2008, the only one he lost in six straight years. Seven hours with rain delays. Even thinking of it now I can see him. He'd look ahead, swish the ball ahead, and it would zip the other way. Whack the far line like a magnet. He won the next year but he played no different. He'd still look one way and hit the other. He just learned to keep it in the line. How close didn't matter.
When I tore my knee playing, my girlfriend took off work and we watched that game for months. She was sweeter than I ever knew before or after. We'd pass a pint of ice cream back and forth until it was pink soup. Her fingers kneaded my knee, barely touching it. It ached like death but I felt just like that ice cream. She'd ask me, did I need anything? Anything at all? Her eyes were like a sexy dog's. I could barely say no, honey, but thank you. Isn't the goal to have someone right where you want them? But we were too available to each other. In three months I only left that couch to piss. We screwed whenever I could stand it. Maimed heaven. When the pain lifted and I could walk again, I was scared of what would come next.
We'd pass a pint of ice cream back and forth until it was pink soup. Her fingers kneaded my knee, barely touching it.
What came next was that stupid dream. But when you think of the point when things go wrong between two people, you can always think harder and point to something before that. No, it was when she was yammering while my knee burned and Federer was losing and my heart panged honest resentment. No, it was when she stopped bringing me beer, and she never had to bring me anything in the first place, so I'd be the asshole on the sofa yelling where the hell is it, but where is it, I yelled, why didn't you, how long is left. She'd yell back far worse things but who does that who doesn't care. When she did that I thought beyond this woman yelling these awful things at me there's nothing good in the world.
Then she never yelled. When I'd do something that'd have set her off before, she'd take my racket to the courts and play real hard against the wall, thump-thwack, thump-thwack. She'd never played before. She was awful. Balls flying this way and that. After a minute of thwacking she'd jog around the court scooping up yellow. If not the wall, she'd play whoever else was there. I thought it was the worst.
Maybe it was just that I tore my meniscus. That's what took down Federer. She said I was jealous she was playing while I couldn't. I'd opened a world for her I couldn't go through. I said clearly she'd never seen herself play. The end really started when she stopped wanting to screw, after I told her about the dream. If you can't even play at wanting then what else is there between two people.
I wish I had somewhere far to go but we met as neighbors and I kept my place across the hall because the rent never budged. I brought back all I had at hers in one trip, mostly books and clothes and also a Roger Federer bobblehead she got me for Christmas. I don't know if she meant it as a gag or what but I loved that thing. Big white shorts, white shirt, wild hair, white headband. That plastic smirk jittering back and forth. I put it by my kitchen window. You can see the courts from there. When she'd go down and play I'd grab a beer and run across the hall just to watch her from my kitchen. She played even more when I moved out. It was like the more she played, the worse she got.
Broad brown shoulders and gleaming eyes. Warm leer. All sureness. He looked like someone tried to draw Federer from memory and gave up.
Once, I had a few dates with this woman go real well and I'd make her breakfast in the morning and burn her eggs hearing that thump-thwack, thump-thwack outside. Once, it went quiet. I looked out and a man was talking with her by the wall. Broad brown shoulders and gleaming eyes. Warm leer. All sureness. He looked like someone tried to draw Federer from memory and gave up.
Whatever he said, she looked as charmed as if he'd offered money. They started hitting back and forth across a net. I thought, more than anything, if I could have it, even if I had to hurt this nice woman whose eggs I just burnt again, I'd do it to have my girlfriend stop playing. After a few mornings like that, the woman said to let her cook the eggs and I said I could cook the eggs just fine dammit, and then she stopped answering my calls.
They played for months. I didn't know she could grin so much day after day. Neon springing everywhere and his laugh. Try again. Try again. They'd hug and kiss down there and then I'd hear them in the hall. If she were someone else I'd hate her but I couldn't hate that happy little woman stumbling across the court and murmuring outside my door. For a few hot weeks in the summer, they were gone. All I did was crack cold beer in the kitchen. Then it was fall and they were playing again.
One morning, I was cooking eggs, alone this time, and a ball shot through my window and knocked over Roger. He was bobbling on the floor, nodding sideways like a fiend. I had to laugh. I like Federer because he wins. I think winning just means knowing where the other guy is going before they do.
I think winning just means knowing where the other guy is going before they do.
I looked out that window. He served another ball. She ran and smacked it. She was rallying for once. Shooting up and down the court, whack, whack. He was lagging, panting. I couldn't believe it. I don't know why, I don't know why, I don't know why, I picked that ball off my floor and hurled it down at him. It hit the court in front of him, bounced up, and fell where she was running. Click. She doubled over mute. Then she just howled and howled.
I waited a day. Then I knocked. I brought ice cream. I don't know what she told the guy but we're screwing again and now I never dream of Roger. Meniscus tears are odd. Some hurt and some don't and neither tells you whether or not you'll ever play again. But she says she doesn't think she will. Federer didn't tear his knee playing. He was running a bath for his wife. It was something he'd done a million times then it was over.
I used to hate watching her play. She'd miss shots I didn't know anyone could miss. Worse, she wouldn't even try to play the game. She'd just watch the ball fly past her. But now short rallies like that are my favorite. I don't think anything's wrong with the shortest rally in the world as long as there's a winner. What I hate are long rallies that end, however good they were, with a fumble.