Love Game - Season 2011 (4 page)

This was a date.

Brisbane, Australia

Paola Scetti hurried down the palm-lined path that led to the lawn behind Brisbane’s Queensland Tennis Centre. Contrary to what players and colleagues said, she was not always late. That was an exaggeration she had proven wrong on a booze-soaked night last October in Tokyo.

In a superhuman effort she had worked out her arrival stats, which undeniably verified that her interview delays were at 73%, while her delays for press conferences were only at 68%. Of course, her colleagues had argued that “always” was an elastic term – but once again were proven wrong in a linguistics battle. They seemed to be completely unaware of the fact that she had studied English literature for a semester and a half. The successful wager had won her 10,000 yen which were spent on more saké bottles than she cared to be reminded of. Being the nice Austrian girl she was known for she had shared the bottles with the sore losers. Today, she’d probably make her interview delay stat go up some points. She was late for an exclusive chat with the No. 1 player in the world, Carina Gnocchi.

Four years ago Paola had just started working for Supersport channel and one of her first assignments was to interview the French Open Junior Champion, Carina Gnocchi, from Germany. She remembered how surprised she was by the dark-haired, head-strong girl with the unfortunate Italian name.

The sixteen year old talent seemed unfazed by the media attention her win had stirred in her home country. In their interview she came across as a plain teenager with no other interests than her sport. Then again, at times her answers were quite brazen for a youngster. However, in a quiet moment the girl had admitted that having a name which meant ‘little dumplings’ was no fun in school and that she had been glad when she finally was able to join the tennis life full-time. She was fourteen years old when she had left Germany and moved to Florida with her parents to attend Rick Salieri’s famous tennis academy. In only a few years he had molded her into a formidable player with a bright future.

Her game was consistent. Stunning – not so much. It was a popular joke among the commentators that a winner from Carina’s racquet was to be considered a once in a lifetime experience. But the young player was mounting the silverware more than any other girl on tour and by the end of 2010, only weeks after her twentieth birthday, had reached her career high ranking of world No. 1.

Coming down the path Paola spotted Lars, her camera man, who was waiting in the shadow of a tree. He smoked a cigarette and watched a photographer snapping shots of Carina Gnocchi wearing a white summer dress. Alongside Carina were three other girls Paola recognized as the rest of Germany’s new dream team – Stephanie Moeller, Angela Porovski and Elise Renard. All four girls were promising tennis players, who had been making huge progress in the last two years. They were all still young and the team had good chances to make a mark at the Fed Cup competition for years to come. Only Elise's success had been impeded by her injury last year, but it was a good sign, Paola concluded, to see Elise among the group. They all seemed good friends and their friendship seemed unperturbed by Carina's new ranking and Elise's long absence away from the tour. But Paola also had learned in the many years on the tour that looks could be misleading and real friendship was rare among the girls.

Joining Lars under the palm tree Paola waved to Carina, who responded with a regal nod. She had adjusted quickly to her new status as the queen of the WTA.

***

Candice Crantz closed the door of the bleak room she was using as a temporary office at the Brisbane tournament and walked over to open the window to the backside of the tournament buildings. The regular announcements of scores  by the chair umpires drifted over from the outside courts and mingled with the humming sound of the ventilation system. A few players were sitting in the sun behind the players’ lounge and chatted while waiting for their matches.

With a loud sigh Candice turned away from the window and sat down in her office chair. Her day had been stressful and hectic so far and it was far from over. In the morning she had one by one handled journalists’ requests about the exchange of the French players with Elise Renard. She had then picked up Elise and her father from the airport to give them a briefing and conduct a little interview with the young German for the website, before overseeing Elise’s short one-on-one interviews with a few selected journalists and TV channels.

She then had time to get back to one of her freelancers who had tried to reach her all morning. Archie was scheduled to join them in a week in Sydney and then travel with the tour for most of the year doing short video tidbits and fun interviews with the players. But what he had to say wasn’t making Candice’s day any better.

“I’ll be a dad!” he had blurted into the phone. Dutifully, Candice had congratulated the enthusiastic video producer but anticipated the bad news that followed on the spot.

“I can’t possibly go on with the tour,” Archie had explained.

And that was that. Now Candice had to find another adventurer who was willing to join the erratic tour life between tournament sites, hotel rooms and airports. She picked up her phone and began to dial the number of her colleague at the Hopman Cup to finalize the PR work on the players’ exchange. Perhaps he would know someone who would be available on short notice until Sydney.

***

“Here are the facts. We have never played her, so we don’t know who might do better against her. But she is a tall Russian who hits the ball flat and hard. She is basically a ball basher like me. Moreover, she hates coming to the net. So you will play her.”

Luella and Gabriella Galloway were sitting in the shadow of two large trees behind the practice courts. Only the sound of smacked balls and occasional shouts from the players disturbed the silence of the sweltering afternoon. A sheet with the tournament’s draw was spread before them.

Since they were ten years old, the American twins had worked their way through tournaments by choosing beforehand which sister would play which opponent, depending on game style and preference. What had started as a dare among the twins, had become a very successful, very elaborate habit. In the last two years Gaga and Lulu, as they were called, had worked their way up the rankings and both had entered the Top 20 a few months ago.

It was a highly illegal team effort that had forced them to adopt several precautionary measures. The sisters spent whole evenings matching their appearances and even more time on their motions. Their game styles naturally differed and four years ago, before their first professional season, they had molded their game styles at their parents’ private tennis court to suit the overall game plan. Gaga had spent a whole summer acquiring Lulu’s powerful, dashing serve, while Lulu got some lessons in Gaga’s agile, versatile all-court game.

Since they started on the tour, their coaches were routinely ousted every six months before they had a chance to understand the nature of the twins’ elusiveness and unteachability. Not even their parents, while assuming that their daughters took turns sometimes, seemed to grasp the extent of their mischief. Their behavior was attributed to their exclusive twin status. All in all they had a reputation for being difficult, elitist and inseparable little brats.

“So you play the Russian. I play the Argentine,” Lulu pondered, studying the draw. “Then you will play Porovski in my third round, or the qualifier, but it’s highly unlikely Porovski will lose.”

Gabriella agreed. “Makes sense to me, because I will be much more comfortable with Ivana. Just blast Rodriguez off the court with your groundies!” Luella nodded. She would have preferred if Gaga had played Rodriguez. But if everything went according their plan her sister already had to play two matches more than her. She had to accept this challenge.

***

“How come I live here and don’t know about this dive bar?” Monica Jordan shook her head in wonder. She followed her doubles partner, Agnes Lion, through the bustling streets of the West End, one of the most boiling areas of Brisbane.

“Paola told me about it,” Agnes laughed.

“Paola? Don’t tell me she’s a late bloomer!”

“No. She discovered it by accident, when she was on a booze cruise with Hugh Andrews, her colleague from Supersport. He loved it obviously, as they stayed there the whole night.”

Walking through the bustling neighborhood of Spring Hill,  the sound of laughter and shouts from the bars surrounded them like a warm afternoon breeze. It had only been three weeks since they had seen each other but they had been chatting nonstop since Agnes had met Monica for lunch at a cozy Bar & Grill. Once they had gone through their Christmas with the family stories, they had decided to begin the end of the day with a few shots at the newly discovered gay bar. There was one matter they hadn’t discussed yet – the latest WTA gossip, and there was no better source for the hot topics than Monica Jordan. Stopping at the corner to check the street signs, Agnes turned to her friend.

“Will you tell me about your party, now? What happened? Spill the beans.”

Monica’s New Year beach house parties were notorious and whoever got an invitation felt honored and excited. This year, Agnes wasn’t able to make it so she was desperate to catch up on the infamous incidents which surely had happened.

“Are you ready for a big one?”

Agnes nodded.

“Miss Italy is going down on Eva Peron.”

“No way.” Agnes stopped on the spot. “No, no way!”

“Way, way, way,” Monica gave her a sly grin. “I set up the two Catholic girls over the punch fountain.”

“There’s something wonderfully rotten in the Land of Oz. Which would be you.”

“Thank you. Thank you.” Monica took a little bow, swaying an imaginary hat, then headed further down to the riverbank. “They make a nice pairing, don’t they?”

“A pretty hot pairing. I pity the priest who has to take their confessions.”

They walked down the street towards the Brisbane River. At the end of it was a corner house with a small, purple-lit doorway. Agnes gestured to the entrance and they crossed the street. When they came closer pulsing music gushed out to lead the way.

“Speaking of Oz? Did you set up the Wiz Kid, too?”

“Oh, don’t get me started. She’s a lost cause. She prefers to stick to chocolate.” Monica pushed the door open and began looking for a table in the crowded room. “But,” she added with a snort, “I might try again. I’m old enough now for this whole charity shebang.”

***

After she finished the interview with Carina Gnocchi and reported back to the editing room, Paola decided that it was time to watch some tennis. Today several interesting matches were scheduled and the most appealing seemed to be the first meeting of Gabriella Galloway, one half of the American twins, and the twenty-two year old Argentine, Martina Rodriguez. It should be a fine match with Gabriella's aggressive all-court game matching Rodriguez’s tricky shot-making. Paola was looking forward to some spectacular rallies.

She sprinted up the stairs to the commentator box only to witness her colleagues Hugh Andrews and Samantha Watts coming out of the little room. They looked exhausted.

“Oh, no. Did I miss it?”

“You didn’t miss much,” Samantha sighed. “Gabriella failed miserably. Tried to hit through the court, but missed most of the easy shots. No net play, no wit, no delight from her. It was a really disappointing performance.”

“Fifty-eight minutes and she was out,” Hugh added.

Paola was surprised. She had talked to the American earlier this week. Gabriella had a calm, even guarded personality, most people mistook for arrogance, but she used to flourish when she went on the court.

“Well, one can only hope it’s not a ridiculous attempt by that new coach to make her play more like Luella,” Sam mumbled.

“If it is, the coach will be fired faster than Renard’s serves go over the net,” Hugh giggled. A day before Elise Renard had managed quite effortlessly to break the speed gun with her booming serves. Several consecutive times she had served over 123 mph. After the fourth time the display went blank and stayed so for the rest of the set. Hugh and Sam had a good laugh as well as the crowd in the arena.

“It’s great that she got the wild card. It would have been a shame if she couldn’t have played at all because of Franke’s injury,” Sam said.

“Elise is a sweet kid. The knee injury was very unfortunate. It must have been hard for her to watch her peers rising up the rankings while her career just stopped dead,” Paola wondered. “Suddenly all the attention is on The Knocker. I remember that two years ago we wondered if Carina would ever crack the Top 50. Now she’s Numero Uno. Amazing how time flies.”