Heavy Weather

Tropical Storm Ernesto passed over the East End on Labor Day weekend, making a windy, rainy, strange mess of Saturday.

A week or so earlier, Tennis Pro told me he wanted me to attend an exhibition match at his club that Saturday. His younger brother was coming up from Florida, and they would play together. He added that he wanted me to meet his brother. Interesting. He talked it up, the way his brother and he play matches together. I decided that I wanted to see them play.

I made a mental point of it. I watch a lot of tennis, not a participant myself, more of a professional spectator. The US Open afforded plenty of voyeurism - Roger Federer's backhand is my porn.

The Thursday before the big end-of-summer holiday weekend, I spent some thirteen-plus hours in Flushing, for the US Open, with Baby Girl. We caught seven or so matches, the most important of which was Agassi v. Baghdatis, that would be the last match that Andre won. It was historical, and as exhausted as I was (the day's matches included Nadal's, Serena's, some Youzhny-guy, ditto some Benjamin Becker-guy, Amelie Mauresmo, and the Bryan brothers), it was more incredible than any of the media sportswriters could have conveyed. (Except for the bourgeois bimbos sitting in front of us screaming and giggling for Marcos - Baghdatis - even though it was too clear that they hadn't watched too much tennis in their collective lifetimes.)

Back to the East End. Driving out Friday, I made a suite of phone calls, since my mobile service would go spotty as soon as I drove over Shinnecock Canal. I was not staying chez The Savior this time - he had rented out his own home for the weekend. Plus, he was all over the place, given the US Open, and a tournament he was scheduled to play - at the Maidstone. I wanted to catch some of that too.

Anyhow, Tennis Pro was busy settling his brother, and wanted to catch up later in the evening. My host for the weekend, a friend of The Savior's was headed to B. Smith's in Sag Harbor. That's where I started - it was great. Shout out to the new best friend-bartender, Jean (pronounced "Gene," he's from the Bronx).

And indeed, later on, I met Tennis Pro, his brother, and The Savior, just as The Savior called it quits, and the three of us remaining rolled over to another tennis friend's house, Tennis Pro all hands-y, per usual. The night went on, another pro flew in (from Chattanooga, who had won his division in that tournament held in Flushing last June), and we chilled, until it was time to call it a night.

I dropped the brothers off. When family is in town, family comes first. I was eager to sleep, and Tennis Pro is not the kind of person with whom I would share a bed. I tried it once. Too weird. I drove back to my host's.

Saturday, amid weird rain and wind, everything went to hell. Tennis Pro was on hold for his tournament, not sure if they would play. He told me he would call me if they were on for the match. And then, I heard no more from him.

The mad weather, I figured. And besides, I was having a fascinating time of it with my host, discussing everything in the world, as brand new friends do. And we watched Spielberg's Munich all afternoon, a superb piece of filmmaking, whether or not it hewed to the facts, whatever they may be. Oh, and Eric Bana is in it, yep.

I left a handful of messages for Tennis Pro meanwhile. No word.

A small tickle of hmmmm started somewhere in the back of my head. Maybe it started earlier, but I allowed myself to be otherwise distracted. Before the film, I'd gone for an easy run, and the color of the stormy skies over the fields was eerily gray and portentous. It felt good to run.

That day, I never got through to Tennis Pro. But I did somehow get through to his friend, the Chattanoogan pro, who sounded psyched to get my call, claiming it was the first time his phone worked since he arrived.

"Why Holly Hodder. We did play." He sounded enthusiastic.

"You did? What? In this weather?"

"Yeah. It was crazy. The wind made the play nuts. Lions and tigers and bears!" He was on a roll.

As my stomach knotted, I held my tongue, allowing him to tell his story.

The information composed itself in my mind's eye. It was as though it played out before me, diaphanous, diorama-like, about three feet in front of me. It was happening, I was watching it, and I was not part of it. Like my anxiety dreams - when I want more than anything to be part of it, and I can never quite get there, I am left out, left alone.

I listened to him.

"Yeah! One ball flew up in the air, over the clubhouse and back into the court. I'm telling you."

"Did a lot of people show up to watch?" I ventured.

"You bet! There was a whole party, all kinds of margaritas. Maybe thirty or forty people, someone was yelling for (Tennis Pro). I thought it was you."

"No. It wasn't." I said that quietly, then added, "Wow. I would have liked to have been there. To watch. I kind of feel bad."

He either didn't hear me or chose to ignore the comment.

"You will not believe where I am right now, to get phone service. I am standing outside, at the end of a path, wearing a blazer. It's raining again. I should get back in."

"What're you guys doing now?" I didn't want to sound either tentative or querulous, just inquisitive.

Well, (Tennis Pro) and his brother went to get pizza and are coming here. I think we will just kick back."

"Sure. Well, would you tell him that I tried to reach him?"

"Sure thing, Holly Hodder."

"Thanks. You guys have a good night. It was good to see you yesterday, if even for a short while."

Etcetera.

I felt like crap. I tend to think that people are as good as their word. If Tennis Pro didn't phone, then the event that once sounded like a priority to him - a priority for me to be there - probably was no longer.

The end of summer. He would be leaving in a day or so, if I recalled correctly. Not the best way to end a summer fling, but there it was. I forced my big brain to start the process of withdrawal. I would make no further attempts to contact him. 

Transition time. I didn't sleep well that night. At all.

Comments

[Holly Hodder]

Hey Jess. That summer story ain't quite finished yet. And the East Coast hurricane season runs until sometime in November (I think).

[jess]

Oh, how I miss summer flings. Even the ones that end badly.

I also miss storms.