“First point.”
“Body?”
“Third.”
Derrick nodded.
“What about second?”
“Rally.”
“Inside-out?”
Jamal frowned.
“How do you know?”
“Because you think inside-out forehand solves world hunger.”
“It works.”
“Until somebody reads it.”
Derrick fed a ball.
“Backhand.”
Jamal groaned.
“Why?”
“Because rich man’s forehand is not paying your backhand debt.”
Training resumed.
Good.
For several weeks, nothing dramatic happened.
Westbridge revised its wildcard process.
The Bennett Tennis Project received the policy draft.
Derrick marked it up in red.
Too much documentation.
Transportation assumptions.
Entry fees unclear.
Uniform language expensive.
He sent it back.
Susan Carlisle changed most.
Harrison wanted to personally cover fees.
Susan said no.
“Why?”
“Because then kids depend on Harrison feeling generous.”
He stared.
She continued.
“Build the waiver into the program.”
“Right.”
Institution, not benefactor.
He was learning.
Slowly.
The next spring, Westbridge hosted an open junior invitational.
Four wildcard spots.
Thirty-one non-club applications.
Jamal qualified based on ranking.
No chairman approval.
Derrick made sure of that.
Jamal arrived wearing a white shirt Renee bought on sale.
Same worn backup sneakers.
New match shoes in his bag.
Renee sat under an umbrella with a thermos.
Harrison saw them.
He did not approach before the match.
Growth.
Jamal won first round.
Lost second.
Badly.
6–2, 6–1.
Opponent named Evan Kim.
Thirteen.
Fast.
Disciplined.
Attacked Jamal’s backhand repeatedly.
By the second set, Jamal was furious.
Afterward he sat behind the court with a towel over his head.
Harrison passed.
Stopped.
Then reconsidered.
He kept walking.
Renee noticed.
She appreciated that more than if he had offered encouragement.
Derrick sat beside Jamal.
“You done?”
“No.”
“Good.”
“What did he do?”
“Backhand.”
“What else?”
“Returned my serve early.”
“What else?”
Jamal hated this.
“He moved me forward.”
“What else?”
“He was better.”
Derrick nodded.
“Excellent.”
Jamal looked offended.
“What?”
“That is the most useful answer.”
Jamal stared at the ground.
“I hate losing here.”
“Why here?”
“People know.”
“Know what?”
“That I beat Mr. Cole.”
Derrick understood.
There.
The hidden consequence of the fun story.
Jamal had become the boy who surprised the rich man.
At Freedom Park, kids joked.
At Westbridge, members remembered.
Some expected another show.
Derrick looked at him.
“You think losing makes that match fake?”
“No.”
“Then?”
“I don’t know.”
“Yes, you do.”
Jamal whispered:
“I don’t want them thinking it was luck.”
Derrick sighed.
“You cannot spend your tennis career arguing with one Saturday.”
Jamal looked up.
“Then what?”