Love Game - Season 2011 Read online

  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.”

  “Tell me about it,” Sam sighed, checking the monitor in the commentator booth. “We need to get back into the sauna.”

  “Antonia Sapore will try to give Mint a new flavor,” Hugh purred. Chuckling, the two commentators walked back into their box while Paola headed back to the media center. There was still work to do and a look at her watch confirmed it – yes, she was late again.

  ***

  “It happens. Wasn’t your fault.” Gabriella patted Luella’s back , then grabbed her sister’s bag and pushed her through the gate.

  “She got lucky,” Luella growled.

  “She also played really well. I wonder how she prepared in the off-season? She was hitting the ball extra hard. She was on fire.” In fact it had been exciting to watch. At times Gaga had to deter herself from cheering for the Argentine’s points.

  She glanced over to her younger sister and upon seeing her face Gabriella felt guilty. Perhaps if she had played Rodriguez, she could have handled the high pace of the South American. Also, she might still be in the tournament. Even though Luella played the match today, it was Gabriella’s name on the scoreboard, and it was Gabriella who was out of the tournament now.

  They walked in silence heading for the practice court in the back. To their left was the picnic lawn of the Queensland Tennis Centre but only a few visitors had settled onto the grass. At five in the afternoon it was still incredibly hot. There was only one lonely figure underneath the big tree in the back of the picnic area. The girl was lying on a tournament towel and there was a huge racquet bag next to her.

  “I think that’s Elise!” Gabriella exclaimed. “Let’s go over and say hello.”

  “No, thanks,” Lulu snapped. “Can’t stand her constant smiling. It drives me mad. I could punch her every time I see her.”

  Gabriella sighed, which caused Lulu to turn around with an angry stare. “You go over then. I want to be alone anyways.”

  Luella dashed off leaving her twin sister dumbfounded. But Gaga knew there wasn’t much she could do when Lulu was in a bad mood.

  She stepped onto the grass and walked over to the girl under the tree. Gabriella was still 60 feet away when Elise looked up. The American waved over and Elise smiled back. Then she quickly stuffed the book she was reading into her bag and got up. It had happened too fast and Gaga wasn’t able to see the writing on the cover, but from the distance it looked like a Tennis Nurse novel. Now, that would be a surprise, Gabriella thought. Never in her life had she guessed that Elise Renard would read the infamous trash novel series. But then again nobody thought that about herself.

  Gaga had almost read the whole series. It was the one guilty pleasure not even Luella knew about, as Gabriella traded the novels secretly with only one player, Morgana Doré, and never kept more than one novel at a time which she carried in her toilet bag. But Elise? She had never heard any stories about the nice German. No, Gaga must have been wrong. She shook her head and gave Elise a big smile. They talked for fifteen minutes before Gabriella left again to have a light hit with her grumpy sister.

  It was good to see Elise back on the tour. She had played only a couple of the European indoor tournaments last fall after she was beaten in the first round of the U.S. Open. It had been her first tournament back after her injury had taken her out for several months, and by then her ranking had dropped dramatically as she had been unable to defend her points from summer 2009. But she never l
et her bad luck get her down and no matter what Luella thought, Gaga liked the smiley girl. Besides her joyful effusiveness, she could be quite thoughtful and shy. Moreover, Elise was one of the few people who didn’t ignore Gabriella because of the reputation she and Luella had. On her way to the practice court Gabriella resolved to make an effort to get to know the young German better.

  ***

  Antonia Sapore let herself drop down onto the bench and exhaled. The Italian had asked for twenty minutes before she had to show up for her press conference. Then she would have a massage followed by a talk with her coach over a quick dinner. It was already past 7 P.M. and she had no plans for the evening and right now she didn’t feel like doing anything but lying in her bed and falling asleep.

  Breathing in deeply she closed her eyes and tried to calm down until her racket bag fell over onto the floor with a loud bang. The sound echoed through the empty locker room. She didn’t like it when the place was deserted like this. The tour was all about constant buzzing, boiling activity which took you into an addicting whirl and as soon as you happened to find yourself alone, the lifelessness of concrete walls and clean hotel rooms wrapped you up abruptly. Her opponent had already left the room, leaving behind the sweet smell of a deodorant. It went to her head and she began to feel dizzy.

  When the door to the locker room was opened, Antonia opened her eyes. She turned around but her mood shifted instantly when she saw a well-known face appearing in the long corridor that separated both locker sides.

  “Como estás, mi corazón?”

  Martina Rodriguez made a few nonchalant steps towards her, hands in the pockets of her tracksuit jacket, and smiled at the Italian.