themagickeeper
February 5th, 2008, 7:10 am
PROLOGUE
Heartbeat
I opened my eyes, gasping for breath. My heart pounded against my rib cage as my stomach flipped over. I felt like I was going to vomit. Oh God, I cringed. What a way to die. Death by humiliation. I took deep breaths, breathing in through my nose and out through my mouth, like I had been taught in Health class once.
“Quiet please,” I barely heard the umpire tell the crowd. My stomach flipped again, as I remembered that my family would be in the crowd somewhere, along with Teddy and Bee. I think they were in the middle of the stands, where most of the noise was coming from.
Maybe James was there. I hoped not. I would just die if he was.
I bounced the fluorescent green ball on the hard court a couple of times, glancing over the net at my opponent. A tall, striking Russian beauty was what the papers had described Irinia Ferdynova as. They forgot to mention vicious, rude and loud (think Maria Sharapova). Irinia glared across the court at me.
This was it. Championship point.
Everything seemed to go in slow motion once I chucked the ball up with my left arm, with as much force as I could muster. I rolled back onto my left foot at the same time, raising my racket up with my right arm. The ball reached the farthest point it could go in the air.
The slow motion stopped. The ball came racing back down to earth, gravity pulling it down at the speed of a bullet.
Contact.
I hit the ball as hard as I could over to the Russian’s side of the court, straightening my self up as soon as I could, ready to catch Irinia’s nasty backhand as she smashed the ball over the net. Poor ball, I thought, feeling sympathetic for the thing. The sympathy didn’t last for long though. Glad that I had an excellent forehand; I lobbed the ball back over to Irinia gently, the ball skimming the net but still entering her side. Irinia ran to the net as fast as her long Russian legs could carry her and volleyed the ball across. I stretched my legs across the length of my half of the court and forehanded the ball back to her.
The next part is a blur.
I’m sure the ball has gone out. It was so close to the white line I’m sure it had gone out. Irinia is standing by the umpire’s chair, yelling obscenities in Russian while trying to get an official review.
Feeling awkward, I glance to the crowd. I spot my parents, waving the Australian flag in the air and yelling uncontrollably. I give them a half-hearted smile.
“Challenge, Ferdynova,” the umpire says. I shrug my shoulders. For a seventeen year old, Irinia is pretty aggressive. Everyone turns to the large screen that dangles overhead, the scores (5-6, 6-7) disappearing as a simulation of the play comes on. The crowd holds it breath as the screen shows the ball gliding over the net and into the top box. The ball lands just before the white line.
In.
The crowd goes wild; Irinia chucks her racket on the ground. I stand shocked, until someone comes over to me, grabbing me in a bear hug. It’s Mitchells, my coach. “You won!” He screams, obviously pleased with me. I break into a huge smile.
“I won!”
*******
As I blink my eyes, little white circles form, the result of too many cameras going off at one time. I’m sitting at the interview desk, where I know Sharapova was sitting yesterday afternoon when she won the Women’s Singles Championships. My trophy, a large silver dish with engravings on it is being supported by Mitchells, who is sitting to my left. The press in front of us is all talking at once - the noise is like a swarm of bees.
“Natalie - you’ve just won the Australian Open Junior Girl’s Singles Championships. How are you feeling?” A balding man asks me. “Elated,” I reply back, unable to find the exact words to describe what I’m feeling right now.
“Do you have any plans to enter any major tournaments this year?” A lady in a blue powder suit asks me, a notepad in hand, pen poised ready to write.
“Well,” I started, gathering up some breath. “I’ve been offered a wild card into one of the major tournaments this year.” I can’t tell them which one; I’m too excited myself, as the realization that I have the wild card entry sinks in once more.
“Which tournament’s that?” Somebody asks from the back. Everyone in the room is quiet, except for the occasional flash of a camera.
“I’m chasing Wimbledon.”
Heartbeat
I opened my eyes, gasping for breath. My heart pounded against my rib cage as my stomach flipped over. I felt like I was going to vomit. Oh God, I cringed. What a way to die. Death by humiliation. I took deep breaths, breathing in through my nose and out through my mouth, like I had been taught in Health class once.
“Quiet please,” I barely heard the umpire tell the crowd. My stomach flipped again, as I remembered that my family would be in the crowd somewhere, along with Teddy and Bee. I think they were in the middle of the stands, where most of the noise was coming from.
Maybe James was there. I hoped not. I would just die if he was.
I bounced the fluorescent green ball on the hard court a couple of times, glancing over the net at my opponent. A tall, striking Russian beauty was what the papers had described Irinia Ferdynova as. They forgot to mention vicious, rude and loud (think Maria Sharapova). Irinia glared across the court at me.
This was it. Championship point.
Everything seemed to go in slow motion once I chucked the ball up with my left arm, with as much force as I could muster. I rolled back onto my left foot at the same time, raising my racket up with my right arm. The ball reached the farthest point it could go in the air.
The slow motion stopped. The ball came racing back down to earth, gravity pulling it down at the speed of a bullet.
Contact.
I hit the ball as hard as I could over to the Russian’s side of the court, straightening my self up as soon as I could, ready to catch Irinia’s nasty backhand as she smashed the ball over the net. Poor ball, I thought, feeling sympathetic for the thing. The sympathy didn’t last for long though. Glad that I had an excellent forehand; I lobbed the ball back over to Irinia gently, the ball skimming the net but still entering her side. Irinia ran to the net as fast as her long Russian legs could carry her and volleyed the ball across. I stretched my legs across the length of my half of the court and forehanded the ball back to her.
The next part is a blur.
I’m sure the ball has gone out. It was so close to the white line I’m sure it had gone out. Irinia is standing by the umpire’s chair, yelling obscenities in Russian while trying to get an official review.
Feeling awkward, I glance to the crowd. I spot my parents, waving the Australian flag in the air and yelling uncontrollably. I give them a half-hearted smile.
“Challenge, Ferdynova,” the umpire says. I shrug my shoulders. For a seventeen year old, Irinia is pretty aggressive. Everyone turns to the large screen that dangles overhead, the scores (5-6, 6-7) disappearing as a simulation of the play comes on. The crowd holds it breath as the screen shows the ball gliding over the net and into the top box. The ball lands just before the white line.
In.
The crowd goes wild; Irinia chucks her racket on the ground. I stand shocked, until someone comes over to me, grabbing me in a bear hug. It’s Mitchells, my coach. “You won!” He screams, obviously pleased with me. I break into a huge smile.
“I won!”
*******
As I blink my eyes, little white circles form, the result of too many cameras going off at one time. I’m sitting at the interview desk, where I know Sharapova was sitting yesterday afternoon when she won the Women’s Singles Championships. My trophy, a large silver dish with engravings on it is being supported by Mitchells, who is sitting to my left. The press in front of us is all talking at once - the noise is like a swarm of bees.
“Natalie - you’ve just won the Australian Open Junior Girl’s Singles Championships. How are you feeling?” A balding man asks me. “Elated,” I reply back, unable to find the exact words to describe what I’m feeling right now.
“Do you have any plans to enter any major tournaments this year?” A lady in a blue powder suit asks me, a notepad in hand, pen poised ready to write.
“Well,” I started, gathering up some breath. “I’ve been offered a wild card into one of the major tournaments this year.” I can’t tell them which one; I’m too excited myself, as the realization that I have the wild card entry sinks in once more.
“Which tournament’s that?” Somebody asks from the back. Everyone in the room is quiet, except for the occasional flash of a camera.
“I’m chasing Wimbledon.”