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Custom Sports Novels
Category:
Action/Thriller
Publisher: Smashwords
Type: Fiction
Pages: 361
Copyright: September 9, 2010
ISBN-13: 9781452342320
Four junior tennis players from Spain, France and the U.S.are destined to meet at Roland Garros, home of the French Open, the second leg of the Tennis Grand Slam. The four teenagers meet at the Saddlebrook tennis academy in Tampa, Fl where tennis lessons are spiced with love, jealousy and revenge. Basque ETA terrorist plans to blow up the newly rebuilt stadium set the stage for a thrilling climax. 126,000 words.
Excerpt
Chapter 5
First USTA Tournament
The waiting was almost over. Petie was warming up and his
match would start in a few minutes. His opponent was a small, 14-
year-old boy from Clearwater, the #4 seed.
“What do you think, Mary, any chance?”
“The kid looks steady, Jim. Pete will need to put some
pressure on his backhand or the kid will keep the ball in play
forever.”
Gregg agreed. “Pete can’t out-rally him, the boy has been
playing tournaments for three years and is too experienced. He’s
almost two years older than Pete. It’ll be tough.”
Pete was 12 but would turn 13 in July, two weeks before the
August 1 cutoff. That meant he was considered a 13-year old by
USTA standards, and forced to enter the 14 and under age bracket
rather than the 12 and under. The United States Tennis Association
was the governing authority for U.S. junior tennis.
They were ready to start. Pete won the toss and elected to start
with his back to the sun. His opponent elected to serve. “Good,”
Gregg said, “that’s just what we wanted. It will give Pete some
time to get into the match, and who knows, the other boy might be
nervous too.”
As Pete got into position to return serve, he looked over at his
small cheering section and winked. Maybe we were more nervous
than he was?
The boy missed his first serve and hit a short second serve
with nothing on it. Pete stepped in and blasted a winner up the line.
The boy just looked at Pete who calmly walked over to the adcourt.
The boy took something off his next first serve and Pete
returned hard to the backhand, producing a weak reply that landed
inside the service line. Pete stepped in and nailed a forehand into
the corner for another winner. The boy was shell-shocked. You
could see it from the stands.
The boy tried two hard serves on the next point and double
faulted. He won the love-40 point with a service winner but lost
the game on the next point when he netted a backhand. Parents are
supposed to be invisible in these matches, but it was so hard not to
applaud and cheer. The three of us settled for a couple claps and a
thumbs-up as the boys switched sides.
Pete was all business as he prepared to serve. It was one thing
to break his opponent’s serve, but tennis is all about holding your
own serve, even at age 12. Gregg had a great service motion and
had been working with Pete every day. His serve was pretty good,
but serving in practice and serving in a match is entirely different.
“Bam,” was the sound I heard as Petie’s first serve rocketed
up the middle for an ace. What a way to start!
“Wide,” shouted his opponent.
Pete looked over at the boy but said nothing. Gregg and he had
talked Thursday about how to react if he got a bad call. It helped
that Mary put her hand on my knee. It was all I could do to keep
my mouth shut.
Pete’s second serve kicked wide to the boy’s backhand. The
return was pretty good but Pete had followed his serve to the net
and volleyed a winner to the open court. Three points later,
including an ace and a service winner, Pete was ahead two games
to zero.
“It’s over,” Gregg whispered.
“I agree,” Mary nodded.
“Why didn’t anyone tell me he was this good?” I asked.
Gregg looked at Mary and tried to answer. “We didn’t have
any idea, Jim. You never can tell how a kid will react under
pressure. Most of us get nervous, some choke. A few like Pete
raise their game to a new level. They thrive on the competition.”
“Jim, we have a real tennis player here,” Mary added. “There
is no telling how good he can be. The sky’s the limit.”
“Or the French Open,” I thought to myself.
A continent away Carlos was finishing a straight set
annihilation of his nemesis, Pedro, the boy who had beaten him the
first day at camp. The scores were 6-1, 6-2, but it really wasn’t that
close.
Sergio and Fritz had watched from a distance. “He’s ready,”
Sergio proclaimed. “Let’s see how he does at Nationals.”
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