Teach would officially be Alice’s coach again—if she could just toss the ball into the air and hit it over the net.
Such a simple thing she’d done a million times before.
She had Teach’s enthusiasm.
She had Dr. Commons’s green light.
She possessed the desire to smash the gosh darn ball.
But her hands trembled as she bounced the ball again and again and again.
“You can do it, Allie,” Carole called from the other side of the court.
That woman, endlessly supportive.
“Stop that,” Teach said to Carole. “She’s our opponent.” But then to Alice, she shouted, “Just like riding a bike! Or in your case, Alice, just like lacing up your roller skates again.”
Billy burst into her head. She liked that she could think of him and smile. If he could see her now, he’d be smiling too. She glanced at her doubles partner, Louise Macy, a fashion journalist. Louise gave her an encouraging nod.
Alice licked her lips. Why was this so hard? But she knew the answer to that. What if it was too soon and her health relapsed? How many times could a person begin again and still be taken seriously? Did she dare hope? What if she couldn’t get back into tournament shape? Playing doubles with celebs was one thing. Competing at Forest Hills or Wimbledon was an entirely different ball game. What if she was nothing more than a social player from here on out?
“Alice,” Teach said in a low voice, drawing out her name, saying so much even though she’d said so little.
Alice had to try. It was now or never. She stopped bouncing the ball and tossed it above her head. It wasn’t her strongest serve, not even close. She was testing the waters. Apparently Teach was too. The return was a plum. Soft, slow, a three-year-old could have handled it. A chuckle bubbled up Alice’s throat as she smacked a sizzler down the line between Teach and Carole.
The expression on Teach’s face let loose the remainder of Alice’s laugh. That felt good. Damn good.
* * *
Sick? Not Alice.
That was what she told herself. That was what she chose to believe. New York and France were in her rearview mirror. Ahead of her: the US Championships and Wimbledon.
Alice had once been number three in the country—and she wanted it back. No, she wanted number one.
“Smokes, you still got it,” Teach said in a fiery voice, the excitement in her eyes reminiscent of a kid at Christmas and not a thirty-something woman. “Now we need to build your stamina. Slowly. No more than three games a day for now. Dr. Commons needs your blood count higher before you do more than that.”
In France, Alice’s hemoglobin level had been fifty. Even the thought of it sent a chill through her body. Dr. Commons wanted her numbers double what they’d been, to at least a hundred, the threshold for anemia.
So she took it slow, despite now feeling raring to go. Soon one set of tennis a day became two. Playing doubles. Not singles yet. But it was progress. It was long days of sunshine, tennis, and helping Teach with her coaching.
“You’re going to be the world’s best, Alice,” Teach said after every grueling set. “And I have an idea that could help.”
“Let’s hear it,” Alice said, exhausted yet feeling rejuvenated from her coach’s enthusiasm.
“Cabbage.”
“Excuse me?”
“The good doctor shared a tip with me. Laborers who work in the desert put cabbage leaves under their hats. Apparently the cabbage gets hot but the head stays cool. Helps with sunstroke. Want to try it?”
After her accident, Carole Lombard found her way with things like props and lighting. Cabbage wasn’t quite as Hollywood, but hey, “I’ll do anything.”
* * *
Alice was a newly minted twenty-two-year-old. She’d been sidelined from competitive tennis for nearly two years. With cabbage atop her head and fire in her heart, she was ready for her first real contest. Dr. Commons had estimated her recovery would take upward of a year. She simply couldn’t wait that long. She wanted to be on the court again in half that time. But her body demanded nine months. At least she was back.
The other entrants at the Racquet Club end-of-season tournament were some of southern California’s best: Dorothy Bundy, Carolin Babcock, Dorothy Workman, and Gracyn Wheeler.
The last she saw Carolin was a goodbye from a French hospital. “You look wonderful, Alice. Truly,” she said now.
Alice felt wonderful.
She played wonderfully, too, advancing to the finals lickety-split.
Carolin shook her head, though not unkindly. “Why am I not surprised to see you here?”
Alice shook her old teammate’s hand over the net. “I plan to make it hard on you.”
Actually, she planned to win, the crowded stadium already chanting Alice’s name. It brought tears to her eyes. Such a little thing that meant so much to her as she was starting out. And now she was starting out again.
Saying she planned to win definitely felt brazen. Not only was her full strength lacking, but so was her confidence.
But winning. That was the only cure when you’d lost your confidence.
Beating Carolin 6–2, 6–2 was a giant leap in the right direction. So was the standing ovation she received. Bonus: It was ridiculously comical how the stench of cabbage trailed her off the court, the officials’ noses scrunching but the men not knowing the source. She was tempted to tip her hat and ask them if they had any corned beef handy.
“That smile,” Teach said, pushing through the bodies and climbing down from the stands. “You’re back, Allie. You’re back.”
“You never gave up on me,” Alice said.
“Never going to, kid. But we still have lots to go.” She wagged a brow. “You ready for more?”
* * *
“I am. I know I’m ready,” Alice told Dr. Commons. It was only a tiny lie. The Racquet Club tournament had been everything Alice had hoped it’d be. It also left her muscles fatigued and her lungs achy. In his office, she sat straighter and urged the words from him: Yes, Alice, you can go east for the season and the US Championships.
But that’s not what he said. “I’m not convinced. I’d prefer you wait another year.”
But Alice didn’t have a year to wait.
Margaret Osborne was seventeen.
Dorothy Bundy was nineteen.
Gracyn Wheeler was twenty-one.
Alice was the oldest at twenty-two.
She needed to be competitive years ago. Not a year from now.
Dr. Commons ran a hand through his jet-black hair, then tapped her thick medical folder rhythmically. “You say you need conditioning and not rest?”
“Yes, sir.”
Again, maybe a tiny lie.
“I’ll make you a deal, then. Play another tournament. If your counts remain steady and you’re not depleted after, then I’ll pack your bags myself.”
She smiled. “You really must care for me, Doc, if you’re willing to pack my underthings.”
“One more tournament,” he said, fighting for professionalism while the curl of his lips said otherwise.
* * *
San Francisco. Home. Her tiny, white frame house atop a hill. Her brothers. Her sister.
Alice beamed, standing at the bottom of the worn cement stairway.
“Well, don’t just stand there,” her mother called from the doorway.
Alice took the steps two at a time, just as she’d done as a child.
At the top, her mother was waiting with open arms. “I may lock you up and throw away the key,” she said into Alice’s hair.
“Can’t do that,” Alice said, putting space between them so she could see her mother’s face. She had aged in the past year, her cheeks sunken, the lines on her forehead more pronounced. Enough so that Alice lost her train of thought.
“I know, I know,” her mother said. “You’ve got a tournament to play. I’m just happy it brought you home for a visit.”
The original plan of alternating between Teach and home went out the window while Alice fought to get back on track with tennis. Not being home in so long was a sacrifice. A big one. She studied her mother more. Thinner. Fatigued. “Ma—”
“Let’s get you inside.” She grabbed Alice’s elbow, certainly not void of strength in her grip. “I made your favorite. Your room’s all ready. Hazel even cleaned up her side. Don’t mention George’s thinning hair. He’s sensitive. Oh, Dan will have to tell you about the handball tournament he played in. He got second, but act surprised. Timmy—”
“Ma.” Alice stopped them. “You’ve lost so much weight. Have you seen a doctor?”
Alice’s mother snorted. “I’m certainly not going to complain about losing weight.” She dismissed her daughter’s concern with a wave of her hand. “Timmy snuck out again. Maybe you could talk to him.”
“Sure, Ma, I can do that.”
Her mother palmed Alice’s cheek, moisture in her eyes. “I’m just so happy to have you all under one roof, even if it’s just for a short time. Now let’s get you settled. You’ve got a tournament to win.” Her mother thrust a fist, her enthusiasm for Alice so touching that her own eyes filled with tears. It was good to be home.
San Francisco Gazette
Saturday, June 27, 1936
San Francisco’s Prodigal Daughter Has Returned to the Tennis Courts
SAN FRANCISCO, Calif.—For the past seven days, one name has been on everyone’s lips during the California State Championships at the Berkeley Club: Alice Marble. She’s back with a bang, after a two-year hiatus from tennis—and an even longer departure from San Francisco’s tennis scene after going under the tutelage of Eleanor “Teach” Tennant. Marble’s return hasn’t been met with the warmest of welcomes. It seems some players are holding a grudge, grumbling about Marble leaving our fine city for Los Angeles four years ago. Others are criticizing her game, claiming Marble has been playing like a man in an aggressive net-rushing style. However she’s playing, it’s working. Marble breezed through the preliminaries and is set to face Miss Margaret Osborne in the finals tomorrow.
Not only is Margaret Osborne ranked as the top player in northern California, she’s also been the darling of San Francisco since Marble’s exodus. Marble (22) and Osborne (17) both grew up playing on the same courts at Golden State Park. With both players strong, quick and daring, tomorrow’s match will be one to watch.