How remarkable to return to California from Canada with the victory—and $6.37 left over from her stipend.
Alice’s mother always taught her to pay it forward. Or in this case, pay it back. Alice still didn’t know who her mystery donor was, so she returned the six dollars and change to the tennis association that had believed in her. What a feeling, one that made her want to play tennis morning, noon, and night.
She couldn’t. School. But Alice played whenever she could, both at the public courts and at local tournaments when her ma could afford the entry fee.
Alice was over the moon when the tennis association came calling again as summer vacation began. This time they wanted her to go east. Like, all-the-way-across-the-country east to New York to play in a few tournaments before the big shebang at the National Championships at a place called Forest Hills.
She swallowed hard at the thought. The opportunity was huge. So was the distance. Then her stomach dropped at the practicality of being able to go. Her family’s financial situation still hadn’t changed. Her dad was gone forever. Her mother still had Alice; a younger brother, Timmy; an older sister, Hazel; and two older brothers to look after, even with Dan and George both working full-time. They dropped out of school a few years ago to do just that. And, unbeknownst to Alice until recently, Dan had been pulling extra shifts since she’d won up north.
“When the next big tournament came along, I wanted to have the money ready for you,” he said. “It’s a great help that they’re paying for you to get out there and to put a roof over your head. But I can take care of the rest.”
“Dan . . .” A thick throat kept Alice from saying any more than that. But with her oldest brother, she really didn’t need to.
“Ma . . . ,” Alice said when it was time to leave for the train station. Her mother had tears in her eyes and Alice reminded her, “God bless, angels keep.”
It was a prayer Alice’s ma had taught her when she was little. Over the years, the prayer had shortened to those four words, but it began longer: “God bless us, and angels keep us safe from harm.”
Alice’s mother nodded. “I’ll write you every day.” But then emotion overcame her. Alice wasn’t sure if it was fear or pride she saw on her ma’s scrunched-up face as her mother muttered, “My baby girl . . .”
But as she managed the long train ride to New York’s Grand Central Station, as she retrieved her bags and navigated an underground tunnel to the Roosevelt Hotel, and as she signed her name on the hotel’s ledger, she’d never felt older. Never more like a fish out of water too.
The hotel was fancy. So was her suite, with its high ceiling, floral walls, and other details and embellishments Alice didn’t have the names for.
A bellhop delivered her bags with a smile. All but hearing her ma’s voice in her head, Alice pressed a dime into his hand.
“Not necessary, Miss Marble,” he said, returning the tip. He dipped his head. “Good luck on the courts to you.”
Alice had a feeling she’d need it. Tennis was more than just a physical game; it was mental. Anger, frustration, or self-pity lost just as many points as an ill-timed swing. Alice learned that early on. And as she lugged herself and a tennis bag to the stadium at the West Side Tennis Club, her hand tightened on the strap. If Alice thought the hotel was out of her league . . .
She blew out a breath, reminding herself that being intimidated wasn’t her style. Alice was cocky, almost to a fault. The kind of girl who lettered in softball, basketball, and track at her high school, who waltzed onto a court without the heels of her shoes.
Feeling less-than? Not feeling like she belonged? That was something new, a whole different ball game to navigate. Alice’s opponents were bred for the game and lived at ritzy boarding schools and attended tennis academies. But once they stepped onto the court, they’d be equals. Right? The great equalizer? That was what she’d always told herself. But this time felt different. These eastern girls were good—and knew their way around a grass court. Would it feel similar to the asphalt court Alice was used to or the clay courts from Canada? She had no clue.
During warm-ups Alice watched them, bottom lip between her teeth, fighting to keep her jealousy at bay as the other girls worked with their coaches. Yet there was Alice, having no one but herself. Fortunately she had a photographic memory, and she used it to mentally collect their movements, hoping she could use some of what they were being told in her own game.
A mooch. That was what she was. Nothing more than a beggar swiping leftovers from someone else’s plate. Alice groaned; wasn’t that the mental thinking that could hurt her during a game? She may have gotten into tennis because her brother put a racquet in her hands. But now that she had a grip on it, she wanted to be the very best. She needed to prove herself. She needed to exceed expectations. And now, in New York, she needed to make the fact that her brother had worked overtime for the past year worth it.
In her first match, Alice won the coin toss, choosing to serve first. With her serve, she tried to pull her opponent out wide, but the other girl handled the return with no problem. On grass, Alice’s delivery was slower, the bounce lower on account of the softer surface. Alice tracked the ball high as it whizzed back at her. She swung overhead with all her might. And whiffed, coming up short, the ball going over her racquet and the power of her missed swing leaving her off-balance.
Alice shook it off; she wasn’t the tallest player. In time, she’d know what to jump for and what was beyond her reach. For now, she refocused, despite the reaction from the crowd not making it easy for her. Nor did the coach’s very loud jeer that his player had Alice on the ropes. She was certain her cheeks were flaming red as she threw the ball up in the air to serve again.
Her opponent returned. Alice returned with a backhand, gripping her racquet so tightly her knuckles were at risk of bursting through her skin.
Hard. Hit it as hard as you can. Pray it’s too fast for her.
In a blink, there was the ball again, nearly bringing Alice to her knees to hit it before a second bounce. By the time she recovered, the ball was back on her side—Alice nowhere near it.
Her opponent looked to her coach. He mouthed something. Something Alice couldn’t make out. But whatever he said, the other girl nodded and returned to play with a steely resolve. Then, too quickly, the match was over.
Alice’s cheeks were so hot at that point her skin could’ve been on fire. She’d lost 1–6 and 0–6.
Alice heard the grumblings. How she was the junior champion of northern California.
She didn’t think it could get any worse. The universe laughed at that. Alice had come east for a string of tournaments culminating with the National Championships at Forest Hills. But when Alice reached this final, monumental tournament, her name was nowhere to be seen on the lineup. Did the powers that be not think her good enough? Even though she’d been invited to come east to play in all of the tournaments?
Alice wanted nothing more than for the earth to open up and swallow her whole.
Instead, a special meeting was called. Alice didn’t know by whom. And—for the first time in the blasted history of Forest Hills—they did a new draw with Alice’s name included.
Only, Alice couldn’t help questioning if it was a pity entry. Did the tennis association actually want her included?
When it came time for Alice to play in the first round, she couldn’t get her head in the game. Her first appearance at Nationals ended right then and there. She lost in the first round and couldn’t bear even stepping foot in the dressing room afterward like some impostor. Instead, she blended into the stands, head in her hands, and watched some real tennis players. Maybe she’d learn a thing or two. Or a million.
“The papers are going to be brutal,” she heard a woman sitting beside her say.
Alice closed her eyes; she’d been recognized, and she let out a snort. “Wonderful.”
“They’re going to call you husky. And slow. And say how you weren’t worth all the trouble to get you into the tournament. They’ll say to go back to California.”
She lifted her gaze to the woman and muttered, “Is this a pep talk?”
The older woman smiled. “I’m husky. I’m from California. And I, too, have lost in the first round before.” She leaned into Alice, a surprising intimacy. “Three times.”
Who was this woman? Helen Moody was the only player Alice knew, that all tennis hopefuls her age knew.
“Three times?”
“Don’t make me admit it again. It was a long time ago. But listen—you’ve got a lot of tennis ahead of you. Get yourself a good coach. Work on your ground strokes, consistency, and strategy. Figure out how to use all that power of yours.”
For the first time in hours, maybe even days, Alice smiled. But she couldn’t bring herself to say the words I can do that. Not when she couldn’t afford a coach and the sting of losing was still so fresh.
“This is just the beginning, Alice. One day you’ll be playing at Wimbledon. When you do, take notice of the words above the entrance.”
Alice sat straighter. “What do they say?”
She leaned into Alice again. “You’ll see for yourself.”