World War II raged in front of us. Jackson and Diz used their tennis racquets like bazookas. The match started in a gentlemanly fashion. Diz wore his Fila outfit and Jackson appeared in Tacchini. At South Runnymede Tennis and Racquet Club white prevails, so while there were splashes of color on both men, they were more white than not. The match was on grass too.
At first, those of us in the gallery thought: another rout by Jackson. He skunked Diz for the first set. The second set teeter-tottered but Jack kept his serve and took that 6–4. The third set, a brutal tie-breaker, was won by Diz. The fourth set also went to Diz in another squeaker. The fifth set was neck and neck.
Those lessons in Manhattan must have paid off because Diz shortened his backswing to compensate for the speed of grass. You haven’t got the time for a lovely preparation arc as you do on clay. His serve also was much improved and twisted into Jackson’s body or skidded away on the outside corner.
Regina, Mr. Pierre, Mom, Wheezie, Orrie, Georgette BonBon, and Max, her boyfriend, huddled on the left side of the bleachers. Liz and Portia Rife, Bill Falkenroth, Kevin and George Spangler, Tinker Finster, Ursula Yost, and Frances Finster sat on the right side of the bleachers. David Wheeler and his wife wandered over after their game and sat in the middle. Sides were clearly drawn.
During the changeover at 5–4 we picked up a piece of the exchange between Jackson and Diz. Their conversation did not run a charitable course.
Diz served and held. Frustration marked Jackson’s face. He was so accustomed to wiping the courts up with Diz that the equality of the struggle offended him. Jackson, powerful and smart, battled the slighter but quicker man. Diz used the whole court and he kept Jackson off balance by mixing up his shots. He’d slam a forehand topspin into the backcourt and then on Jackson’s return he’d take the pace off the ball. Nor was he averse to the lob, that most heartbreaking stroke in tennis if you’re on the receiving end of it.
When the fifth set heaved over into a tie-breaker, those of us in the stands collectively held our breath. This was tantamount to a palace revolution. None of us could believe how hard these men were fighting. This was more than a tennis match. No money would change hands at the conclusion. No trophy would be given. The results would not be printed in the Clarion despite the fact that one of the participants was soon to be the new owner. The end shocked everyone. The tie-breaker, a recent invention in tennis, must be won by two points. They’d blasted each other to 9–9, a comment in itself. Jackson turned over service to Diz. The next point, a long one, swung to Diz when he hit a backhand down the line that caught the chalk, spraying it upward in a fountain of white. On Diz’s next point he served an ace. Jackson could have lied and said “wide” because it was close and it’s pretty easy to cheat if you’re that kind of person. But Jack wasn’t. He stared at the spot, rooted to the court. Nobody said a word. Then he called, “Good.” Still he couldn’t move.
The stands erupted and Diz trotted to the net, happy in his victory. He leaned his racquet up against the net and waited. Jackson strode up to shake hands. That part was okay but Jack muttered something and Diz, Jack’s hand still in his, smacked him upside the head with his left hand. Jack dropped his racquet and in a flash they were pounding each other, the net between them until Jack vaulted the net and the two of them fought and rolled in the grass like bad boys.
David Wheeler and Mr. Pierre rushed out to separate them but couldn’t do it. Eventually Max, Bill, Kevin, and George supplied their services and the two contestants were dragged apart. Jack yelled that Diz couldn’t be satisfied being the richest man in the county, he had to win at everything. Diz retorted that Jack was a bad loser and always had been and that Jack’s days of being Runnymede’s peacock were over.
Cooling down took about five minutes, and the men finally let Diz and Jack out of their respective grasps. Jackson stalked off, hopped in the car, and drove away. Diz retreated to the locker room.
“I’ll run you home,” I told Regina, since she’d been left high and dry.
“Tell you what”—she watched Jack drive off—“let’s play three sets of singles and then round up victims for two sets of doubles. I am not going home to that until sundown.”
“Sounds good to me.”
Our three sets supplied us both with chills and spills. Regina won the second set, so she started playing out of her head. I couldn’t let up for a minute in the third or she’d have snatched it from me.
“Now that was fun.” Regina toweled off.
I dropped into an Adirondack chair and bribed one of the court kids to bring me a Coke. Regina was sitting on a bench. Diz walked over to her.
“Regina, I hope you harbor no ill feelings toward me. I think emotions ran high out there and I want to apologize.”
She wiped her face again. “I know that.”
He turned to me. “I bought the paper.”
“I know.”
“Reconsider?”
“You going to stick to your plan?”
“Yes. The Bon Ton will be ready in about a week. The wiring is what takes the most time. There isn’t much else to do but put up partitions.”
“Even Nils Nordness can do that.” I shouldn’t have said that.
“I don’t think much of his construction firm either but this is a simple job and it’s good to patronize local business. What do you say?”
“Thank you—but no.”
“You’re still going to be my doubles partner, aren’t you? Remember our bargain.” He sounded disappointed that I wouldn’t be sticking with the Clarion.
“I don’t renege on promises—and I think we’ll make a good team.” I dug into my purse and gave him the twenty dollars I’d bet him weeks ago.
“Hardest money I ever earned.” He folded the bill and stuck it in his jacket pocket. “Would you ladies like to give it a try now?” He jerked his head behind him. “I bet we can talk Bill Falkenroth into being Regina’s partner.”
Regina stood up and cupped her hands to her mouth. “Bill Falkenroth, this is your big chance.”
We had so much fun we played four sets and nobody wanted to give up until our legs got wobbly.
Driving Regina home, I chose the long way around town, and the keen gold of late afternoon light slanted across the macadam road. Before our eyes Nature rose up in her glory and her might: Most of the trees now bore their new bright-green leaves, the grass deepened to vibrating emerald, and bluebirds darted in between the swallowtails. This was the spring of springs, the apotheosis of spring.
Curious that in the depths of my sorrow over losing the Clarion—and it really hit me full-force today, because yesterday I’d concentrated on my hangover—I felt rejuvenated by spring: I felt young, strong, and invincible. So intoxicating is Nature that she can lure us away from the artifice of being human and remind us that we are animals. The conquest of winter must be celebrated in the blood. It still remains our greatest victory.
Regina and I motored along in the happy silence of old friends. Whenever I entertain doubts about the existence of the Almighty, I remember that through my friends God has loved me.