I’d know how it affected her by how she came out serving to start the third set. I retied my laces and swapped out my racquet for good measure. It was all coming down to this.
Maybe I was imagining it, but the crowd seemed to be living and breathing every hit with us. My worries about Toni being rattled by my treatment were misplaced. She kept sending rockets across the net at me like she was sponsored by NASA, and we forced each other to every corner of that green grass to win each point.
At one point, having only just rescued my service game with a dangerous sliced return that had me on the ground, I almost wished I’d let her go easy on me. Then the competitive demon that lived somewhere in me took charge again, and all I cared about was winning the next point at all costs. And the one after that.
On a sunny Saturday in July, we were really leaving it all out there. Sweating through our shirts, grunting with effort, it wasn’t going to win points for attractiveness. It was, as the excitement in the ground proved, some excellent tennis. Some matches didn’t seem that way at the time, but this one had been an epic from the first game.
We made it to 4-4, and it already felt like the longest match I’d ever played, though the time on the scoreboard said it couldn’t be. The atmosphere crackled like a storm was coming in, but that was just the anticipation in the crowd.
It took every trick in my personal arsenal, but I broke Toni’s serve just when I thought I might be outplayed. I saw the moment her head went, used to spotting the signs from across the net in just about everyone I’d ever played. Had I been watching her from the stands, I think my heart might have broken. As it was, her obvious slump only lifted my spirits. It was in sight at last. The fucking record. The win to end it all on.
The crowd’s wave of support crested then. They smelled blood and threw their fickle love behind me and my slim advantage. That was the Wimbledon I knew and loved. I let it lift the ball as I threw it up to start serving out what might well be my last game in my last match.
Which, naturally, was the point my body decided the pain in my hip was strong enough to push through the fog of painkillers. It wasn’t so bad through the first point, but it made me stumble by the time I got to 30-0.
I couldn’t take another medical timeout for the same issue. I could fake a second injury, but I hated that unsporting bullshit. Even if I had a legitimate cause, it would give Toni every chance to recover from the rhythm rolling my way, meaning she might well claw her way back after any break.
No, just like with the French, I was going to have to play through it. In my distraction, Toni pulled a point back.
Shit.
How I got to 40-15 I couldn’t remember. I just knew my serve was weaker than milky tea, and it took angling myself in a weird way to misdirect Toni where my shot was going to land. But I was there. The Promised Land. Serving for the match, with a two-point cushion.
Which led to a double fault at the worst possible moment. On the second serve I felt the pain radiating up my side. I wasn’t going to be able to serve again. I wasn’t. But I absolutely couldn’t retire the match there. It would be snatching defeat from the jaws of victory. Even thinking it made me want to throw up. I tried lifting my serving arm, careful as I could be. Even that gentle motion made me almost black out. It wasn’t going to happen.
The crowd were hushed like a congregation, but my delay meant a few nervous coughs were creeping through. The service clock had almost ticked down when it hit me: my last hope.
I took up my serving stance as normal, as if simply willing it would make my body cooperate. Toni was ready to receive, but she had already felt the match slipping from her. The hope had all but died in her eyes, and I needed that to get through, as awful as it was to see.
To her surprise, and the crowd’s shock, I served my last point underarm. Nobody had done that in decades, because it lacked power and precision. It was something ladies at a garden party used to do or kids at the beach.
It fell well short of where a normal serve would hit, but it landed within bounds. Toni scrambled once she realised what was happening, but the lack of power in my shot meant she only fluffed it into the net.
The crowd roared so loudly it felt like an explosion. No one seemed to believe what they’d just seen, and I couldn’t believe I’d just done it. The noise alone wasn’t confirmation though. I needed the umpire to do his final job of the day.
“Game, set, match, Miss Larsson. 6-7, 7-6, 6-4.”
I didn’t fall to my knees this time, just stood there with my head dropped forward, letting it all crash over me. I shoved my racquet under the arm on my good side and clutched at my hip as though it would help.
The moment absorbed, I looked up to see Toni approaching the net. I tried jogging across to meet her, but my hip insisted I go slower than that. She leaned in for the customary cheek kiss. and I let my racquet drop as I grabbed for her, clutching her shoulders.
“Is it bad?” she asked, our foreheads pressed against each
