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One thing about Patrick, is that he is stubborn. Too stubborn for his own good. he refuses to change the way he plays tennis, with that god awful serve that stopped serving its purpose in 2008. He refuses to crawl back to his parents, begging for cash, he refuses to quit smoking, he refuses to change tactics mid match, he refuses to dial back the aggression when the errors flow freely, he refuses to save money, he refuses to invest, and above all, he refuses to retire. The funny thing about being so stuck in your old ways, is that life moves on in the background—and it’s impossible to catch up. Patrick is immovable, and so, Patrick spirals on the spot.
Being in a thirteen-year-long tailspin is different from being in a year long, month long, weeklong, day long one. Everything collapses, but over the course of so long a time that it is hard to recognise where rock bottom is. His bank account wasn’t wiped in a day, it went up and down and the average cash in, cash out slowly got lower and lower. He didn’t always live out of his car or use his body to find a place to crash— it just happened once or twice when times were hard, then sometimes, and then a little too often, until it was most of the time. Sometimes it’s easier to lose it all at once, because at least, he would have realised that he had.
Losing Art was never a clean break, it was never just that one day where it all fell apart, it was days and weeks and months and years. A loss prolonged by his refusal to accept it. 1) they meet Tashi, 2) Partick gets with Tashi, 3) Art goes to Stanford, Patrick goes on tour, 4) Patrick is a dick, 5) Tashi fucks up her knee, 6) art stops texting back (he’ll get over it), 7) art stops texting back (he’ll get over it), 8) art stops texting back (he’ll get over it), 9) art stops texting back, but one day, they’ll bump into each other in the locker room like no time had passed. He’ll get over it.
And suddenly, the time away from Art had eclipsed the time he had known him, known him deeply and intimately and wholly. His marriage to Tashi had lasted longer than his friendship to Patrick. They would often imagine being on the road together, and yet, he could count on one hand the number of times their paths had even almost crossed. He was always there; he was always there- so why had he not come back?
It took too long for Patrick to realise that Art was never coming back. He didn’t know when Art had changed his number— any time between 2012 and 2018. The gap between the first and the last time he had tried to use it; the time in-between was a stretch of unconsciously waiting for it all to fall back into place again. He didn’t have the last message he sent him; it was wiped from an old phone threw on eBay for extra cash, about 2 or 3 phones ago. He’d upgraded to an iPhone 5S afterwards, entered a new dawn of the smartphone, something very far from the phone that Art had first typed his number into— but he remembered the last message, for the occasion.
00:04AM: congrats on the wedding
00:05AM: wldve been nice to be invited.
Truly, Patrick had never wanted to be there. A wedding between his ex-girlfriend and his ex-best friend— the ex-girlfriend that he fucked in a cheap hotel room with his ex-best friend’s dear dead grandmother’s ring on her finger. He remembers a fleeting, but stinging feeling of jealously as that ring caught the light from the world outside— he wasn’t sure who he was jealous of, or what, really. He didn’t know what he wanted. Just… that he couldn’t have it.
1:09AM, Read.
He remembers the time stamp, the lingering read receipt— because the last time he had texted Art, before that, there was no such thing. It hadn’t felt like long until the changing and changed world had been thrown right back into his face.
Art doesn’t text back (but he’ll get over it).
So, there he was, he could see him with his own two eyes: Art on a practice court in Lyon, France. Patrick had qualified for the main draw; Art was the top seed. If they were both to get there, they could play each other in the quarterfinals. Two wins away for Patrick, a bye and a win away for Art. As he stared at through the fans and the metal fence, he figured, that the 6th seed was not an impossible win. He had beaten him before (on an indoor hardcourt), and he ignored the fact that he was French, in France— he ignored that this was a match on clay. One more win after that; he could ride the confidence of the first into the second, then, to Art. He wasn’t just staring, he was scouting him really, for that quarterfinal showdown he craved. Five quarterfinals at tour level in his career, not so bad— none of them on clay. As a wildcard in Newport on grass, sneaking in on his own ranking at Winston Salem (his only ever final), cemented in the main draw at Delray Beach, a qualifier at Acapulco clawing past the world no.9 in the r16 (the biggest win of his career), and as a very, very lucky loser in China who was thrown into the spot of the 2nd seed, grabbed a bye and then won a r16 by retirement.
Life was full of firsts. First tour level clay quarterfinal, first professional meeting with Art Donaldson.
He notices; however, Art is feeling his shoulder while practicing, he’s clutching it and swinging it around— Patrick reckons he just slept wrong, just a little twinge that he had a few days to recover from. Patrick decides he is playing art in the quarterfinals.
In round one, he pulls off something crazy— a crowd of Frenchmen booing him as he downs a home player ranked God knows how many places above him. A three-set epic, where they got rowdier and rowdier— while Patrick let the jeers fuel him. He always liked to be the villain, he always liked to get under people’s skin. He screamed and waved to the crowd around him.
Later on, he looks at the draw, and the South American he was fearing has been knocked out by a Brit on clay. A Brit, he comes to find from a quick google, had never played a match on clay until this year— at the age of 22. He smiles to himself, he has a nervous excitement about it, the feeling that it was all falling into place.
Until it isn’t. On the morning he is set to play, Art withdraws. Listed on the bottom of the draw sheet as a shoulder injury— the twinge, it seems, was not something he was willing to risk before the French Open. And now Patrick was stranded in the round of 16, with no purpose— Art is gone, again. Every time he has been close, every time he thinks he could fall back into his life again. Art disappears. He always disappears. He walks onto court that afternoon against the Brit on Clay, and he loses. Badly. Former college player, he later finds out, and that just stings a little more.
There is a point, within this stubbornness, that the love that once was fades into an odd, perpetual yearning. A dull, aching loss- a sense of finality that you have not yet reckoned with. You don’t think of them all the time, you lack the passion and the sadness and the fear. You just become numb, yet attached, oddly. You remember, and sigh— you pass somebody that looks like them, and are hit with a short pang of something you’ll forget within the hour. They appear in your dreams, and you shake it off in the morning. No use dwelling or confronting it. They become a sort of ghost, the stock sound of moans in a vague fantasy, the close up of their hair, their voice supplanted onto the hot celebrity you’re trying to imagine. You think, sometimes, ‘they would have liked this’ while wandering around a shop in Spain. You wonder what they would think of things, if they would disapprove of the next stupid thing you’re headed toward, but ultimately, don’t care, and do it anyway. Sometimes you catch yourself forgetting things you would like to remember about them, and panic. You feel their presence in your heart fading, but you are desperate to keep it lingering just enough to keep that dull ache throbbing, reminding you are capable of loving another. Capable of any sort of feeling, as life seems to slip past in a haze. You always fear that it will reach its expiration date, and complete the numbing process— but fortunately, and unfortunately, it never does, it stays, haunting you, poking you, quietly stinging. Patrick felt like he was mourning the death of his late husband, sometimes. Art felt as far away from him as a dead man.
But he was not dead, he was not so far, he was one match away, until today. He missed him by seconds, minutes, hours in the locker rooms, the gym, around the grounds. He saw him, through the fence, behind a crowd of fans. He was alive, he was a living, breathing human being.
And Patrick, in his stubbornness that stopped him from reaching out, all these years- had never deleted his number.
5:56PM: Hey
are u okay? or just precautionary.
7:09PM: who is this? what is this about?
7:11PM: patrick
ur shoulder?
7:16PM: davison? what abt my shoulder
7:19PM: no, zweig???
7:23PM: idt i know you- maybe a wrong number?
7:24PM: im pretty sure this is right
wait who are u then?
7:31PM: Elena?
7:37PM: oh.
how long have you had this number?
7:45PM: idk, a few years?
7:47PM: ok
sorry for the confusion
havent texted this number in a while ig
guess he changed it
7:55PM: ah that sucks. maybe try on fb?
my shoulder is fine, for the record
8:02PM: good to know elena.
thanks.
Patrick refused to try on Facebook. He decided he would go out.
Lyon was a beautiful city, but Patrick had seen many beautiful cities. It was the reality of being a travelling professional player. Sometimes it was a new city every week, one you never had any time to really see— sometimes it was the same city for a month. Forli 1, Forli 2, Forli 3, Forli fucking 52— the young Italian wildcards blurring into one, overpowered prodigally talented child that would visit him in his dreams to remind him of what he once was. Sometimes he’d beat them, precisely by remembering that prodigal talent did a fat lot of good for himself— that they were underdeveloped, unprecise, unthinking. A beautiful forehand and a terrifying serve attached to a still pubescent brain that didn’t understand the importance of measured aggression (well, can he say anything?). Stubborn, refusing to switch tactics whey were a set and a break down. Sometimes he’d lose to them— sometimes that bravery and stubbornness paid off, and Patrick was blown off the court by Piatti trained perfection. Patrick thinks he was like that before, once upon a time. Patrick didn’t ever see much of Forli, saying he had been there felt like saying he was from the big city near the small town you were really from, where you only know the main shopping district.
Lyon was just another beautiful city he didn’t understand, with a gay bar with enough twenty something year old patrons that spoke English well enough to arrange a blowjob in the bathrooms before he trudged back to his hostel. Maybe all of this was a way to make him feel less lonely, he was anything but touch starved, at the very least.
‘You're American, yes?’ the blonde boy he had approached with broken French replied.
‘Ouais.’ said Patrick, because it sounds much sexier than 'oui'.
‘I can tell.’ Ouch, he had really been practicing. Voulez vous couchez avec moi, c'est soir?
‘You’re French?’
‘No, Swiss.’ says blonde boy, and he makes a lot more sense to Patrick now. He looks incredibly neutral, and slightly Germanic.
‘So, you’re not from around here then?’
‘No, I’m here for the tournament’.
‘The tennis tournament?' asks Patrick, as if there were many other tournaments of many other types in Lyon at the moment. Chess, maybe? Europeans are totally into chess.
'Yeah, on site as a hitting partner.' and Patrick is surprised he hasn't encountered him. A random hitting partner for brash, lonely players that cannot make friends, nor have the talent to attract anyone for practice.
‘Oh wow, you ever played pro?’
‘Years ago. Knee injury- not very competitive now’ Ah, the knee. It tapped into his forever guilt about Tashi. He pulls a face and aims to respond with casual, detached, pity.
'Damn, that sucks man. Sorry to hear that.' he offers. This conversation really wasn't getting any further to a blowjob.
‘Its fine, it was a while ago, I guess. I'm Fred.'
‘Patrick, nice to meet you.’ He pauses, searching for something in this Fred guy, slightly suspicious. ‘Aren’t you going to ask why I’m here?’
‘I know why you’re here. I was at your match today.’ Ah, fuck. Great.
‘Well, apologises.’
‘None needed. It was a good match. Maybe not on your end but—’
‘Flattering. I’m not very good, anyway. Don’t need to remind me.’ Patrick laughed, a little bitterly. He notices that Fred has a faraway look in his eyes, and Patrick thinks that he must be lucky in a way. He didn't feel so, when he thought of the heights that Art had achieved in contrast, but this guy, Tashi. Well, at least Patrick could play— even when playing had started to feel like more hurt than joy. At least he could play.
‘We’ve met before’ Fred says, and Patrick frantically tries to remember if he’s had any hookups in Switzerland— it’s expensive over there. Or maybe he has hit with him before. He doesn't look particularly familiar, however.
‘When?’
‘Ah, you don’t remember.’ Please don’t be an old hookup, please don’t be an old hookup-
‘Us Open, Juniors, Quarterfinals.’ Oh. Perhaps that was worse than an old hookup, his eyes drop to the bottle of beer in his hands, picking at the label to distract himself. Not what he wanted reminded of.
‘Oh fuck, that’s crazy man. Small world.’ Because really, what were the odds he would find his retired quarterfinal opponent, with the same cruel fate of the girl he doesn't like to think of, instead of his very, very, active final opponent? The world isn’t fucking small enough, the world isn't fucking big enough.
‘I had match points’ Fred speaks into the new silence; Patrick tears his eyes from the bottle. ‘Match points to beat the eventual champion! Great story for parties. It wasn’t some sort of massive choke, just a close tiebreak, but I was a bit torn up back then.’ and it’s Fred’s turn to look for the meaning of life in his drink.
‘Those things are never as important as they felt back then. Look at me.’ Patrick laughs, thinking about the trophy (and the trophies) probably collecting dust in his father’s basement. Or maybe not, maybe they’re still displayed somewhere—a desperate reassurance that he got some kind of return on his investment. The best of the little boys, and his best friend. He wouldn’t know. He hasn’t been in that house for years.
‘Yeah, well, my friend said I’d just escaped the junior slam curse.’ Just like he said to Art. ‘But I don’t know, I still feel pretty cursed.’
‘Do you think I’m cursed?’ asks Patrick.
‘No, I think you’re a human being. Maybe that feels like being cursed, I guess.’ And maybe so. Maybe there’s no such thing as being cursed. Maybe it’s all mistakes and misfortune and the way you choose to deal with it—and maybe that’s why, all things considered, Fred seemed fine, and all things considered, Partick did not. Maybe that was the difference. Between him and Fred (unremarkable, but hardly suffering), between him and Tashi (multi-millionaire and decorated coach). Maybe Patrick needed some more severe misfortune, maybe he didn’t deserve how lax the universe had been.
He doesn’t have sex with Fred, as much as he almost wants to (the conversation wasn't very sexy, anyway). He leaves, feeling pensive, and hardly drunk enough. He walks to the river and smokes a cigarette. He thinks, there was a time in his life where he felt ‘pretty good’— there was a time in his life that he was fairly close to fine. Not in the midst of it all, with the best friend and the girlfriend and the shiny, shiny trophies, but at some point, in the stagnant after. If ‘pretty good’ didn’t feel good enough—maybe, he thinks, nothing will ever satisfy him from what he has left. At least, in tennis. Every match he played, every tournament he entered, every hotel he slept in… something was always missing. He didn’t remember feeling that kind of quiet emptiness as a teenager, a hunger he could never satiate.
He wishes he could pinpoint where it all went wrong. In the crowd of Tashi's match? Two boys watching on with wonder and lust? At the party? On the beach? In the hotel room, as he kissed his favourite boy, pretending it was all for the folly of beautiful girl? When he won the match and won her hand? When he chose not to try college? His ego? His arrogance? When he left him there? When he left her there? When he left them there? The argument? The knee? Being shouted out of the room? The texts? The lack of them? When they started pushing their beds together ('you see, art-- we've got so much more space')? That first day at Mark Rebellato? Or the last?
One thing about Patrick, is that he is stubborn. Too stubborn for his own good. So, maybe, for Patrick, it was bound to go wrong, because it’s all mistakes and misfortune and the way you choose to deal with it. Because the funny thing about being so stuck in your old ways, is that life moves on in the background—and it’s impossible to catch up. Being in a thirteen-year-long tailspin is different from being in a year long, month long, weeklong, day long one. Everything collapses, but over the course of so long a time that it is hard to recognise where rock bottom is. Sometimes it’s easier to lose it all at once, because at least, he would have realised that he had. Patrick is immovable, and so, Patrick spirals on the spot.
He looked down at his phone, and at the message that went to a girl called Elena instead of a boy called Art and felt lonelier than he had in a while.