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«–i] [MMX.Xi.XXi] Robert Lopez: The Rubber Match* [+i »



Only at certain angles and in certain light can you see the white hair that grows out of my forehead.

A man dressed like a magician outside a five and dime.

You could see the heat from inside but we played tennis anyway is the tragedy of it all.

The fact that we played tennis in this searing heat has almost nothing to do with the white hair growing from my forehead or the man dressed like a magician outside the five and dime.

Nevertheless things happen for a reason.

This was the rubber match.

Early in the first set my chest began to hurt and my limbs tingled.

By the second my opponent had died from acute renal failure. Or was it dehydration? Heat exhaustion?

When in the right light and at the right angle I make it a point to trim the white hair that grows out of my forehead. I am particularly careful not to cut my forehead with the scissors. I had a skin condition as a teenager and now have a flawless complexion.

Right angle obviously meaning correct angle. Not ninety-degrees.

This morning I trimmed.

The temperature when we played tennis was 102 degrees.

My opponent knows nothing of the white hair that grows out of my forehead or the man dressed like a magician outside the five and dime. What he does know is that he cannot remain at the baseline and expect to be competitive.

I sometimes wear a white headband around my forehead or else a bandana. Not to cover up the white hair or my now flawless complexion but to absorb sweat.

The five and dime is one of a row of stores that includes a delicatessen, a pharmacy and a laundromat. The man dressed like a magician is standing outside the five and dime.

My opponent tries to come in behind a cross-court forehand and curses when I pass him.

Why we are playing tennis in this deadly heat is a mystery.

A man dressed like a magician outside a five and dime.

I sometimes go months without seeing the white hair that grows out of my forehead.

My opponent complains of a sore shoulder. He says it's his rotator cuff. I suggest that it could be a torn labrum. Or else his patella tendon. He loads up on pain-killers each time we play. He is taking something off his first serve.

The delicatessen is owned by an old German woman. Her two daughters make you believe there was something to that master race thing. This is where I'll buy bottled water before I play. I no longer buy sandwiches here because twice they served me stale bread.

Fool me once.

I suffered a stroke during the third set tie-break.

The white hair that grows out of my forehead is located approximately two inches from where my hairline is receding. Another two inches to the left of the white hair is the scar left from a bout with chicken pox.

The laundromat is owned by an old Chinese man. His two sons make you believe the spaghetti and gun-powder thing. I now have my own washer-dryer.

The courts are deserted.

My opponent's return of serve can be lethal.

His backhand needs work.

I may or not be in love with one of the old German woman's daughters. Here nor there.

Twenty-eight people are now dead from this heat wave. My opponent and I make it an even thirty.

The pharmacy keeps changing hands. The whole thing makes you believe in that survival of the fittest thing.

My opponent’s stamina is legendary. He runs down ball after ball. When a perfect topspin lob comes back at you you know you're in trouble.

I stroked a forehand winner right down the line and died from congestive heart failure when the man dressed like a magician called it out.

All match play was suspended.

Although I'm not sure why, I suspect the white hair that grows out of my forehead will keep growing for years afterwards.

The fifth set could only be described as epic.

Only at certain angles and in certain light.

We are the only two playing.



Robert Lopez is the author of two novels, Part of the World and Kamby Bolongo Mean River. A collection of stories, Asunder, was published by Dzanc Books earlier this month.

* originally appeared in print in American Letters & Commentary.


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