Chapter Text
TUESDAY || Day 2 of the Watford Open
SIMON
Morning comes for me like an angry debt collector.
“Simon! Are you awake? You should have been up hours ago.”
No. I’m asleep — mind your own business. REM cycles, all that good stuff.
“Simon Snow, are you seriously going to ignore me? On this of all days!”
This day? What makes this day so special? Fuck this day.
I bloody hate Tuesdays.
“Simon, if I don’t see signs of life within the next five seconds, I’m going to be exceptionally cross. Don’t expect there to be anything left at the continental breakfast buffet.”
“For the love of John McEnroe, why won’t you let me sleep? ”
I open my eyes, the world coming back to me in unpleasant flashes.
Tuesdays. Who invented them? Which monster decided that they had to happen over and over again as a never-ending punishment, like a fucking second-rate pop song with a catchy chorus?
Tuesdays. They’re the Las Ketchup of weekdays.
“Simon, get up before I drag you out of bed by your Bananaman boxer shorts.”
Penny. Penny’s on their side. (Tuesdays. She’s one of them. The weekday people.) (Fucking unbearable, the lot of them.) (Well, Fridays are alright. Weekend proximity.)
“We won’t sell any tea towels with your face printed on them if you sleep through your first round match.”
“Tea towels? My face? What?”
“Merchandise, Simon. Lendl knows it’s the only way we’ll make any money this fortnight.”
She pulls the covers off me and glares. I curl up into a ball (a tennis ball, fuck my life), but it’s too late — the shame of Bananaman has already been exposed. (How did she know I was wearing them? I do own other boxer shorts.)
If Penny hates me this much, why doesn’t she sack me and find another player to harass? Or manage, I suppose. She is good at her job. Any of the young hopeless hopefuls would be lucky to have her on their team.
I didn’t ask for this. I didn’t think my career would still be something I’d have to face, a decade on. I just wanted to whack at balls as hard as I could, because I was good at it.
And when I wasn’t good anymore, I wanted to stop.
In a sad twist of fate, I apparently have people relying on me to get out of bed today. So I have to keep going. I have to keep playing tennis.
It’s unreasonable, if you ask me. Which nobody does.
In the life of a professional tennis player, the actual player gets last say in just about anything. (Except breakfast. Penny does let me eat all the sausages I want.) (Three, generally. Three sausages, else I can’t get up to sprinting speed.)
“Alright, Pen — keep your bloody hair on.”
She lifts a hand to pat at her head, as if to check it’s still there. “My hair is on, but yours won’t be if you don’t get up. I will shave your head in your sleep, Simon Snow. I will wax off your eyebrows and dip you in green food colouring, until you closely resemble that which you are so afraid of.” She stands, hands on hips and face full of fury. If she’s not careful she’s going to sprain her wagging finger. “You missed your practice session this morning — the physio’s having kittens! Here you are, hours before a Grand Slam match, and you’re not even dressed. Get up and put some non-banana themed clothing on before I —”
“Before you what, sack me? I don’t see what kittens have got to do with anything.” I check my curls are where they’re supposed to be and chuck a pillow at her, grabbing another one to cover Bananaman. (The character. That’s not what I call my—) “This is way too much violence for eight o’ clock in the morning. I thought we agreed on the bollockings being a bit more gradual. Easing me into it.”
“It is not eight o’ clock!” she seethes. Luckily for me, her phone starts going off — Simon the physio (yeah, that gets confusing) and his magical kittens, I think. This is good news because it means she can’t stay angry at me specifically. “It’s almost eleven, Simon. You’re due on court in three hours.”
I whip around to check the clock — one of those eighties-looking things that are marooned on bedside tables in cheap hotels, much like the one we’re staying in. (Well, it’s London, so it’s not cheap. Nothing is. Had to pay two quid for a bottle of water from the vending machine in the middle of the night. And it wasn’t even cold!)
1 0 : 4 1 a m
Time blinks back at me in judging shades of red.
Fuck. Bollocking wanking shit of a timepiece.
Penny wasn’t kidding — this is the worst I’ve overslept in weeks. And on the first day of the Watford Open!
Anyone would think I didn’t care about this tournament. (I don’t.)
They’d say I’ve given up on my career. (I have.) (Don’t tell Penny.)
Instead of telling her what I’m thinking, thus signing my own death warrant, I sigh. I dig my fingers into a plywood chest of drawers and pull out a pair of trackies and a polo shirt. Penny must have stayed up late last night — my last-minute sponsor’s logo is right there, stitched onto the shoulder.
It’s another sign of how far I’ve fallen. Most players at the top level have a proper sponsor — a sports brand, a car company, an airline. Baz has got a big name embroidered on his shirts — he’s been Nike since he came out of the womb swinging his racket. But us middle-of-the-road-yes-I-lost-in-the-first-round-yet-again types? No chance. Us mediocre talents struggle to attract the attention of the Nikes and Adidases of the world. (Adidi? Adidass’ss?)
A local business called us in the end, said they’d drop off a couple of iron-on patches — we stick them on my shirt sleeves, and they’ll pay us a good amount of cash depending on which round I get to. “A good amount of cash” could mean anything, but to be honest, my bank account’s looking bleak. I’d be happy with a tenner and a packet of Wotsits.
Penny said yes to the business owner’s offer, then realised this wasn’t the sort of hotel that provided in-room irons. She said she’d sew them on, thus beginning the exciting task of locating a sewing kit at nine o’ clock on a Sunday night in central London.
The logo could definitely be worse — Ebb’s All Natural Goat’s Cheese Experience doesn’t come close to the worst thing I’ve worn whilst playing. (There was the season of the hemorrhoid cream, which the savage corners of the internet will never let me live down.)
I sit on the end of my bed, pulling on the shirt and changing my socks for a white pair. That’s the rule at Watford — you have to wear white when you play. It’s from some stupid tradition no one remembers the origins of anymore; white socks, white shoes, white shorts, white shirt. If you’re inclined to wear something on your head — a bandana (not a banana) or a cap — that has to be white, too. It’s a Persil salesman’s wet dream.
Properly dressed, I grab my zip-up hoodie from where I left it on the chair last night. I can’t find my match shorts, so trackies will have to do until Penny’s off the phone. (Simon the physio’s getting an earful. Something about his lack of emergency stretching action plan. ) I haven’t got a bloody clue where my trainers are. I was in a shit mood and chucked them somewhere. Under the bed? Worth a look.
“Penny,” I say, bending down. Ah, there you are, you fuckers. “Pen. Penny. Penelope. Pen. Do my pants have to be white, or do you think I’ll get away with the Transformers ones? Are they going to check?”
She ignores me, rattling off instructions to Other-Simon. I sit on the end of the bed and doom-scroll on my phone for a bit.
It’s a bad idea. It’s only going to make me feel worse.
Whoever’s running my Instagram account this week proper hyped me up, which pisses me off. That way disappointment lies. They’ve posted pictures from training that don’t make me look like an out-of-shape has-been, aka the truth. (Can you be a has-been if you technically never were?) (A never-was-been.) There are a few Twitter updates and a new post on my 90s-style Geoshitties blog — all related to this, today’s glorious comeback at British tennis’s top level.
I haven’t played the Watford Open in four years. First it was injuries, then a suspension for unsportsmanlike conduct. (Smashed a few too many rackets.) After that, I couldn’t be arsed anymore. I wanted to retire; I wanted to fuck off to Ibiza and lose myself in the bottom of a Bacardi Breezer. Wash up on Brighton beach one day, looking like Noel Edmonds after he’s been salvaged from a ten-year bender.
But now I’m back, against all odds and to everyone’s surprise. (My own most of all.) (The Watford Lawn Tennis Club were shocked too. They offer me a wildcard every year — bet they had a meltdown when they saw that I accepted.)
Last time I was here, it was an embarrassing first round loss. I was roasted in the papers for days, until a member of that band Caterpillar Moustache got drunk at the Brit Awards and started a fight with Take That. Then the public forgot about me — they had Baz to cheer for, after all. He doesn’t let them down like I do.
Baz. Baz “can do no wrong and also looks good in a headband” Pitch.
Baz is the fucking darling of the court, isn’t he? The fans love him. My Wikipedia page gets edited to include a list of Snow’s worst volleys: the greatest hits, and his goes untouched. The man’s won one slam trophy in nine years of trying, but does that stop them from dropping to their knees in worship, every time he tosses a ball into the air? No.
Unfair. That’s what it is.
An unfair cycle of fuzzy balls and Baz’s impeccable forehand, following me wherever I go.
I am not a tennis player. I am one of life’s enduring punch lines.
Simon Snow, British number two who never cracked the top ten.
Simon Snow who never won a slam.
Simon Snow, with a handful of lower-level titles to his name, and a fucking goat farm for a kit sponsor.
I close my eyes. Going online was a mistake; it always is.
Breathe. You’re alright. You’ve done this a million times before.
It’s just a tennis match. You’ll win or you’ll lose, and life will go on.
I swallow down the panic, sliding my phone into my bag, and discovering my match shorts scrunched inside a zipped compartment. Maybe Penny’s already stitched a patch on the arse for me: BRITISH #2.
Fuck. I’ve done shit-all in the ways of preparation. Skipped half my gym sessions, sleep-walked through Penny’s well-meaning practices. I’ll lose today, collect my money, and go back to doing nothing.
My white shoes shake against the carpet.
Baz won’t be feeling like this. He spends his entire season preparing for Watford, even though he’s never won it.
No, Baz will be cool and calm and collected. He’ll be raring to go, even though he doesn’t play until tomorrow. (I checked. He’s in the other half of the draw.) (We won’t play each other unless Watford is struck by a meteor and all of the other players die horribly, except for me and Baz. And Centre Court is left miraculously intact.)
Penny walks over to me, trying not to look too frustrated.
Maybe if I lose in the first round, she’ll finally drop me. She’ll realise she can do better and find another player. She shouldn’t have to be stuck with me, just because we grew up together. She doesn’t owe me anything, and I owe her so much.
“Are you ready to go? Where are your rackets?”
I shrug. She marches past me, checking in the wardrobe and under the coffee table. While she tries to sort out my life, I make the fatal mistake of picking up the telly remote to see what’s on.
The first channel I find that isn’t crackling static is him, in full colour and slow-motion, sprinting back and forth across a court I recognise.
The practice courts at Watford. Number Three, the one I was meant to be on this morning. The one Penny booked for me. The one I never showed up at.
There he is, annoyingly handsome in HD. Him. Baz Pitch, British number one, right there at the Watford Open. Getting ready for his second round match. (The top players get a bye for the first round — means they don’t have to play.) (First rounds are for players who can’t get a bye, he sneered at me once.)
Baz has never been world number one, but he’s been solidly top twenty for a decade. He doesn’t always get much further than me in Grand Slams, but he’s solid. Reliable. Committed.
Baz looks good today. Strong, fit. Someone’s probably already tweeted fifty times about how sexy he looks. (Not me.) (I do follow Baz on Twitter but I don’t save all of his pictures to my phone. Only tennis-related ones, like when he tried on his new kit at the start of the season.)
He’s wearing black practice shorts. Isn’t anyone going to remind him about the dress code? If he needs a pair of white shorts, I guess he could borrow my spare pair.
The news reporter’s banging on about his chances for taking the Watford Open this year — winning the whole bloody thing. Doesn’t matter that he’s only won one big tournament, and that was over three years ago — every year it’s the same. Baz Pitch is the best thing to happen to British tennis since Andy Murray’s withering sarcasm! We should rename Henman Hill “Pitch Point!” We should put his face on massive billboards along the M6 so Simon Snow has to look at him while he’s driving to nowhere and nearly crash his car into the central reservation!
They’ve never talked about me like that. Like I matter, like I’m something to hope for. Even when, for the briefest of times, I was above him in the rankings.
It was where I deserved to be, where I’d always wanted to be — three steps above Baz, looking down on him. Putting him in his place, making him reach up for me. Finally. World number eleven, Simon Snow. World number fourteen, Basilton Pitch.
And then I fucked it up. (As usual.) Baz took a break, rested, trained , and came back better than ever. He won the French Open — an Englishman, sliding on the red Parisian clay like he belonged! It was mental. Such a good time to follow tennis, to feel passionate about it. We all thought he was going to do it — take that momentum and go to New York, ready to challenge for greatness.
I was happy for him. I really was. His mum was a smashing tennis player in her time — Natasha Pitch won everything. He told me once, on one of the rare days we were nice to each other, that all he wanted in life was to make her proud, and he’d done it. He’d got there.
Things change, though. Sport’s a funny thing. You can feel like you’re on cloud nine and still lose. Take a beating, a kicking, a drubbing.
Baz’s season went downhill after Paris. He kept playing, but he never got over the loss that met him in New York. (Lamb, then thirty-two years old and suspiciously spry, top of the rankings and unbeaten in twenty matches. He destroyed Baz in three swift, brutal sets.)
He kept playing. But he’s never challenged for the top again, and I don’t know if he will — we’re not spring chickens anymore, in tennis terms. We’re twenty-seven, other players hitting their peaks around us, when it feels like we’ve given all we had.
Baz changed. I did, too. We used to get along in our own stiff, awkward way. We’d pass each other in the corridor at a tournament and high-five, send each other good luck texts and check in after a loss. We were mates. After he lost in New York, I reached out but he never replied. Everything stopped. He disappeared, and when he came back he focused on rebuilding his career, while I focused on fucking up mine.
Three years, gone in a blink.
He looks exactly the same. It’s like he isn’t aging, ignoring the creak of time as it passes the rest of us by.
I watch him slide on the green grass of Watford. The reporter’s still harping on about how amazing he is, how he’s Britain’s true hope for a Watford Open win this year. They don’t mention me at all. I’m the second highest ranked Brit in the draw, if you don’t include Agatha, but I’m not even in his periphery. I never really was.
I turn the telly off and flop onto the bed, listening as Penny grumbles about string tension. That’s not her job — she’s just my manager. Or publicist, whatever. But she knows I’m having a hard time, so she does her best to care in my place.
I screw my eyes shut and try to forget everything. Who I am, where I am, the Watford Open. That I’m going to walk out onto Court One today and make a complete fucking fool of myself on live television. I block out the shape of Baz’s face, the line of his jaw, the stretch of skin leading down into the collar of his shirt. (Definitely don’t need to be thinking about skin, right now.)
He doesn’t give a toss about you. Three years without a word.
Focus on your tennis, for the love of Andre Agassi.
This isn’t good. I might not be able to see him with my eyes closed, but he’s here with me regardless. He’s every headline that’ll greet me in the morning, every missed opportunity that’ll haunt me for the rest of my life.
I can picture it now, even though I don’t want to. The sort of headlines that make a man want to retire to a quaint countryside hamlet and take up knitting, to relieve the stress.
Maybe if I shut my eyes and wish sincerely, I’ll wake up somewhere else. I’ll have a normal job and a normal life, selling sausage rolls and paper cups of tea.
I’ll wake up and I won’t be Simon Snow, the worst tennis player who’s ever played tennis. (That’s what Baz called me after I lost to him in Melbourne. He compared my serve to the last act of a desperate man, swatting at flies.)
Yeah, that sounds good. I’ll close my eyes for a minute. Penny won’t mind. She might not notice.
WHAT HAPPENED TO SIMON SNOW? asks the news report in my head.
WHAT HAPPENED TO SIMON?
WHAT HAPPENED?
(Good question.)
WHAT?
WHAT
(Don’t ask me. Ask Baz.)
W—
(!)