Chapter 10

EARLSCOURT STREET

June 1986. We were back in Belfast.

The same house. Hendersons on Earlscourt Street. My mother was with me. Same plan as the year before—Dublin for grass court practice, then Wimbledon.

This time, I was actually going to play.

The ban had been lifted. I was entered. Lisa Pamintuan from Ireland. Everything was set.

I'd left the Academy three weeks earlier. Nick was done with me. My parents were done with the circuit dream. College was happening in August—SMU, full scholarship.

But first, Wimbledon. One last chance.

The Night

It was cold that night. I don't know why—it was June, shouldn't have been that cold. But I went to bed shivering, pulled the blankets up to my chin, listened to the sounds of the house settling. My aunt

moving around downstairs. The TV murmuring. A car passing outside.

I fell asleep.

The Raid

The banging woke me.

Loud. Fists on the door. Then boots. Heavy boots on the stairs. Voices shouting. Men's voices. Sharp, commanding.

I sat up. The room was dark. Cold air hit my face. More boots. Coming up the stairs now. In the hallway. My door opened.

British soldiers. Three of them. Rifles. Helmets. Flak jackets. "Out. Now. Everyone out."

I didn't move. Couldn't process it. This was a house. This was family. This was—

"OUT."

I got out of bed. Pajamas. Bare feet. The floor was freezing.

They pushed me toward the stairs. My mother was already in the hallway, her face pale, saying nothing. My aunt. My cousins. All of us herded down the stairs and out the front door.

The Wall

Outside, the street was lit by the glow from inside the houses. Other soldiers were going door to door. Other families were being pulled out.

"Against the wall."

The brick wall. Red brick, rough under my palms. I put my hands up against it, like they showed in movies, like I'd seen people do on TV.

It was freezing. The brick was cold. The air was damp. My pajamas were thin.

A soldier stood behind me. I could feel him there, could hear his breathing, the sound of his rifle shifting.

My mother was next to me. Her hands against the wall too. She

wasn't saying anything. Just standing there, palms flat against the brick.

Inside, I could hear them. The soldiers. Boots on the floors.

Furniture moving. Doors opening. Searching.

I turned my head slightly. Tried to see what they were doing. "Face the wall."

I faced the wall.

The cold was getting worse. My feet were numb. My hands were shaking.

Ronnie

"I'm American," I said.

No response.

"I'm American. You can't do this. I'm—" "Lisa." My mother's voice. Low. Warning. "I'm an American. You can't—"

The soldier stepped closer. I felt the rifle. Cold metal. Pressed against the back of my head.

"Well... have Ronnie get you out of this," he said. Mocking Reagan.

I was quiet.

The rifle stayed there for another second. Two. Then he pulled it away.

I stayed against the wall. Hands pressed flat against the brick.

Face turned to the side. Breathing.

Inside, the searching continued. Drawers opening. Things crash-ing. Voices calling out to each other.

Five minutes. Maybe ten.

Then boots coming back. The soldiers filing out of the house.

Orders shouted. Doors slamming. "Go back inside."

After

We went back inside.

The living room was a mess. Cushions thrown off the couch. Drawers pulled out. The kitchen cabinets were open, contents spilled across the counter.

My aunt started putting things back. My mother helped her. I just stood there, still shaking.

"What were they looking for?" I asked.

My cousin Patrick was in the doorway. "Guns." "Did they find any?"

"No."

I looked at the mess. At the open drawers. At the cushions on the floor.

"Why'd they come here?"

He shrugged. "They don't need a reason."

I went back upstairs. Got into bed. Still in my pajamas, still cold. I stared at the ceiling.

I lay there in the dark, in the cold room, listening to my aunt and mother cleaning up downstairs.

I turned over. Pulled the blanket tighter.

The Dorchester

We stayed at the Dorchester on Park Lane. The driveway curved in a sweep, black taxis pulling up, porters in long coats opening doors. The doorman held the heavy glass door as we walked through.

Inside, the lobby was cream and gold. Thick carpets. Polished marble columns. Crystal light fixtures. The smell of lilies and roses from vases on marble tables.

The bedroom had heavy drapes, chintz fabrics, velvet chairs. From the window, Hyde Park stretched dark and vast. The lights of Park Lane flashed beyond.

My whole family had come. They'd made it a vacation. After years of the Academy, of tournaments alone, of phone calls home on calling cards, they were here.

Preparation

The call came in March. I was allowed to play Wimbledon.

By spring, Raymond had taught me how to tape myself. Both ankles. One wrist. Sometimes my shoulder. I could wrap everything in under five minutes.

The McDonald's Junior Tennis Challenge in March was my first tournament in months. I was seeded 9-16.

I won a couple matches. Lost in the quarters.

The newspaper wrote it up. Former Academy star, first tourna-ment back home since Florida. They asked about college plans.

"I'm looking at SMU, Duke, Trinity Texas, maybe Pepperdine," I said. "The Academy has everything—the competition, the coach-ing, the courts. But it's important to get a college degree."

London

July 1986. I turned eighteen the first week of July.

The taxi turned onto Church Road. The driver said something about the weather being perfect for tennis. I watched a woman spill coffee on her white handbag outside the entrance.

The All England Club

The program cost three pounds fifty. I bought one and held it against my chest while security checked my credentials. The paper felt smooth. Too smooth. Like it might slip out of my hands.

Inside, everything was green and white and impossibly mani-cured. People stopped walking to stare at the courts. A man in a blazer walked past smelling like expensive cologne.

The locker room had wooden benches worn smooth in the centers. I ran my hand along the grain while other junior girls unpacked their bags, chattering in French and Spanish and German. Someone asked me something. I said yes. Or maybe no. She walked away.

I unpacked my racquets. Repacked them. The strings needed checking but my fingers wouldn't work right. I left them.

Outside, the practice courts stretched in perfect rows. Court 14 was mine for an hour.

A ball machine sat at the baseline. I fed balls into it and watched them arc across the net. Hit one. The sound was wrong—too loud, like it was happening in a different room. Hit another. My arm moved the way it always moved. Racquet back, step, swing, follow through. The ball went where I aimed it.

A coach walked by and nodded. I nodded back. He said some-thing about my backhand. I said thank you. The words came out flat, like reading from a script.

I hit for forty-five minutes. Then I packed up and walked back.

The Birthday

In the locker room, someone had left a hair tie on the bench. Blue with a white stripe. I moved it to the side and sat down. My shoes needed retying but I stared at the laces instead. They were the same length. Perfectly even.

"Lisa?"

I looked up. One of the tournament coordinators stood there with a clipboard.

"Your birthday's this week, isn't it?" "Yes."

"Eighteen?" "Yes."

She smiled. "We have something for you."

In the players' lounge, they'd set up a small table with a cupcake. One candle. The other junior girls gathered around, girls I'd never met, singing happy birthday in accented English.

The frosting was white with a strawberry on top. I picked up the strawberry and ate it. It didn't taste like anything. Someone took a photo. The flash left a spot in my vision that wouldn't go away.

"Make a wish," someone said.

I blew out the candle. The smoke curled up in a thin line, breaking apart near the ceiling. I watched it disappear.

"What did you wish for?" a German girl asked. "Can't tell," I said. "Won't come true."

I hadn't wished for anything.

I peeled off the cupcake wrapper carefully, making sure not to tear it, then took a bite. The frosting stuck to the roof of my mouth.

"Good?" the coordinator asked. "Yes. Thank you."

I finished it. Every crumb. Wiped my fingers on a napkin, folded the napkin into quarters, threw it away. The wrapper went in my pocket.

That night, I checked the draw sheet in my room. Singles first round: a Chilean girl I'd never heard of. Doubles: partnered with a South African girl I'd played against once or twice in juniors.

I lay in bed and stared at the ceiling. The room was too quiet. I could hear my own breathing.

My mother called from her room. "Happy birthday."

"Thanks."

"How are you feeling?" "Fine."

We didn't talk long.

Singles

The Chilean girl had a one-handed backhand and grunted on every shot. We played on Court 18, far from Centre Court, far from anyone who mattered. The grass was perfect. Each blade the same height.

I'd beaten her before. Six months ago. Straight sets.

The grass was fast. The balls bounced low—lower than I'd prac-ticed for. I found myself dropping to one knee just to get my racquet on the ball, hitting groundstrokes from the ground.

She broke me in the first game. Then held. Then broke me again.

First set gone, 6-2.

Second set was worse. My wrists ached with every shot. The tape wasn't enough. I kept fighting, kept hitting from one knee when the balls stayed low.

6-2, 6-3.

Straight sets.

She came to the net. We shook hands. Her palm was sweaty. "Good match," she said.

"You too."

I packed my bag and walked off. Someone clapped. I didn't look to see who.

In the locker room, I sat on the bench and retied my shoes. The laces had come uneven. I fixed them, making sure both sides matched exactly. Then I unpacked my racquets and checked the strings. Still good. I packed them again.

Doubles

The doubles draw came out a few days before singles started.

My partner was from South Africa. I didn't know her well—we'd played against each other once or twice in juniors, but we'd never practiced together.

We were matched in the first round against two English girls.

I remember warming up before the match. The grass was perfect, the balls new, the net regulation height. Everything exactly as it should be.

But I could see something was wrong.

The English girls were talking to the umpire. Then to a tourna-ment official. Voices low, serious.

My partner and I stood at the baseline, waiting. The umpire called us to the net.

"Your opponents have withdrawn from the match," he said. I stared at him. "What?"

"They're defaulting." "Why?"

He hesitated. Looked uncomfortable. "They refuse to play against both of you."

My partner looked at me. "What does that mean?" I knew what it meant.

Me: the "security risk" from Belfast. Her: South African. Apartheid.

And the English girls were defaulting rather than play us. Fine. Go have tea with your soldiers.

We won by default. Walked off the court without playing a point.

The tournament official tried to be diplomatic. "It's nothing personal."

But it was personal.

It was always personal.

The Second Match

We played our second doubles match a few days later. The first seeds. French girls. They were ranked, experienced, playing together for years.

The match was on Court 12, closer to the main courts. More people in the stands.

We warmed up. My partner's serve was heavy, with kick. I returned it cleanly, watching the ball hit the exact center of my strings.

The French girls played smart tennis. Consistent. They made us work for every point. The crowd was neutral, appreciating good tennis.

We split the first two sets. In the third, we couldn't get the breaks we needed. They held serve, we held serve, but at 5-6, they broke us.

7-5 in the third.

We shook hands at the net. They were gracious winners.

Professional.

"Good match," one of them said. "You too."

We walked off. That was it. Done.

AFTER

I wanted to leave. Pack up, fly home, be done with it.

My father stayed to watch other matches. My mother went to museums. My siblings—Sean, Anna—I don't remember what they did. Just that they were there, and I wanted to be anywhere else.

I spent the last day in the players' lounge, watching other junior matches on the television. On screen, a French girl hit a backhand winner down the line. The crowd roared. I noticed the brand of her racquet. Wilson. The same as mine.

Someone sat down next to me. The German girl from my birthday.

"Bad luck," she said. "Yeah."

"You were playing well." "Thanks."

She watched the screen for a moment. "Are you staying to watch the rest?"

"No. Flying out soon."

"Oh." She paused. "Well, happy birthday again." "Thanks."

She left. I kept watching. The French girl won in straight sets. She cried at the net, hugging her opponent. The camera zoomed in on her face, then cut away.

Outside the window, I could see people walking toward Centre Court. They moved in clusters, talking, laughing, holding programs and strawberries in little containers.

That evening, I packed my bag in the hotel room. Racquets first, then shoes, then clothes. Everything had its place. I zipped it shut, then unzipped it to make sure I hadn't forgotten anything. I hadn't. Zipped it again.

The flight was at nine the next morning. I set my alarm for six.

Lay in bed and stared at the ceiling again.

Leaving

The taxi to Heathrow took forty minutes. The driver tried to make conversation. I said yes and no in the right places. He gave up.

At the airport, I checked in and went through security.

In the terminal, I bought a sandwich I didn't want and ate it anyway. Turkey and cheese. The bread was dry. I finished it. Threw away the wrapper. Bought a bottle of water. Drank half. Threw the rest away.

The plane boarded on time. I found my seat, 23A, and stared out the window. The tarmac was gray. Workers in orange vests moved around, directing planes, loading luggage.

We took off. London disappeared beneath clouds. I pressed my forehead against the window and watched the white stretch out forever.

Past Tense

I'd played Wimbledon. The grass courts, the ivy-covered walls, the strawberries and cream. Everything I'd imagined since I was ten years old, watching Martina and Chris on television in our living room.

I'd walked through those gates. Played on those courts.

The woman next to me was reading a magazine. She turned the pages slowly, steadily.

Below, the ocean appeared. Dark blue, almost black. I watched the light hit the water, breaking into fragments that scattered and reformed. The plane's shadow moved across the surface, small and distant.

I'd been ten years old when I decided. Ten years old, watching Martina serve, thinking: I want that. I want to be there.

And now I had been.

I closed my eyes. Opened them. The ocean was still there.

I'd wanted it more than anything. Practiced with blisters and strains, through soreness and exhaustion.

I'd wanted it.

Past tense.

The plane hit turbulence. My stomach dropped. The seatbelt sign dinged on. I checked mine. Already fastened. I pulled it tighter anyway.

Wimbledon. The All England Club.

I'd walked on that grass. I'd played there.

And somewhere over the Atlantic, thirty thousand feet up, I stared at the ocean below and thought about that ten-year-old girl who'd wanted it so badly she could taste it.

I'd wanted it. Past tense.

And no amount of perfect grass or ivy-covered walls or straw-berries and cream could bring it back.

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