Sudden Death

Third Set, Fifth Game

The duke lost the composure that he’d been careful to maintain all through the match when he saw how the Lombard drilled the ball into the dedans. Motherfucker, he said. Barral whispered in his ear: We’re in fine shape, boss. Neither of them had ever seen a drive like that, so fast it was almost invisible, so precise it was as if — instead of going into the hole — the ball had been swallowed up by the wall.

The duke asked for a time-out and beckoned to his protégé. The poet could still feel victory in his fingertips and he was convinced that his opponent’s smash had been chance. We’ve been watching him try for it the whole match, he said to the duke, and this is the first time he’s done it; it must have been luck. The duke shook his head. Barral raised a finger, requesting permission to have his say. What is it, asked his master. Or he’s been stringing us along so that we’d bet the rest. A shadow of doubt crossed the poet’s face. The man is crippled by his hangover, he said; I don’t think he’d put himself through this just to win a few coins. Faugh, said the duke: For now, forget about backspin on your serve; aim for the end of the gallery so that he isn’t so close to the dedans and he has to lob it.

The poet returned to his side of the court. Tenez! He served a slow ball with no backspin that floated like a balloon onto the far corner of the roof. He watched it go up and noted, from the moment it began its descent, that he’d put it just where he wanted it. It would bounce oddly, drop in an awkward spot, and the Italian would have to lunge for it, hopefully with his backhand.

The duke managed to cry, Cover the dedans, catching the gleam in the artist’s eye as he waited. The artist retreated behind the baseline, smiling, and crossed his arm over his body, preparing for a backhand strike. The Spaniard ran back. When he saw the bullet coming at him he ducked his head. The ball went into the dedans. Caccia automatica per il milanese, said the mathematician. Tre — due.