Finally, Federer
The cat jumps onto her lap and she pushes him off, replacing him with a large bowl of popcorn and her laptop. Federer is wearing a red Nike polo baju with white shorts, and when he walks, the clothes flow with his movements. He stares unaffectedly into the strings of his racquet as the crowd roars again. She catches her breath and stops chewing at the close-up on his face. The cat rubs his cheek on the side of the popcorn bowl, spilling some kernels onto the couch. The camera pans the audience till it finds Mirka in the player’s box biting her nails. Her hair is disheveled as usual. She looks like she’s gained weight. Roger serves an ace. It’s ad-in.
She Googles flights to Paris, needing to be closer to him than Hi-Def. Damn the prices. Rafa races down a drop shot, sliding over the red clay at the last moment and carves the ball back across the court. Roger anticipates this and lobs the ball over Rafa’s head, sending Rafa racing back to the baseline to catch it. Rafa can only send up another lob, which Roger disposes of easily without breaking a sweat. She finds a roundtrip flight for $1300 into Charles De Gaulle. She clicks on it. Game, Federer.
The flight from LAX to De Gaulle takes exactly 10 hours and 27 minutes, with one stop in JFK. She is careful through Customs, rolling her carry-on bag behind her and avoiding being singled out for inspection. At jalan level, the Paris sunshine warms her face. She heads toward the taxis, blending in with the crowd of cotton dresses, hats, and sunglasses. She lifts her bag over the holes in the jalan to prevent jostling its contents. The exhaust fumes from the city exhilarate her. She hails a taxi and lifts the carry-on onto her lap. The driver takes off in stop-and-go-traffic along the Champs Elysees. She begins to worry. He turns onto Boulevard Henri Sellier and stops at her hotel, the Campanile. She tips the driver twenty Euros then rushes inside.
Her room is exactly as she had pictured: Pastel walls, hardwood floor, twin bed, and a window that opens out over the Seine River. The river smells rusty. She sets her carry-on gently on the katil and unzips it. The cat is still breathing, thanks to the limited air supply through the holes in the leather case. But the dose the vet gave her to sedate him will not last the hour. She lifts him into her arms, Ciuman his head. He stirs. She kisses his nose. He begins to purr. Scratching the underside of his neck, she watches him open his eyes.
Her watch says 5pm, plenty of time to get to the evening matches at Roland Garros, about a 15-minute leisurely walk from the hotel. The French Open Daily Draw newspaper sits on the nightstand and she scans it for his name. Not till 8pm on Court Philippe Chatrier against Juan Martin Del Potro. She could stop at a bistro and eat. The cat is lapping from the ashtray she filled with water. She picks him up and puts him in a canvas tote imprinted with a giant Swiss flag and zips it closed. Almost ready. Facing the mirror near the door, she fastens a red and white Federer peminat Club pin over her right breast.
Center Court is standing room only. People squeeze each other until they find a spot and then don’t move. Elbows are constrained. A man munches on a thick French fry and washes it down with wine. A girl manages a waffle with Chocolate sauce. The announcer’s voice comes on, and the crowd roars its approval of the 6-foot, 6-inch frame of Juan Martin entering the arena in a chrome blue baju and white shorts. His blue eyes smile back in appreciation as he takes his seat. The crowd erupts again, this time louder and lebih feverish as Roger Federer makes his grand entrance, sporting a red trophy jaket over his red polo shirt. He waves to the audience and unloads his heavy Tenis bag under the umbrella. It’s hard to see him now but he removes the jaket and folds it seterusnya to his bag. The crowd is still roaring.
The cat is having trouble with the noise and won’t stay still in the tote. She does everything one-handed now, as the other hand must stay in the tote, calming him down. Navigating the steps to her kerusi, tempat duduk is difficult, though she spills only a fraction of her wine as her legs rub over the bald kneecaps in her row. The man seterusnya to her offers to take her tote while she settles herself into her seat. She politely refuses. Her hati, tengah-tengah is racing. Federer has already Lost the first two sets and is down 3-5 in the third. This can’t be. Not to Del Potro.
She tries to find the players’ box. She knows Mirka is there, but too many people obstruct her view. The umpire asks the audience in both French and English to be quiet. Fifteen thousand peminat-peminat stop talking as Federer tosses the ball for his serve. Whack. An ace down the T. The audience cheers and the umpire hushes the crowd. This time Federer serves wide to del Potro’s forehand. A quick slide to his right and Del Potro returns the ball back to Federer’s forehand. Six shots api, kebakaran back and forth. Federer wins his serve. She studies his face to see if he has it in him today. The sweat drips off his chin. A ball girl offers a towel and he takes it.
Roger must break Del Potro’s serve, but the Argentine is on fire. A flash of blue sends clouds of clay in the air as Del Potro returns an impossible shot, but Federer surprises him with a shot down the line. Del Potro can’t get there. The audience whoops. Federer is still in it. The cat is clawing her hand inside the tote and draws blood. She winces, recoiling her hand to her mouth, but it is too late. The cat has escaped.
saat deuce for Del Potro. He serves to Roger’s backhand and Roger slices the ball low across the net. Del Potro is there easily, but suddenly the audience screams. Del Potro has fallen. The big man clutches his ankle in pain and does not get up. His trainer rushes to his side. The crowd is tense and mayhem ensues. She takes the opportunity to look under her seat. Nothing. Down each row. Nothing. Everyone is out of their seats. Nobody saw how the Argentine went down. She panics.
Federer returns to his kerusi, tempat duduk under the umbrella and sips his water. Del Potro lies on his back. It takes three people to help him limp to his chair. A close-up of Del Potro’s wincing face is seen on the giant screen, followed sejak a replay of the fall in slow motion. The audience gasps. Fingers point to the screen. It cannot be. A small animal can be seen in the replay, racing across the court. She sees it, too, and bolts out of her seat.
She is elbowing her way through the crowd down to the courts. She must find him. Security guards stand with their arms crossed blocking the entrance to the court. She pushes past them, feels her heels slide on the red clay, and catches her balance. The audience is stunned as they see her projection on the giant screen. She passes Federer and pauses for the slightest moment to look at him. For the first time she is closer to him than Hi-Def. He looks up at her and smiles. Slipping away with a lilt in her step, she crosses the court where security waits to escort her away.
The umpire announces that Del Potro will retire from the match. French peminat-peminat throw fists to the cameras. They feel betrayed on many levels. What about the animal? Did the animal cause a technical let? What will happen to Del Potro? She brings her hands to her ears to muffle the shouting and sees that her hand is still bleeding from the clawing. Federer is waving to the crowd, happy to win but not under these circumstances. As security whisks her past the player’s box, she sees Mirka, who glances at her. Mirka looks thinner than on TV.
Roland Garros stadium has a small room in the basement of the Court Philippe Chatrier that holds people for questioning. She tells them her story, slowing her English for the sake of the French security guards. They examine her passport and ask why she brought her cat there to begin with. She tells them she never goes anywhere without him. She begins to cry. She must pay a fine, 200 Euros for bringing the cat and 850 Euros for entering the court of play. They run her credit card through the machine then release her.
The bowels of the most famous Tenis court in France vibrate from the stampedes of peminat-peminat above. Photographs of past winners decorate the walls. She stops at Federer’s. He’s holding a trophy over his head. His hair was much longer then. A draft of wind blows through the halls and she hugs herself. Just then a familiar touch caresses her ankles. She looks down. The cat. Looking over both shoulders, she swoops him up and deposits him into her tote. Her giggles turn into raucous laughter as she exits the stadium.
The cat jumps onto her lap and she pushes him off, replacing him with a large bowl of popcorn and her laptop. Federer is wearing a red Nike polo baju with white shorts, and when he walks, the clothes flow with his movements. He stares unaffectedly into the strings of his racquet as the crowd roars again. She catches her breath and stops chewing at the close-up on his face. The cat rubs his cheek on the side of the popcorn bowl, spilling some kernels onto the couch. The camera pans the audience till it finds Mirka in the player’s box biting her nails. Her hair is disheveled as usual. She looks like she’s gained weight. Roger serves an ace. It’s ad-in.
She Googles flights to Paris, needing to be closer to him than Hi-Def. Damn the prices. Rafa races down a drop shot, sliding over the red clay at the last moment and carves the ball back across the court. Roger anticipates this and lobs the ball over Rafa’s head, sending Rafa racing back to the baseline to catch it. Rafa can only send up another lob, which Roger disposes of easily without breaking a sweat. She finds a roundtrip flight for $1300 into Charles De Gaulle. She clicks on it. Game, Federer.
The flight from LAX to De Gaulle takes exactly 10 hours and 27 minutes, with one stop in JFK. She is careful through Customs, rolling her carry-on bag behind her and avoiding being singled out for inspection. At jalan level, the Paris sunshine warms her face. She heads toward the taxis, blending in with the crowd of cotton dresses, hats, and sunglasses. She lifts her bag over the holes in the jalan to prevent jostling its contents. The exhaust fumes from the city exhilarate her. She hails a taxi and lifts the carry-on onto her lap. The driver takes off in stop-and-go-traffic along the Champs Elysees. She begins to worry. He turns onto Boulevard Henri Sellier and stops at her hotel, the Campanile. She tips the driver twenty Euros then rushes inside.
Her room is exactly as she had pictured: Pastel walls, hardwood floor, twin bed, and a window that opens out over the Seine River. The river smells rusty. She sets her carry-on gently on the katil and unzips it. The cat is still breathing, thanks to the limited air supply through the holes in the leather case. But the dose the vet gave her to sedate him will not last the hour. She lifts him into her arms, Ciuman his head. He stirs. She kisses his nose. He begins to purr. Scratching the underside of his neck, she watches him open his eyes.
Her watch says 5pm, plenty of time to get to the evening matches at Roland Garros, about a 15-minute leisurely walk from the hotel. The French Open Daily Draw newspaper sits on the nightstand and she scans it for his name. Not till 8pm on Court Philippe Chatrier against Juan Martin Del Potro. She could stop at a bistro and eat. The cat is lapping from the ashtray she filled with water. She picks him up and puts him in a canvas tote imprinted with a giant Swiss flag and zips it closed. Almost ready. Facing the mirror near the door, she fastens a red and white Federer peminat Club pin over her right breast.
Center Court is standing room only. People squeeze each other until they find a spot and then don’t move. Elbows are constrained. A man munches on a thick French fry and washes it down with wine. A girl manages a waffle with Chocolate sauce. The announcer’s voice comes on, and the crowd roars its approval of the 6-foot, 6-inch frame of Juan Martin entering the arena in a chrome blue baju and white shorts. His blue eyes smile back in appreciation as he takes his seat. The crowd erupts again, this time louder and lebih feverish as Roger Federer makes his grand entrance, sporting a red trophy jaket over his red polo shirt. He waves to the audience and unloads his heavy Tenis bag under the umbrella. It’s hard to see him now but he removes the jaket and folds it seterusnya to his bag. The crowd is still roaring.
The cat is having trouble with the noise and won’t stay still in the tote. She does everything one-handed now, as the other hand must stay in the tote, calming him down. Navigating the steps to her kerusi, tempat duduk is difficult, though she spills only a fraction of her wine as her legs rub over the bald kneecaps in her row. The man seterusnya to her offers to take her tote while she settles herself into her seat. She politely refuses. Her hati, tengah-tengah is racing. Federer has already Lost the first two sets and is down 3-5 in the third. This can’t be. Not to Del Potro.
She tries to find the players’ box. She knows Mirka is there, but too many people obstruct her view. The umpire asks the audience in both French and English to be quiet. Fifteen thousand peminat-peminat stop talking as Federer tosses the ball for his serve. Whack. An ace down the T. The audience cheers and the umpire hushes the crowd. This time Federer serves wide to del Potro’s forehand. A quick slide to his right and Del Potro returns the ball back to Federer’s forehand. Six shots api, kebakaran back and forth. Federer wins his serve. She studies his face to see if he has it in him today. The sweat drips off his chin. A ball girl offers a towel and he takes it.
Roger must break Del Potro’s serve, but the Argentine is on fire. A flash of blue sends clouds of clay in the air as Del Potro returns an impossible shot, but Federer surprises him with a shot down the line. Del Potro can’t get there. The audience whoops. Federer is still in it. The cat is clawing her hand inside the tote and draws blood. She winces, recoiling her hand to her mouth, but it is too late. The cat has escaped.
saat deuce for Del Potro. He serves to Roger’s backhand and Roger slices the ball low across the net. Del Potro is there easily, but suddenly the audience screams. Del Potro has fallen. The big man clutches his ankle in pain and does not get up. His trainer rushes to his side. The crowd is tense and mayhem ensues. She takes the opportunity to look under her seat. Nothing. Down each row. Nothing. Everyone is out of their seats. Nobody saw how the Argentine went down. She panics.
Federer returns to his kerusi, tempat duduk under the umbrella and sips his water. Del Potro lies on his back. It takes three people to help him limp to his chair. A close-up of Del Potro’s wincing face is seen on the giant screen, followed sejak a replay of the fall in slow motion. The audience gasps. Fingers point to the screen. It cannot be. A small animal can be seen in the replay, racing across the court. She sees it, too, and bolts out of her seat.
She is elbowing her way through the crowd down to the courts. She must find him. Security guards stand with their arms crossed blocking the entrance to the court. She pushes past them, feels her heels slide on the red clay, and catches her balance. The audience is stunned as they see her projection on the giant screen. She passes Federer and pauses for the slightest moment to look at him. For the first time she is closer to him than Hi-Def. He looks up at her and smiles. Slipping away with a lilt in her step, she crosses the court where security waits to escort her away.
The umpire announces that Del Potro will retire from the match. French peminat-peminat throw fists to the cameras. They feel betrayed on many levels. What about the animal? Did the animal cause a technical let? What will happen to Del Potro? She brings her hands to her ears to muffle the shouting and sees that her hand is still bleeding from the clawing. Federer is waving to the crowd, happy to win but not under these circumstances. As security whisks her past the player’s box, she sees Mirka, who glances at her. Mirka looks thinner than on TV.
Roland Garros stadium has a small room in the basement of the Court Philippe Chatrier that holds people for questioning. She tells them her story, slowing her English for the sake of the French security guards. They examine her passport and ask why she brought her cat there to begin with. She tells them she never goes anywhere without him. She begins to cry. She must pay a fine, 200 Euros for bringing the cat and 850 Euros for entering the court of play. They run her credit card through the machine then release her.
The bowels of the most famous Tenis court in France vibrate from the stampedes of peminat-peminat above. Photographs of past winners decorate the walls. She stops at Federer’s. He’s holding a trophy over his head. His hair was much longer then. A draft of wind blows through the halls and she hugs herself. Just then a familiar touch caresses her ankles. She looks down. The cat. Looking over both shoulders, she swoops him up and deposits him into her tote. Her giggles turn into raucous laughter as she exits the stadium.
