Love All

by Joel Worford

Virginia, USA

On the fourth day of the US Open, the rain held up play for three hours, soaking the blue and green tennis courts under summer sun showers and sending thin rivers of pollen in dandelion streaks across the tournament grounds. Officials cancelled most of the morning matches by mid-afternoon, but hopeful spectators stuck around until well past four praying that the rain might let up in time for one last doubles match on Louis Armstrong Stadium. Their wishes were granted, as by five o’clock, just as the evening session ticket holders filed in through the gate, the rain stopped. The grounds crew rushed out with their towels and squeegees to soak up puddles from the courts’ surface and get ready for the players to resume play.

Jeremiah couldn’t believe his luck. This was the Few family’s second year at the Open, and the second time it had rained throughout most of the day. Jeremiah stood in the concessions line with his mother and father. He pouted over his sopping white athletic shirt—his sweat-stained Adidas hat pulled over his eyes. Mr. Few knelt down.

“Hey, what’s the matter, bud? Hm? What’s wrong?”

Mr. Few reached out to push Jeremiah’s hat back onto his forehead, but Jeremiah swatted him away. Single teardrops dripped from his chin and speckled the ground in front of Mr. Few’s feet. Jeremiah turned his back to his father, stomping his feet as he moved.

Mr. Few stood back up and shrugged. Mrs. Few scowled at her husband. She rolled her eyes.

“You can’t guess why he’s upset?”

Mrs. Few wasn’t thrilled about the rain cancellations either. Sitting in a sports complex during a thunderstorm, listening to junior tennis players shout and scream across Ping-Pong tables while their parents debated over whether or not Novak Djokovic would take the title this year wasn’t exactly her idea of a good time in New York City. Jacket tied around her waist, and shorts folded above her knees, Mrs. Few avoided eye contact with her husband as well. She crossed her arms over her chest as the family inched forward in line.

Mr. Few smiled. He looked across the tournament grounds. The sun shone on the white sidewalk and reflected off rows of black park tables behind the concession food trucks. Lines of people stretched out from the front registers, hoping to get a simple dinner in before the last matches. The Fews were just looking for a quick snack before the subway ride back to the hotel.

“We got to see some of the morning matches,” Mr. Few insisted. He put his hand on Jeremiah’s thin shoulder and jostled it. “We got to see your boy Roddick in action.”

Jeremiah yanked his shoulder away.

“We didn’t even get to see the end of the match.”

Jeremiah cried even louder. Tournament attendees in the lines closest to the Fews redirected their eyes while Jeremiah threw his fit.

Mr. Few pushed up his glasses. Watching his son’s tantrum, he let out a rare sigh. Mrs. Few always called him the realist in the family, but in reality, he was the only optimist. Having grown up with seven siblings in a house about one quarter the size of the one the Fews lived in now, Mr. Few would be the last to take a day at the US Open for granted, even if it rained all afternoon. He could still remember those Saturday mornings growing up in Birmingham— walking with his brothers and sisters to one of the few parks where it was safe for blacks to practice. They’d hit with Jeremiah’s grandfather from early morning until the late evening of the day, and then walk back home in the waning heat. He remembered the switch his father would bring onto the court, threatening if Mr. Few made the same tactical mistake twice.

“Don’t make me come over there, boy,” his father glared across the net.

Mr. Few looked down at Jeremiah. His son’s brand-name clothing and personalized shoes with ‘Jeremiah Few’ engraved on the soles. Jeremiah’s upbringing, while not all that different from his mother’s, couldn’t have been farther from Mr. Few’s. For Jeremiah, it was all about tournaments, staying on top of the ranking charts, and hitting with the top juniors in town. It was rare that he’d even take the time to hit with his father these days, and if he ever did, every lost point was followed by a temper tantrum that would have the local college kids on the adjoining courts doubled over with laughter.

Sometimes Mr. Few wondered if he should withdraw some of the money that allowed Jeremiah the opportunity to be a top-ranked tennis player and travel all over the east coast playing tournaments. Ultimately, he couldn’t help but derive some joy from the idea that all the work he’d done his whole life had led to a better life and better opportunities for his son. Mr. Few figured that Jeremiah would grow out of his childish attitude as he began to see the realities of the world he lived in. After all, Jeremiah was a smart kid, and far from mean-hearted. Only sometimes, and especially when it came to tennis, he could be a real brat.

***

The evening blue sky now made the afternoon showers seem as though they were from another time entirely. Mr. Few relaxed in the sunlight while his wife ordered at the register. Jeremiah pouted next to him.

The family got their food and headed to the closest table with vacant seats. A couple and a young boy sat in the already occupied spots. Mr. Few watched as Jeremiah checked out the other kid. The boy kept a large tennis bag with Babolat rackets by his side. His shirt read ‘Lacoste.’ Jeremiah quickly wiped his eyes and pulled up his hat before taking a seat. Mr. Few approached boldly. He spoke to the couple as he set his cheese fries down.

“Hey, hey, did everybody survive the rain?” he asked. He licked cheese off his fingers as he sat. The couple hesitated. They looked at one another as though flipping a coin on who should answer.

“Thankfully,” the woman replied.

Mrs. Few smiled at the couple and sat down next to her husband. Jeremiah took the seat beside the couple’s son. His attitude perked up in the presence of another player. Jeremiah’s first analysis of a player’s ability was always based on the size of their tennis bag and the cost of their rackets. This kid was probably really good.

“Are you in the junior tournament?” Jeremiah asked.

The boy shook his head. He had short brown curls and blue eyes that pierced beside olive skin. He’d probably played a lot of tournaments this summer.

“No, I wish,” the boy replied.

Jeremiah smiled. “Me too,” he said. “I’m ranked 15th in my section. Not high enough.”

“Bummer.”

While his son and the other boy dove deep into junior tennis world conversation, Mr. Few turned to the couple. The man wore a Roger Federer hat with the stylized ‘F’ on the front, while the woman wore a pink Maria Sharapova tank top over white shorts. They looked to be in their mid 40s, probably some ten years shy of Mr. and Mrs. Few’s age. Mr. Few tried for conversation. He licked his fingers and spoke into his meal.

“So, are you tennis fans as well?” he asked.

The couple stared at Mr. Few for a number of seconds, letting his question dangle in the air. The look they gave him was one he recognized, mostly from his days working as a busboy, cleaning white folks’ messes and pushing in their chairs, saying ‘yes ma’am’ and ‘no sir’. Mr. Few avoided eye contact with the couple, a habit acquired after many lessons learned.

Finally, the husband replied.

“Well, we’re here aren’t we?” he said.

Embarrassed, Mr. Few offered a laugh.

“True, true,” he said.

Mrs. Few scowled at the couple while they looked into their burgers. They ate in silence while Jeremiah and the young boy chatted away.

“Who’s your favorite player?”

“Federer.”

“Ah boo. Mine is Roddick.”

“Oh, I’m so sorry.”

Jeremiah and the boy laughed. Mr. Few smiled at the two of them. He was happy to see his son connecting with someone his age. It was difficult for Mr. Few to imagine what youth would’ve been like without nine siblings to play with and keep him company. From the way Jeremiah fussed and pouted when he was alone with his parents, it wasn’t too hard to recognize the loneliness his son must often feel.

Mr. Few turned his attention back towards the other couple to make a second attempt at pleasant conversation. Across the table, the woman whispered something into her husband’s ear. Her husband looked at Jeremiah and laughed. With a satisfied smile, the woman turned to her son. She wrapped her arm around him like a shield and spoke with a soft voice.

“Honey, are you ready to go back to the stadium?”

“Yeah,” the boy replied. He hoisted his tennis bag onto his shoulder and exchanged goodbyes with Jeremiah. Jeremiah looked disappointed to see the family go, but smiled anyway. He was in much better spirits since having made a new friend. Mr. Few smiled at the family as well. Mrs. Few avoided eye contact.

“Enjoy the matches,” Mr. Few offered as the family stood to leave.

The man replied with his back turned while his wife fixed her son’s collar.

“Thanks,” he said. As they moved away, the woman leaned down and whispered to her son while glancing back at The Fews, as she had with her husband moments before. The family disappeared onto the crowded walkway outside Ashe stadium. Mrs. Few glared after them.

“Gee, I wonder who they voted for?” she muttered.

Mr. Few nodded his head.

“Yep,” he replied. He did a bad country accent. “Them some good ole’ country club rednecks, fer ya.”

Jeremiah glared across the table.

“I thought they were nice,” he said. He looked at his parents as though they should be ashamed.

Mrs. Few scoffed. She spoke mostly to Mr. Few, ignoring Jeremiah.

“Got up and left as soon as we sat down.”

“Yep, couldn’t have been gone faster,” Mr. Few agreed. He fell into a bad country accent again.

“Said, ‘we aint gon’ sit with no negroes, this evenin’. This s’posed to be the white man’s game.”

Jeremiah threw his arms up.

“You guys think everyone’s racist,” he said.

Mrs. Few laughed. Mr. Few smiled as well.

“Damn right we do,” Mr. Few replied. His wife didn’t even frown at his use of language. Mrs. Few nodded her head.

“You’d best not forget,” she advised her son.

Jeremiah’s eyes watered.

“We could’ve been friends,” he said. “But you guys had to scare them away.” He began to sniffle and heave. Folks at the surrounding tables tried not to stare.

Mr. Few’s expression hardened. He understood how much being accepted into the tennis world meant to Jeremiah, but his son’s sensitivity was becoming a problem. While Mrs. Few encouraged their son to express himself openly, Mr. Few worried about what the world might decide for a black boy who cries so easily. He focused a look at Jeremiah and spoke with a firm voice.

“That’s enough of that crying,” he said. Slowly, Jeremiah sat up. He knew it was time to stop making a scene. Mrs. Few continued to scowl as she finished her dinner.

The excitement from Louis Armstrong stadium could be heard out near the concession stands. It looked as though the subway ride might have to wait. Mr. Few leaned down towards Jeremiah, who sniffled in silence. His voice softened.

“How about we go catch the last match, huh?” Mr. Few nudged his son’s shoulder. “Let’s go see your boy Monfils in action, how about that?”

Jeremiah wiped his eyes. Mr. and Mrs. Few collected their trash. By now, the sun dipped below Arthur Ashe Stadium and the air hummed with a bluish tint, slowly descending into black. Bugs congregated as the light posts came on to illuminate the sidewalk. Evening session ticket holders cut across the grounds, moving towards Ashe for the last matches of the day. The Few family headed towards Armstrong.

***

Gael Monfils made short work of his opponent. It was only some thirty minutes after the Fews arrived at the stadium that the crowd members uninterested in seeing the last match of the day, doubles between an American team and two Indian players, shuffled out. By the time the first serve went into play, the stadium was only half-full with some seven thousand spectators in attendance. This did not upset Mr. Few, who engaged as others might for a championship match.

“Them big boy Americans, they getting tired, see?” he repeated to Jeremiah. Jeremiah pretended he didn’t hear.

The game score was deuce at 4-4 in the first set. One of the American players took the line to serve. He wiped his brow and let out a heavy breath before tossing up the ball and striking it into the net. Mr. Few whispered over to Jeremiah.

“White boy here had too many big macs, see? He can’t compete. They’re done.”

Jeremiah glared at the court. Mrs. Few could sense her son’s mood. She tried to pacify the situation.

“It’s only the first set,” she said. “They could still come back.”

“They’re not even behind,” Jeremiah hissed. Mrs. Few retreated back to her silence.

Mr. Few kept smiling at the court. The sky was completely black now, and the lights shining on the stadium gave the atmosphere an urban hum. The crowd was restless, and change over by change over, more people filed out.

After a long game of exchanging leads, the American team lost their serve. As the players rested during the changeover, some Lady Gaga song played over the speakers. The ball kids rushed in navy streaks across the court, setting up for the next game while one of the American athletes called for a medic. Mr. Few offered further commentary.

“You watch, see? The Americans can’t hang on. They’re too tired. Too much Mickey D’s.”

“They’re barely behind.” Jeremiah didn’t even try to conceal the annoyance in his voice.

“They’re finished,” Mr. Few said.

Next door, over in Arthur Ashe stadium, a great cheer went up. The screen in Armstrong flipped to show the new result. Federer won in three sets. The folks remaining at Armstrong put up a small cheer. Jeremiah let out a loud ‘ugh.’

“I hate Federer,” he said.

As the Indian team moved to serve, Mr. Few exercised his foresight.

“You watch. Four quick points and bam! Americans wont even touch the ball. You watch.”

Jeremiah tried his best to ignore his father. The chair umpire called out the score.

“5-4…”

As the players made their way onto the court, more spectators filed in. They were mostly migrators from the stadium next door looking for some tennis to hold them over until the next match on the larger court began.

“Love all.”

The crowd quieted down as the music on the speakers faded. Security guards blocked off any more latecomers trying to enter and the latest arrivals rushed to the nearest open seats. The players took their positions on the court. The American player who’d requested the trainer limped to his spot at the net. The server on the other side sprinted to his position, much to Mr. Few’s delight.

“See? Look at that! He knows. Say, ‘these white boys can’t keep up with us, we gon’ show em.’”

Jeremiah turned to face his father.

“Dad, would you please just be quiet,” he said. It was just politely enough so that he wouldn’t get an ass whooping later at the hotel, but loud enough for folks around to hear. Some kids sitting behind the family let out an ‘ooooh.’

Mrs. Few kept quiet. She had had enough of this day. Mr. Few frowned towards the court. His eyes dimmed behind his glasses.

“It’s just an opinion, Jeremiah,” he said.

The server took the line. He tossed the ball and sent a flat serve down the tee. The American returner lunged to his left and curved a backhand past the net player and in for a winner. The crowd erupted with cheers.

“Yes!” Jeremiah pumped his fist.

“Love-15,” the umpire announced.

The server took some extra time wiping off with his towel. A few members of the crowd whistled and jeered in protest.

“What does he need all that for? They hardly sweat,” Jeremiah heard some voice behind him exclaim.

“Quiet, please,” the umpire said. More time went by as the serving team lingered with their towels. The umpire took to her mic again.

“Warning. Time violation, Shankar-Golla.”

The crowd whooped and cheered. The serving player, Shankar, slung his arms up at the umpire. The umpire shrugged. Speaking away from the mic, she offered some inaudible explanation that seemed to satisfy the player. Shankar hustled to the line. Jeremiah grinned at his father. Mr. Few sat silent while Mrs. Few looked on with renewed interest.

The stadium went quiet as Shankar took the line to serve. He bounced the ball twice before tossing it into the air and sending the shot a few feet too wide.

“Out!” The middle linesperson cried. The crowd clapped.

“Quiet, please,” the umpire instructed.

Shankar threw the ball up again. His serve hit the net with a snap. The crowd cheered and applauded even louder than before.

“Let’s go Evans, let’s go Harrison!” someone yelled. Others joined in with similar chants. The umpire called out the score to encourage the match along.

“Love-30.”

The crowd quieted down.

Shankar served again, this time a kicker out wide. The American returner, Harrison, jumped up and smashed the ball into the net player, Golla’s, chest. The impact made a thud that everyone in the stadium could hear. Harrison put up a hand as apology while Golla paced from side to side, shaking off the hit. Some of the crowd went ‘oooooh’ while others laughed.

Jeremiah turned to his father. His mood was greatly improved by the energetic atmosphere in the stadium.

“See dad?” he said, “They’re coming back.”

Mr. Few nodded his head.

The crowd bustled with energy. More shouts of ‘come on, Harrison!” and “Let’s go USA!” came from the stands. From behind the family, someone called out towards the foreign players with a fake Indian accent.

“Aye, that must have hurt.”

Many in the crowd laughed. The Fews and some other spectators around them turned around, searching for the culprit of the joke. Sitting with a number of other kids who were laughing and congratulating themselves, Jeremiah saw the young boy from lunch. They made eye contact. Jeremiah smiled and waved. The boy grinned. He turned to the kid next to him and whispered in his ear. The other boy looked at Jeremiah and laughed.

“Love, 40.”

The end was inevitable. The Indian team won a point on a service winner before one of the American players took the game with a forehand volley. The crowd stomped and hollered. The Americans’ momentum didn’t stop there. In the next game, they held serve at love. Jeremiah bounced in his seat.

“Now this is a match,” he said to his father.

During the changeover, even more people rushed in, probably to investigate the loud cheering that could surely be heard from across the grounds. One corner of the stadium started a wave that moved all the way around and repeated its course for a few seconds. The music could barely be heard over the sound of the crowd shouting “U.S.A., U.S.A, U.S.A!” Jeremiah joined in with the chanting. Mr. and Mrs. Few stayed quiet until it subsided.

“I would say this crowd is pretty one sided,” Mrs. Few offered.

Mr. Few scoffed.

“Yeah, no kidding,” he said. He added indignantly, but not too loudly, “I’m going for the brown folk.”

“Me too,” Mrs. Few replied.

Jeremiah glared at his parents. The match resumed play.

“5-6, Love-all. Shankar-Golla to serve.”

The crowd quieted, but maintained an energy that even the officials couldn’t subdue. The American players pumped their fists and yelled, ‘come on,’ after each point, egging the crowd on. Chants of “U.S.A, U.S.A,” filled the space between serves. The umpire tried her best, but could only do so much.

“Quiet, please,” she repeated. Each time the crowd complied, they came back after the next point twice as loud as before.

“Let’s Go U.S., Let’s Go!”

“Come on Harrison, let’s go Evans!

“U.S.A, U.S.A, U.S.A!”

***

The last game was close, but the Americans broke serve and won the set. The stadium erupted with more cheers, jeers, and chants. During the set break, the audience quieted down as the music came on. The last match on Ashe stadium was getting under way, so folks with night session tickets began to vacate their seats and head over to watch Maria Sharapova play some unknown challenger.

With over three-quarters of the stadium empty again, the energy of the match died down. The Americans would lose the second set, but win the match in four. Those remaining cheered the Americans’ victory rather unenthusiastically, and clapped politely for the Indian players as they exited the court. By now, it was almost midnight, and all the day’s matches were complete, save for the final one finishing in Ashe.

The Fews exited Armstrong stadium. They walked beside one another, down the concrete steps that led to the outside. Amongst the sifting crowd, Mrs. Few clung to Jeremiah’s hand. Jeremiah was so hyped up from the match that he forgot to feel embarrassed.

“That was a great match,” he said. His mother didn’t reply. Mr. Few was never one to hold his tongue.

“Americans are always so enthusiastic about supporting their white boys,” he said.

Mrs. Few agreed with a nod.

Jeremiah looked up at his parents.

“We live in America. What’s wrong with cheering for the Americans?” he asked. Neither of his parents replied.

Jeremiah yanked his hand from his mother’s grasp. Stomping his feet, he raised his voice.

“Why do you guys think everyone’s racist?”

“Settle down, honey,” Mrs. Few warned. Jeremiah continued, even louder.

“He’s racist, they’re racist. God, it’s just a tennis match. I thought you said we should love everyone?”

Jeremiah glared up at his parents. He pointed a finger at the two of them.

“You’re racist if you think—“

“That’s enough, Jeremiah.”

Jeremiah saw the look on his father’s face. He went silent. Mrs. Few untied the jacket from around her waist.

“It got chilly out here,” she offered. Neither her husband nor Jeremiah replied. The family walked in silence towards the exit.

The last of the day session spectators turned left from Armstrong to head towards the nearest subway entrance. Leaving the grounds, one could hear Maria Sharapova shriek with every strike of the ball, as well as the umpire’s attempts to contain the audience’s mocking replies.

“Quiet, please.”

Passing beneath the front gate, Jeremiah turned around to look back at the grounds one last time. Grounds crew workers moved from table to table and trash can to trash can, cleaning up the mess before tomorrow’s new day. Bugs buzzed around the lights that illuminated the grounds. Arthur Ashe stadium erupted in cheers. Otherwise, the last of the tournament’s energy exited through the gates.

Next: Kathryn H. Ross - God’s Garden →

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