by Ana Weidenfeld

 

Horseshoe Newman delicately plucked the strings of his racket as he prepared to serve. Winning this point would secure his place in the finals of the Pacific Coast Senior Tennis Tournament, so he took his time. He bounced on his toes a few times and then asked the ball boy to throw him a fresh Wilson. Licking the tips of his fingers and smiling benignly he threw the ball into the air and slammed it into the pocket of his opponent’s court.

            “Ace.”

 

            Driving all the way from Washoe for the tournament had been his idea.

            “I’m going to win it this time,” he had said. “I can feel it.”

            So Rosette had stocked the car with beans and mandarin oranges and driven them the four hours across the waistline of California. At night they stayed in a hotel and during the day Horseshoe played and practiced.

            At first Horseshoe hadn’t really liked the look of the Berkeley Tennis Club. Too manicured. The grass looked like it had been spray-painted green and strange spherical topiaries lined the path. All of the bricks were free of moss; all of the food in the clubhouse was free of flavor, and all of the men were free of modesty.  He did admit however that the courts were in pretty good shape.

            Horseshoe had always been a very gifted player, and could have been ranked number one in the state of Nevada if it hadn’t been for Daggett Newberry. Daggett was a great player, he had style, and form and a perfect backhand but he was also an ass and a half.

Horseshoe and Daggett had always been rivals and Horseshoe vowed to become number one this year at the Pacific Coast Senior Tennis Tournament. No more honey-backed hams and coupons while Daggett basked in the glow of a four-tiered trophy.

The game was not going to be an easy win. Horseshoe had the drive but his elbow had been flaring up and his costochondritis had returned. But none of it mattered as Horseshoe lay in bed the night before the final; Daggett was going down.

 

There was a pretty big showing at the final round. Mostly members of the Tennis Club, clad in pastel, there to show good social form. Daggett was the clear favorite seeing as Horseshoe always came in second. But Horseshoe was a fighter. The game was going well enough until Horseshoe stumbled on his backhand and came down hard on his knee.

“Time-out,” yelled Horseshoe.

“Time-out,” repeated the judge.

Horseshoe took a slow walk to the locker room where he washed his face and massaged his knee. As he left the locker room a cool breeze reached his face and he felt energized.

Back on the court and it was Horseshoe’s serve. If he won this game he would be named the winner. He called for the ball boy asking if he could get a clean towel and a brand new Wilson. The boy looked familiar but there was no time.

Pow, smack, pow, and it was done.

 

As the judge handed Horseshoe the trophy and the cameras from the local newspapers flashed on and off like lighters at an arena show, Horseshoe felt the breeze and smelled the salty scent of victory. He raised the trophy up and up until he risked spearing a planet and he held it there until his arms ached. That night at the hotel Rosette cleared out the mini-fridge and dined alone atop the cotton sheets while Horseshoe sat by the window and shined his trophy again and again.

 

The next morning Horseshoe woke up sore and tired but elated. He threw his legs over the side of the bed and pushed on his terrycloth slippers. He walked into the bathroom and started the water. He squeezed out a blob of toothpaste and…

“Where’s my trophy!” shrieked Horseshoe, throwing his Oral-B Advance onto the floor.

He scampered back into the bedroom and then ran towards the table in the kitchen nook where he had tenderly placed the trophy the night before. It was gone.

“Rosette, Rosette” he said, shaking his wife’s shoulders. “Where’s Lou?”

Horseshoe had named the trophy after his father, Lou Newman.

“It’s not in the breakfast nook?” mumbled Rosette through half-closed eyes.

“No he’s not. He’s gone,” wailed Horseshoe.

“Do you think someone stole him?” asked Rosette.

“You bet I do and I know just the scumbag that did it.”

 

Horseshoe ate breakfast slowly. He needed to think and he always did his best thinking over eggs and hash browns. When he was done, he charged the food on the room bill and walked to the front desk.

“Can you tell me if Daggett Newberry is in his room please? He has something that I need,” said Horseshoe.

“We can’t just give that kind of information out willy-nilly sir,” said Brenda, the woman behind the desk. “Can I ask what this is in reference to?”

“He has something that belongs to me and I need to pick it up ma’am.”

“Wait a second,” said Brenda. “Well I’ll be. You’re the fellow that won the Tournament yesterday aren’t you?”

“Yep. That’s actually what I need talk to Mr. Newberry about. There was some sort of mix up and I think he took my winning Wilson. I want it for the grandkids.”

“That was some great play Mr. Newman. Just great. Mr. Newberry is on the fourth floor. Room number 412.”

 

Horseshoe took the elevator and knocked three times on Daggett’s door. He knocked one, two three, real clean.

“Anyone home,” said Horseshoe hoarsely.

            The door slowly opened to reveal the angular face of Daggett Newberry.

            “I’m not sure what you’re doing here Horseshoe. I can only assume that you’re lost,” said Daggett.

            “I’m not lost. I’m here to retrieve what’s rightfully mine you son of a bitch. Hand it over.”

            “What the hell are you taking about Horseshoe?”

            “Don’t play dumb. Hand over my trophy. There’s no need for me to resort to this,” said Horseshoe, clenching his fist.

            “You’ve lost it Horseshoe. Just what exactly are you doing. Get…”

            Horseshoe stepped inside the warm room and settled his fist comfortably near Daggett’s spleen.

            “I don’t have the trophy Horseshoe,” whispered Daggett. “Just stop  and I’ll help you find it.”

            “Don’t patronize me pal.”

            Horseshoe worked quickly inside the room. He tied up Daggett and then tore the place apart. But he couldn’t find it.

            “Did you mail it or put it in a locker?” barked Horseshoe.

            “I did not steal your trophy Horseshoe.”

            Horseshoe was maybe seven feet from Daggett but he could see his eyes perfectly. They were a pale blue, almost grey, and they did not seem to hold one ounce of honesty.

            “Yes you did.”

“You don’t know what you’re talking about. Think,” croaked Daggett.

            “You think this is what I want? I know that you have it and what kills me is that you already have everything. All I’ve every wanted was that trophy. It’s all I’ve ever wanted Daggett.”

            Horseshoe then wrapped his watch snugly around his knuckles and took a deep breath.

           

            As Horseshoe’s watch first cracked and then shattered against Daggett’s right temple, Rosette happily stood on the beach of a man-made lake. She stared out at the water and watched the ducks float on the surface, bobbing their heads and preening their feathers.

            She turned and began to walk along a path that skirted the face of a chalky boulder. The path fanned out and she walked along the hard ground to the edge of the lake. The water was muddy but she knew it was deep enough. Rosette set down a four-tiered silver trophy and thought how it looked so out of place. It caught the sun sharply as she smashed it into large pieces and when she was done it looked like a broken mirror. From her purse she pulled out a black bag and placed the pieces and some mossy rocks inside. Scraping the bag against the ground she pushed it over the edge of the bank and into the water where it splashed and sloshed. The water foamed and slowly cleared until the surface was once again calm.

            Walking towards the car Rosette smiled to herself. She had been tired of coming in second.