LACKING VIRTUES by Thomas Kirkwood

happened to sportsmanship? I’d like to ask my opponent, who’s had the entire afternoon to warm up, to consent to a reversal of this order. Philippe?”
     
    “I can’t consent to that. The incoming pro serves first. It is tradition. Perhaps you have no tradition in America.”
     
    “He’s an American?” said Jules.
     
    Nicole felt vindicated for liking the shirt. People might make fun of it now, but they were short-sighted. All of these California styles sooner or later became the rage in France.
     
    Steven LeConte stretched and took a few practice swings behind the baseline.
     
    Luc said, “Hey, Nicole, it’s a good thing your dad went back to Paris. I heard him saying some things about Americans. I don’t think he would like this guy.”
     
    “Quiet,” said Jules. “The cowboy’s about to serve.”
     
    “Look, he’s right-handed,” Luc said. “I thought Yanks were all lefties.”
     
    Steven hit a slice into Philippe’s forehand corner.
     
    “Out!” called the linesman.
     
    “It was ten centimeters in!” yelled Jules. “Are you blind?”
     
    Nicole put a finger to his lips. “Shhh! It looked good to me, too, but we’re not supposed to yell.”
     
    He served the second ball harder. The “out” call came as Philippe dubbed the return. There was a murmur from the crowd.
     
    “Love-fifteen. Quiet please.”
     
    Steven hit a grandmother serve square in the middle of the backhand court. Philippe teed off, trying to hit a winner. His ball carried a good foot behind the baseline. There was no “out” call.
     
    “See,” cried Luc. “Philippe’s killing him. I told you.”
     
    “Quiet please. Love-thirty.”
     
    Steven hit another granny serve, obviously worried about the call. Philippe teed off again. The ball would have carried six feet long, but Steven took it in the air. He smiled, the crowd laughed.
     
    Philippe hit his first good shot of the match, a cross-court forehand deep, and came to the net behind it. Steven tapped a dink up the center that landed at his feet. Philippe scooped it up and kept coming in behind his short approach shot, leaving himself open for a lob. Steven hit a topspin beauty. The ball just cleared Philippe’s racket and came down too far inside the baseline to be called “out.” A few subdued cheers rippled through the crowd.
     
    “Fifteen-thirty. Quiet please.”
     
    Steven scorched a serve up the middle. Philippe got off a weak return that looked like a wounded duck.
     
    “Foot fault!” shouted the linesman.
     
    “I told you,” Luc repeated. “Philippe is killing him.”
     
    “Dammit,” said Jules, “don’t you see what’s going on? They’re calling balls ‘out’ that are in and ‘in’ that are out – and foot faults if the Yank hits a good serve. If this was a fair fight, he’d blow that pédé off the court.”
     
    Nicole said, “Jules, your language!”
     
    “He would not, would he, Nicole?” Luc asked.
     
    “Sorry, Luc, I have to agree with your brother. Now be quiet. Let’s watch.”
     
    ***
     
    The first set was close, with Philippe winning 6-4 on a late flurry of outrageous calls. He led the second set 5-2. Steven was playing well but had been penalized an average of two points a game for his antics. Jules particularly liked it when the Yank marked where Philippe’s ball landed in the alley about a foot and a half outside the line with a mound of chalk from the line machine.
     
    Even Luc had recognized by now that the match was rigged, and he stopped taunting his brother. Some of the serious players in the crowd had grown bold with their comments about the officiating.
     
    Nicole felt so sorry for the American, and so ashamed of the way he was being treated by these jerks, that she felt like going out onto the court after the match and apologizing to him. She was trying to decide if it would be appropriate for her to take her cousins along and do just that when things got even more out of hand. Philippe