Bad Line Call

Tuesday night is tennis night, and this one was just like any other tennis night, except that it was different. It was the last tennis night of the contract season, and I was playing my tennis nemesis, B. I expected to lose to B. that night; I just didn’t know how badly I would lose. I expected to lose because I always lose to him. It’s not that B. is in a totally different league than me, like he’s a tennis pro and I’m a rank amateur. We’re in the same league, and that’s what so frustrating about the fact that he always wins.

B. is a player who instinctively knows how to play the game. He knows how to hit all of the strokes. He knows when to come to the net, and when not to come to the net. He knows how to position himself when the ball travels to the opponent’s side of the court. His tennis instincts are as strong as a predatory lion’s instincts are when it comes to stalking an antelope.

If B. has a weakness it’s his lack of conditioning. Since our contract time is limited to one hour this isn’t a big factor. In fact B. compensates for it by his sheer will to win. Let me rephrase that – B. refuses to lose. He pushes himself to the limit whenever defeat is near. It doesn’t matter whether it’s losing a set, a game, or a single point. B. refuses to lose.

But something was different that night. We were tied 4-4 and I was holding my own. I had gotten to this score on occasion in the past, when B. would suddenly realize that he might lose. B. would focus with incredible intensity and his serves would blaze into the corners of the service box. If his service didn’t win the point, his groundstrokes would, always attacking my weak backhand until I either hit a short ball or a shallow lob, either of which was enough for him to put away the point. Of course, I knew all this and it would give me a case of the nerves just like an antelope gets when he sees the lion.

B. served in the ninth game. I could tell he was tired because he started to serve and volley. He wanted the points to be short like the quick kill by the lion going for the jugular. I just kept lobbing my returns and instead of sailing long, they were landing deep. This not only frustrated B., it also exhausted him as he sprinted back to make a return. With the game tied at 30 – 30 we start trading groundstrokes, moving each other from side to side, each hoping to hit a winner and end the point. B. hit a deep drive to my baseline. I couldn’t catch up to it, but I could watch it closely. I saw it land squarely on the line, and I immediately call it “out.” B. was too far away to challenge; he just bent over to catch his breath. On the next point he opened his forehand and the ball sailed out of bounds. I had just broken his serve.

I served out the last game. On set point B. was totally spent. After he returned service he came to the net to rattle me as he had done so many times before. I lobbed him and he didn’t even try to make a save. He just turned and watched the ball land in bounds. I had won my first set in 10 years.

But what about that bad line call? I knew it was the wrong call as soon as I made it. Since then I have thought long and hard about it. If he had won that point, he may have won the game and eventually the set. The lion feasts again. I thought of all of the injustices I had endured. Doesn’t it matter that B. foot faults frequently when he serves? Doesn’t it matter that B. enjoys trouncing me 6-0, 6-0 when I’m playing poorly? What about the times he gets his hot serve going and deliberately picks on my pathetic backhand return? And he keeps doing this through both sets of the contract hour. I know these are all rationalizations, serving me, the antelope. What would your call be?