The Trophy Kid

By Pat Flynn

here is someone in trouble at Matt's school and for once it's not him! Marcus Wright - the boy all the girls swoon over - is a future tennis star. He has a solid forehand, a strong backhand, but his biggest asset is his mind. It can picture great shots like a movie screen and will him to victory, even when he's losing. But when Marcus learns he has to win the next state title or lose someone he loves, his mind is tested like never before. He has to turn to a girl he has a crush on, Kayla, and a tuckshop expert named Matthew for help. And they don't know a thing about tennis. Will he win, or will he lose? From the author of the award-winning book The Tuckshop Kid comes the companion adventure about tennis, tuckshop and tricks of the mind. Also in this series: The Tuckshop Kid; The Toilet Kid.

• Language: English
• Publisher: University of Queensland Press
• Release date: Nov 20, 2015
• ISBN: 9780702258114

Pat Flynn

Pat Flynn is a generalist: Great at many things, not the best at any one. A writer, entrepreneur, musician, and fitness and meditation try-hard, Pat runs multiple six- and seven-figure businesses around his various interests and skills.

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Chapter One

This is your chance. Take it.

I straighten my strings, blow out a lungful of air, and try to forget the score.

But it’s impossible. The score is all that matters in tennis, the signpost that leads to only one of two destinations.

Winning or losing. Glory or failure.

It’s like a whisper in my head — 30-40, 30-40, match point! — and my body reacts accordingly, tensing with anticipation as I squat into the ready position.

The nervousness starts deep in my stomach and spreads like a bomb blast — turning my legs to jelly and filling my fuzzy head with thoughts I’d rather not have.

Don’t miss. Don’t miss. Don’t. Miss.

With quick flicks of the wrist, Jett Scott, my opponent, bounces the ball three times. He’s just about to toss it into the air and serve when I quickly raise my hand and call out, ‘Wait!’

I turn and wipe an imaginary piece of dust from my eye, giving myself a silent lecture. Calm down! I think. Now!

If I can’t control my mind then I can’t control my muscles. And if I can’t control the hundreds of big and little muscles that let me move to the ball and swing at exactly the right moment, in exactly the right way, then I will miss. And if I miss, the score will be tied at deuce and my chance would have come and gone and maybe I won’t get another one.

But I can’t think of that now. I have to stay in the here and now.

So I start counting. One, two, three, four, five, six.

Again. One, two, three, four, five, six.

This is why you play tennis, I remind myself. One more good shot and the match is yours.

When I turn I’m calmer. More focussed. Ready.

Jett is the same age as me — 13 — but while I’m average height, he’s tall as a tree. I expect him to blast his way out of trouble with his flat serve, but instead he goes for the kicker. The change up.

The advantage of the kick-serve is that not only is it more likely to go in, but it dips and ‘kicks’ to the right — jumping viciously towards the side fence like a Shane Warne wrong-un. But his over-the-left-shoulder ball toss gives it away and I’m moving before he even hits it.

My feet dance out to the ball and as I plant my size 9 left tennis shoe, my hips and shoulders swivel in unison. With a still head and a semi-western grip, I uncoil like a striking snake — swinging quickly but smoothly at the fuzzy yellow Slazenger.

Twinggg.

I love that sound. It’s the ball springing off the ‘sweet spot’ — the place on the strings that gives maximum power with minimum effort.

The good thing about being so wide on the court is that it opens up the angle. I use it, smacking the ball cross-court so it jumps away from Jett.

The bad thing about being so wide is I have to hustle back to the centre of the court, which I do using smooth side-skips — staying low to the ground.

Jett must be surprised at how well I hit the return because he’s a little slow to react. He chugs out to the ball and ends up reaching for the backhand, slicing it to the middle, short and slow.

My eyes grow big like pancakes and blood courses through my body. It’s a surge of adrenalin that comes from knowing that this is my chance and I must take it. It’s what I train hours every day to do.

I take fast but controlled steps forwards to the ball, cutting off the time Jett has to recover. With a few small stutter steps at the end for balance, I set myself in a side-on stance, ready to unleash on a backhand.

There are no nerves now. Only the calmness that comes from being totally in the moment. Totally in control. I’ve hit this shot thousands of times and rarely miss it. Especially when it counts.

I whip it cross-court. Although it comes off sweetly, there’s a little too much topspin for the ball to go for a clean winner. Subconsciously, my mind still knows it’s match point, and doesn’t want to risk a shot that would either win or lose the point outright.

Still, it’s not a bad shot. Not bad at all.

Although Jett gets to the ball he can do no more than throw up a defensive lob. I’m waiting just a few metres back from the net, my right arm pointed at the ball like an arrow, my left one cocked in a throwing position -looking like the figure on the trophy that I’m surely about to collect.

The lob is so easy I could practically head-butt it over the net. I could catch it in my mouth and spit it over the net for a winner if I wanted to.

And then a thought comes out of nowhere, popping into my head like a backhander.

You will miss.

It’s a funny thing, the mind. It can be your best friend or your worst enemy. It can be something you know as well as … well, your own mind, or it can be a complete stranger. I’ve had some issues, I admit, but under pressure my mind is usually one of my strongest weapons.

Usually.

I’m so determined to prove myself wrong that I muscle the ball into the open court. I smash it with all the power of a five-year-old, my racket pushing through the ball like a brick rather than cracking it like a whip.

I prove my mind wrong, all right. I don’t miss the shot.

I just don’t put it away.

To his credit, and my horror, Jett doesn’t give up like he could have, but sprints back to the open court on the tiny chance that something like this might happen. When the ball bounces he takes a few more quick steps and flicks his racket like a fly swat — slapping the ball hard down the line.

For some reason I stay glued to the spot, forgetting about all the times I’ve been yelled at by Granddad to recover to the middle, and I watch the ball rocket past me with a horrified expression on my face.

Go out! I think.

But even before Jett yells, ‘Come on!’ and the crowd roars like thunder, I know it won’t.

I also know deep down in my sinking stomach that, in a split second, I’ve just blown the match, and can now kiss the state title goodbye.

Chapter Two

I keep trying. This is a state final, after all.

But that smash was a turning point and turning points are called turning points for a reason.

Because afterwards, Jett seems to grow a foot taller while I feel as big as a baby. I’m struggling to hit the ball over the service line and have no idea where the next winner is coming from, my only hope being that Jett misses.

But he doesn’t. Not often enough, anyway. Jett used to make so many mistakes in pressure situations that my doubles partner nicknamed him ‘Choker’. In the last few months, though, Jett’s improved out of sight. Apparently he’s been seeing a sports psychologist who’s been working on his mental game.

It’s his real