The Pigeon With the Tennis Elbow (3 page)

Charlie's eyes glinted. “You know why he doesn't? I'll tell you why. It's in the blood. It's like the old feud between the
Hatfields and the McCoys. The Murphys and the O'Tooles hadn't got along with each other in a hundred and fifty years, ever
since one of them Murphy guys stole a wagonload of wine from the O'Tooles.”

“I never heard of that,” said Kevin, surprised.

“Well, I've met quite a lot of old-timers since I've started this new life,” said Charlie, “and that's what they tell me.
Of course, some of them insist that it was the O'Tooles who stole the wagonload from the Murphys, but those who said that
were Murphy confederates. Naturally they'd say that.”

He paused, and Kevin let a grin spread over his face.
Naturally,
he thought, and almost said,
Charlie, you must have been a real card when you were Uncle Richard O'Toole!

“You're playing Roger on Friday, right?” said Charlie.

“Right,” answered Kevin.

“Well, that's why I'm here,” Charlie explained, settling comfortably on the ground with his legs under him. “Did your father
ever tell you that I was almost a Wimbledon champion?”

“Why, yes. Yes, he did,” Kevin said, suddenly remembering. There were a few other things that his father had told Kevin about
his Great-Great Uncle Rickard too, but Kevin thought it was wise not to bring them up now.

“I was knocking down my opponents like a bowling ball knocks down tenpins,” Charlie said. “Then I got it, but bad.”

“Got what?” asked Kevin.

“Tennis elbow,” said Charlie. “It finished me completely. And in those days there was nothing that would cure it. I was
finished.
I know I would have won at Wimbledon if that hadn't happened.” He jerked his head to the left and riveted his right eye on
Kevin so hard that Kevin thought he was going to be hypnotized. “That's what you must watch out for, Kevie. Tennis elbow.
It could ruin your playing tennis forever.”

“But there is a cure for that now, isn't there, Uncle Rickard?” The instant he spoke he realized how ridiculous it sounded.
Calling a pigeon Uncle Rickard. Anybody who might have heard him would think he had lost his marbles.

“Charlie”
said Charlie seriously. “Call me
Charlie. Never
Uncle Rickard. And never
Uncle
Charlie. Just
Charlie.
O.K.?”

“O.K. — Charlie.”

“That's better.” Charlie cleared his throat. “Sure there's a cure. But the old arm won't ever be the same again, and neither
will you. You'll always worry about it, wondering if it will happen again. Keep it in mind, but now let's get down to business.
Your sister, Ginnie, has been trying to teach you to play better tennis, and I commend her for that. She's a good, smart kid,
Ginnie is. But she's got a lot to learn about the game, herself. Maybe, after I get through teaching you, you can give her
a tip or two.”

“Huh!” said Kevin. “That
would
be something.”

“Of course it would. But don't be surprised. You
will
be teaching her if you'll listen to me. First off —”

Just then Kevin heard the squeak of the screen door hinges, and then the sound of Ginnie's footsteps coming down the porch
steps.

“Oh-oh,” said Charlie. “Here she comes. She was angry before so I'd better split. Don't say a word to her about me, O.K.?
I don't want anybody to know about me except you. Promise?”

“I promise,” said Kevin.

“Good.” Charlie rose to his feet, spread his wings and took off, the tip of his left wing barely brushing against Kevin's
face as he flew by.

4

W
ASN'T THAT OUR PIGEON?
I mean the one that's been pestering us?” said Ginnie, as she handed Kevin one of the two glasses of lemonade she had brought
out.

“Yes, it was,” said Kevin, and found it hard not to tell her who the pigeon really was. He still couldn't believe it. Reincarnation?
He had thought that stuff — about somebody dying and returning to life in another form — was a lot of baloney. Charlie certainly
proved that it wasn't.

“It seems to have taken to you,” Ginnie observed. “I've never seen anything like it in my life.”

“That's
for sure,” said Kevin, and took a couple of swallows of the lemonade.

“Want to play some more?” he asked as he emptied his glass and put it aside.

“I beg your pardon?” Ginnie's eyebrows shot up like a sprung shade. “Are you asking me if I want to play some more?”

“Foolish question, right?”

“You know it!” she cried. Quickly emptying her glass, she put it beside Kevin's, picked up her racket and the two tennis balls,
then rested the head of the racket on the ground.

“Call it,” she said.

“Rough side up,” said Kevin.

She spun the racket. It slowed down, wobbled, and fell with the knotted strings side up.

They got on their bikes and rode quickly to the court. Luckily it was empty. “I'll take the north court,” said Kevin. “The
wind'll be at my back!”

They went to their respective places. Ginnie tossed up a ball and batted it across the net in a hard, solid drive. Kevin lobbed
it back, placing it almost out of bounds to Ginnie's left side.
Sprinting after it, she slammed it back. Then they rallied the ball back and forth for almost half a minute before Ginnie
gave the ball a smashing blow that drove it past Kevin for a point.

A voice yelled, “Nice shot, Gin! Maybe I should be playing you! I'd hate to skunk your brother!”

Kevin looked around at the speaker, Tommy Smith. With Tommy were Roger Murphy and Rusty Maxwell, the latter two grinning as
if Tommy had said something funny.

“I'm scheduled to play Roger, not you,” said Kevin.

“Well, ol' kid,” Roger broke in, smiling crookedly, “the schedule has been changed. You're playing Tommy on Friday, and I'm
playing Fats Monroe.”

Kevin frowned. “Who said so?”

“Ben did. Fats is going on a vacation Saturday, the day he and I were scheduled to play.”

“What happens if Tommy beats me?” Kevin asked.

“He plays Chuck Eagan on Wednesday. If you win, you play Chuck. The winner of that match plays the winner of the Murphy-Monroe
match next Saturday.” Roger chuckled. “Fats hasn't beat me yet, Kev. Heck, if you lose to Tommy, and you really want to play
me, just name the day and the hour. I'm ready, anytime.”

Kevin felt it difficult to keep his cool. “I'll let you know,” he said.

He looked across the court and saw Ginnie coming around the end of the net, wiping the sweat off her forehead. “I'm pooped,”
she said. “Let's quit.”

He didn't think she was that tired. She was just saying that as an excuse to get rid of the guys.

Whether Tommy Smith read the implication in her statement or not, Kevin couldn't tell. But it sounded like it as the tall,
blond boy ran a hand through his hair and grinned. “Come on, guys,” he said. “We don't want to miss that movie.”

The boys left, and Kevin looked at his sister.
“O.K. with you if we really quit? I just don't feel like playing anymore.”

She shrugged. “I don't either,” she admitted.

Ben Switzer called about half an hour later, informing Kevin of the schedule change. “So you'll be playing Tommy Smith on
Friday, Kevin,” he explained. “Be there promptly at one-thirty. O.K.?”

“O.K.,” said Kevin.

It drizzled on Friday morning. By noon the clouds cleared away, the sun came out and the high humidity made the day hot and
sticky. The small crowd that attended the match gave the boys a hand as Ben Switzer introduced them.

Kevin's mother and sister were sitting in the stands. He was disappointed that his father, an appliance repairman, had to
work and couldn't be there. Both his mother and father played tennis, and sometimes joined in a doubles match with Kevin and
Ginnie. He'd have to win today, and hope that his father could be there tomorrow.

Kevin won the spin and chose the north court instead of the chance to serve.

Tommy called, “Ready?”

“Ready!” replied Kevin.

Tommy tossed up a ball and belted it.
Thunk!
It curved out of bounds.

His next serve was just inside the sideline. Kevin slammed it back, driving it diagonally across the court to Tommy's right
side. Tommy returned it straight across the net, forcing Kevin to bolt after it. He met the ball three-quarters of the way
behind the net, swung and sliced it off to the left. He winced as he heard the crowd murmur. They were probably talking about
how poorly he was playing.

“Fifteen-love!” sounded Ben Switzer's voice over a loudspeaker.

Tommy scored the next point too, belting a shot out of Kevin's reach. 30-love. He went on to win, twice earning points on
Kevin's misplays.

He won the second game also.

What's the matter with me?
Kevin asked
himself.
I just cant seem to get going. What will the crowd think?

Just before Tommy began his first serve of the third game Kevin heard a soft flutter of wings. He looked up and saw Charlie
diving low over the court, then zooming up and settling comfortably on a post, the same post he had perched on the other day.

Charlie winked at him and Kevin winked back. Maybe this was what he needed. Charlie.

Kevin scored on Tommy's first serve, got ahead of Tommy, and stayed ahead until the score was love-40. Then Tommy began to
score and worked it up to a deuce game.

Kevin felt the life drizzle out of him. Sweat glistened on his face, but he was more anxious than tired.

“Buck up, boy,” said Charlie. “You can't give up now.”

The sound of Charlie's voice lifted Kevin's spirits a few notches. Tommy dealt a good serve, then rushed
the net. Kevin hit the ball back, a soft shot that arced over the center of the net. Tommy returned it, and Kevin met it with
a smashing blow that Tommy had no chance in the world to touch. Advantage Kevin.

“Attaboy,” said Charlie.

Not so loud!
Kevin wanted to yell at him.

Kevin took the next point to win the game. As he started off the court for the one-minute rest, Charlie glided down to him
and stopped at his feet.

“Get down here,” said Charlie. “Stroke my head as if I'm your pet or something.”

Kevin did so, even though he felt foolish about it.

“Your problem is you, Kevie,” said Charlie. “Instead of concentrating on the game, you're thinking about what the spectators
are thinking of you. What they think if you make an error, and so on and so on. My boy, you've got to get your cotton-pickin'
mind off that crowd and start concentrating on the game. You've got to watch that ball closely all the time and try to make
your returns sure-fire. You can do that only by meeting the ball squarely and hitting
it a little easier. Aim it where your opponent ain't. Get what I mean?”

“You're right about concentration, Charlie,” admitted Kevin. “I just can't do it.”

“You've
got
to do it, Kevie,” Charlie said, jerking his head from one side to the other in order to look up at Kevin with both eyes.
“That's number one in tennis. Without it you might as well forget it and take up tiddly-winks. And I'd hate to see you do
that. I want you to play that Murphy kid and beat his britches off!”

“I'll do my best, Charlie.”

“Hey, Kev!” yelled a voice Kevin recognized as Roger Murphy's. “What's with you and the pigeon?”

“Wouldn't
he
like to know,” said Charlie. He winked at Kevin and took off, flying back up to his perch on the post.

5