The Pigeon With the Tennis Elbow (9 page)

He began to score points. He piled one on top of the other, and took the game.

It was tied up, 3–3.

Going into the seventh game Roger went into the lead as he drove one of Kevin's returns into the far corner for a point. He
gained another point on a solid drive to Kevin's backhand corner. Then Kevin scored on a soft shot just over the net that
Roger wasn't fast enough to reach. He scored another on a hard drive that Roger delivered over the service line, and still
another on a drive Roger belted into the net. It went on like this, with Roger making errors and Kevin scoring the points
— and finally winning the game.

Roger 3; Kevin 4.

Roger practically lost the next game on Kevin's cannonball serves. 3–5.

“One more to go, Kev,” the familiar voice said to him.

Don't say that, Charlie! You sound like my sister, Gin!

Kevin took the first two points. Roger tied it up, then went ahead. Kevin wiped the sweat from his forehead. His legs felt
like a pincushion. The racket felt as if it had gained five pounds since the set had started.

Roger served. It was a fault as the ball hit the top of the net and fell on his side.

The next serve was good. Kevin drove it back easily, only to see it fly back at him like a bullet. He let it go by for a point
as it sailed past him and hit the court just outside of the baseline.

Roger 40, Kevin 40. Deuce.

Roger served. It was good. Kevin shot it back, keeping his eyes on the ball, making certain it would go over the net.
Just get over the net, hall. But stay within bounds, O.K.?

Roger tried to spike the ball into the court.
Kevin played it cool, driving the ball back with ease and accuracy. Roger was playing hard — trying hard — to get that needed
point for advantage, and then the final point to win.

Thunk! The ball curved and struck just outside of the baseline.

“Advantage Kevin!” came Ben Switzer's voice over the loudspeaker.

Both boys were sweating profusely. But it was Roger who seemed to be more tired. His first serve just cleared the net. Kevin,
concentrating one hundred percent on the ball, drove it back neatly. Roger returned it, somewhat more cautiously now, and
for a while they rallied the ball back and forth without a misplay.

And then Kevin hit the ball harder than any he had hit during the whole match. Like a bullet the shot streaked past Roger
— and the game was over.

Kevin had won the set, and the match.

Roger came around the net, smiling weakly, and shook hands with him.

“You did it, Kev,” he said. “And you did it square.”

“It wasn't easy,” replied Kevin.

As Roger walked away, Charlie flew down from the top of the pole, settled on Kevin's right shoulder and pecked him on the
ear.

“Ouch!” cried Kevin.

“That's just my way of congratulating you,” said Charlie happily. “As I told you, I knew you had the makings to beat that
Murphy kid.”

Kevin smiled. “I know you did, Charlie.”

“Kevie, I've got some sad news for you. I'm going to leave you.”

“You what?” Kevin stared at him.

“I'm going to leave you,” Charlie repeated. “I just want to say it's been my pleasure, and I hope you'll play at Wimbledon
someday and become a champion.”

A lump formed in Kevin's throat. “Where are you going, Charlie?”

“I don't know for sure. I met a friend, you see. A female friend. She's nuts about traveling, and so am I. Well —” He pecked
Kevin's ear. “Adios, Kevie!”

“Charlie!” Kevin cried as Charlie leaped off his shoulder and flew off. “I'll miss you!”

“I'll miss you, too, Kevie! Say good-bye to Ginnie for me! And watch out for tennis elbow! Hear?”

Kevin laughed. “I hear!” he shouted back, and waved as Charlie did a loop-the-loop, then flew away. In a moment he was joined
by another pigeon, and together they flew off into the wild blue yonder.