Philly and I feel both outlaws and we are always on the go and do exactly what God forbid we want to do. Fast food packaging we throw over our shoulders in the back. We listen to loud music, cursing as much as we want and say whatever the hell in our minds without fear that someone corrects us or ridicule. Yet we never discuss the fact that we make this trip for several reasons. The only thing Philly wants is an ATP earn points, just one, so he knows how it feels to have a ranking. All I want is to prevent me from Philly to play, because I loved my brother, then to defeat.
During the first satellite crush my opponent is crushed by his Philly. Afterwards, the car in the garage next to the stadium, sitting at the wheel Philly staring, stunned. For some reason, this loss hurt him more than any other. He clenches his fists and punches against the steering wheel. Hard. He punches again. He talks to himself, so soft that I can not understand. He talks louder. He cries, he screams that he is a born loser, he gives the wheel a stump and another one. He hits so hard against the steering wheel that I am afraid he will break the bone in his hand. I think of our father, schaduwboksend against the steering truck driver after he was beaten down.
Philly says: I'd be better off if I would break my fucking fist! It was all over with! Dad's right, I'm a born loser.
Then he was silent. He looks at me to leave. As quietly as our mother. He smiles, the storm has died down, the devil is gone.
Now I feel better, he says with a smile and a tear.
He drives the car park and gives me directions to my next opponent.
A few days after I'm back at the Bollettieri Academy, I slip away to the Mall and call collect calls Bradenton home.
Philly takes on. He sounds just like in the garage.
You know, he says, you have a letter from the ATP.
Oh yeah?
Do you know your ranking?
No idea, what do you think?
You are at number 610.
Really?
Number 610 of the world,
bro
This means that the whole world, but 609 people better than me. On planet Earth in this solar system, I am number 610. I give a blow against the wall of the booth and shout for joy.
The line was silent. Then ask Philly whisper: How does it feel?
I can not believe how thoughtless I am so going by screaming, while I know he must be disappointed. I wish I were half my atp-points could give him. On a very bored tone I say: Oh, you know? It's nothing. Not really.
