TENNIS, ANYONE? by BOOMERCAT RATED FRPT

Jeff is feeling his age.

"C'mon, Dad, you're moving like an old man!"

Jeff Tracy gritted his teeth and bounced on the balls of his feet, grasping the tennis racket in his hand. He wondered what had possessed him to volunteer for this torture. He looked across the net at his eldest son, Scott, and knew where to squarely place the blame.

Ever since his last physical, Scott had been trying subtly to get him to be more active. Jeff let out a hard sigh. It wasn't as if he sat on his butt all day. Jeff began every morning with a ten mile run around the South Seas Island his family called home. At least twice a week he sparred with one or another of his sons, usually Scott. He swam in the evenings, walked the beaches once a week.

He was in better shape than many men twenty years younger. He had to be tough to keep up with his five active sons and a demanding lifestyle that combined the far-flung global ventures of his high profile business, Tracy Enterprises, and the secret organization he headed, International Rescue. He had to be tough and smart and clever.

Yet here he was, tricked into playing tennis with three of his sons. Oh yes, there was no doubt in his mind that it had been a trick. His son Gordon had breezed into the family lounge less that an hour ago and accosted Scott, saying he wanted to play some tennis. Scott had readily agreed, but then Virgil had spoken up from where he sat at his piano saying he wouldn't mind a game. Because Alan was nowhere to be found, the young men had started to bicker over who would play and who would sit on the sidelines.

Jeff should have realized right then and there that it was a set-up. Scott and Virgil never bickered over petty things. And Gordon's typical response to any disagreement was to simply walk away. Jeff reflected he must be getting old because he had fallen neatly into the trap, offering to be the fourth in a game of doubles.

And now, here he was, bone weary, sweating like a stuck pig, staring across the net at Scott and Gordon. It was Gordon's serve, and Jeff was playing close to the net. He had never really quite realized what a black-hearted competitor his fourth son was. He should have known. You don't win an Olympic Gold Medal for being a nice guy, after all.

With a gleam of pure malice in his eye, Jeff's fourth son tossed the ball up into the air and then walloped it with his racket straight at his poor old dad. Jeff nimbly side-stepped and Virgil slapped the ball back hard. It whizzed by so close to his ear, that Jeff couldn't help but flinch. The tactic worked, and Scott didn't see the ball until it was past him. With a startled oath, Gordon dove for the ball but came up short.

Grinning, Jeff relaxed for a moment. "Nice one, son."

Virgil returned the grin, wiggling his eyebrows. "Thanks, Dad. Your serve."

Jeff went to a corner of the tennis enclosure and picked up a couple of balls. He thought for a moment, and put back the two balls he had originally picked up and dug through the bucket until he found what he wanted. White tennis balls had fallen out of fashion many years earlier in favor of the more easily visible neon colors, but if what Jeff planned was going to work, he needed every trick in the book.

Jeff's memory ranged back to his high school days in Kansas. He had been a popular kid in those days. Captain of the baseball team, lettering in track and tennis, he had been pretty cocky. Arrogant, actually. He remembered the day that his tennis coach had called the team together. They were headed to the state finals, and Jeff was giving serious consideration to a couple of tennis scholarships offered by Big Ten schools.

Like many teenagers, Jeff only listened to his coach when it was something he wanted to hear, and the rest of the time he tuned the man out, figuring he knew better than any teacher. On the day Jeff was remembering, Coach Daugherty had called the tennis team together and told them that an old alumni was in town and wanted to work out with the team. He said that the man, some guy Jeff had never heard of, had been a star of the tennis team many years earlier.

Jeff had been selected to face off against the man, and Jeff had cockily promised to go easy on the guy. Even still, Jeff had been surprised when a little old man had taken his place across the net. He had gotten the surprise of his young life on that day when the old codger had beaten him in straight sets. It was lesson Jeff hoped he could pull off now.

Standing behind the service line, he looked across the net to where Gordon bounced, a cheeky grin on his face. Jeff paused, struck by his son's pose that he knew mirrored his own almost forty years ago. Well, he would see now if he could wipe that smirk off of his son's face. Calling the score, "Love-thirty," Jeff stood and with an underhand thwack lobbed the ball high in the air.

Gordon, caught off guard, nevertheless, moved under the ball, and looking almost straight up, waited for it to drop. The ball eventually fell, and Gordon attempted a strong forearm shot. He misjudged the distance to the net, and the ball smacked into it and dribbled back into the court.

Scott's sarcastic, "Nice," drew a scowl from his younger brother. Virgil turned back to his father and gave a thumb's up, which Jeff acknowledged with a tight smile.

Moving again to the service line, Jeff called "fifteen-thirty" and lobbed the next one even higher. Scott, determined not to make the same mistake as his brother, moved under the ball, but kept his eye on the net too. As Jeff looked on, Scott made his move on the ball but misjudged it in the late afternoon light and swung and missed.

Gordon looked at his older brother in disbelief. "You whiffed it?"

Scott for his part stood staring at his racket as if it had suddenly developed a hole. Virgil started chuckling, shaking his head and wiping his eyes. Gordon and Scott both turned annoyed looks on their chestnut-haired brother. Scott said in a soft, dangerous voice, "You think you can do better, Virg?"

Virgil, who had never been intimidated by his big brother, shrugged with a grin. "I don't have to do better. I was wise enough to pick Dad for my partner."

Jeff's recollection was that Virgil lost the draw and had landed up with him because he had no choice. Jeff decided not to point it out when the snorts from both of the boys across the net were more eloquent than anything he could say.

"Okay, new game. Virg, come on over here. First one to successfully return one of Dad's serves wins."

"You're on." Gordon was always willing.

"I dunno, Scott. I kind of like it on this side of the net."

Jeff decided Virgil was sounding a bit too smug at his brothers' expense. "I'll tell you what, boys. I'll give you each three shots at it. If nobody returns the ball, I win. Virgil, it's your turn."

Virgil turned such a dejected face to his father that Jeff couldn't help but laugh. Leave it to his practical second boy to understand there was no way he was going to prevail. Neither Scott nor Gordon had gotten that message yet. "Go on now, son. I'll go easy on you."

Virgil's pride was stung by the remark as Jeff had known it would be, and when his son turned to face him across the net, his whole body telegraphed his determination. Once again, Jeff lobbed the ball a good thirty feet in the air. Virgil waited at the back of the court, apparently deciding to let the ball bounce before hitting it. It was a good strategy, but when he hit the ball, it sailed out of bounds.

Scott and Gordon both groaned in sympathy. "Good try, Virg."

"Yeah, I thought you had him that time."

The exchange brought a thrill of pleasure to Jeff. He had raised his boys right. Competitive they may be, but when it came right down to it, they supported each other.

He called to his sons, "Okay, Gordon, you're up."

The red-haired young man took his place at the back of the court, a look of fierce concentration on his face. With a tiny smile, Jeff lobbed the ball. Like Virgil, Gordon stayed at the back of the court. Unlike Virgil, Gordon couldn't resist taking a swing as the ball dropped straight down. Jeff was almost disappointed when his son topped the ball sending into the net a second time.

Gordon's look of disgust brought Scott over to pat him on the shoulder. "Don't worry about it, squirt. There's just some trick to it. We'll figure it out eventually."

"Yeah, we will." Gordon nodded firmly, shooting his father a 'you'll-get-yours' look before leaving the court to his older brother.

Scott pointed his racket at Jeff and said, "I'm ready for you, Father."

Once again, Jeff lobbed the ball high. Scott waited for it to bounce and started to swing when Virgil called frantically "Out! Scott, it's out!"

Scott tried to abort the swing, but with no luck and the ball sailed over the high fence surrounding the court. Jeff couldn't help the short barked laugh. All three of his sons glared at their father and, after a moment, pulled themselves into a huddle. Jeff waited patiently as his boys strategized.

After a few moments they broke up the huddle, both Gordon and Scott calling encouragement to Virgil, who took his place on the court. Jeff called out solicitously, "Ready, son?"

Virgil never broke concentration, barking out, "Just serve the damn ball," with the elan and attitude of a professional player. Jeff smiled encouragingly at the young man.

"Okay, Virgil, it's coming now." As Jeff expected, his solicitude irritated Virgil to the point that he swung too early, and like Scott before him, whiffed the ball.

Gordon stood thunderstruck. "This is unbelievable. How is he doing that?"

"Get out there and nail him, Gordon. You can do it."

"Yeah, Gordon, it's game time. Go get him."

Gordon stalked onto the court. His eyes were blank, and Jeff recognized the look from a hundred swim meets. Gordon was here to win. Jeff smiled. He tossed the ball up and with all of his strength, hit it right at his startled son. Gordon scrambled to get out of the way, swinging wildly at the ball. The ball hit the top of his racket on its bullet flight to the back of the court. "Hey, no fair!"

Jeff laughed. "One down, two to go. Come on, Scott, time to take your medicine!"

Scott lived for challenges. He narrowed his eyes and took his place on the court. "Go ahead. Try that with me."

Jeff just stood staring at his son for a moment. Then nodding his head decisively, he tossed the ball, and tapped it lightly so that it barely cleared the net. Scott, who had been standing well behind the line, blurted a startled oath and dove to get the ball. Jeff admired the speed with which his son moved, but he wasn't quite fast enough, and the ball dribbled away before he got to it.

All three of Jeff's sons groaned. Scott rolled over onto his back and flung his arms out. "Damn it."

Virgil strode over and offered his brother his hand. Scott grabbed it and in a fluid motion rose to his feet. Jeff watched his son's casual display of strength and wished he were that young again. Sighing he found he would be glad just to end this and go sit down. His sons kept him young, but still made him feel so old.

Virgil stayed on the court as Scott left it. Jeff could see him frowning in concentration. He knew he would not get the ball past the young man with trickery. Jeff considered trying an ace, but he was getting tired, and he knew Virgil would like nothing better than to slam the ball back down his throat. He had always been good at soft shots, but Virgil would be expecting that.

Sighing, Jeff lobbed the ball high in the air and hoped for the best. With Gordon and Scott shouting encouragement from the sidelines, Virgil waited for the ball. It bounced high and with determination, he swung. It was a good level shot to Jeff's backhand. Jeff didn't even try for it, as it landed out of bounds.

Virgil hung his head as Gordon fell to his knees theatrically weeping and wailing. Scott watched his brothers for a moment then started chuckling, ruefully shaking his head. Virgil's head came up, and within moments the two were laughing out loud. It took Gordon a few moments to come around, but soon enough he too was laughing.

Jeff looked on with pride, a wide smile on his face. "And that, boys, is why you all work for me and not the other way around. Come on, let's go get something to drink." Jeff casually led the way out of the tennis court enclosure, his three sons trailing behind. Jeff waited until they caught up and threw a friendly arm over Scott's shoulder. "Now, how do you suppose I can teach Alan and John the same lesson?"