Cover art by Erin Halfelven
©2026, SammyC

“Give me your right arm, Lindsey.” Elena held her hand out to me, a serious expression on her face. I was just about to walk onto the tennis court at Grossinger’s, where Jeremy and I were going to play a mixed doubles match against the Rubinstein twins, a 17-year-old brother/sister pair who were already playing varsity tennis at Cornell University.

“The match starts in a few minutes, Elena. You’ve already wished us luck.”

“Humor an old woman. OK?” She took my arm and rubbed it firmly from shoulder to wrist. “Can’t have too much luck, can we? There! Now you’re good to go, sweetheart.”

I shook my head at her odd behavior but just smiled and ran to confer with Jeremy who was already trading practice volleys with Marshall Rubinstein. He waved me over to the deuce court and gestured for me to practice with Wendy Rubinstein, who was standing across the net with a smirk on her face, swinging her racquet in the steamy air of this early August afternoon.

As both sides toweled off the grips of their racquets before starting the match, I petitioned Jeremy again to position myself in the ad court instead of the deuce.

“Lindsey, we’ve gone over this all week. The better player always receives on ad points. Strength against strength.”

“You’re saying you’re better than me…just because I’m a girl? I’m the one who’s actually on the school tennis team.”

“I’d be on the tennis team too but my school limits you to one sport per season. Basketball in the winter, diving in the spring.”

“But…” The Chair Umpire, sitting above us in her tall chair, interrupted my objection in a loud voice.

“Time! Prepare to play!”

I reluctantly positioned myself on the deuce side of the court, still sneering at Jeremy. I thought I practiced really well all week. The best I’ve ever played, in my own estimation. Well, we practiced against an old, married couple in their sixties…

“Mr. Rubinstein to serve first. Play!”

Marshall Rubinstein and Jeremy traded service games before Wendy got her chance to serve the third game of the first set. A pattern emerged. She tried to overpower me when I had to receive or when I was at net. I have to admit, she was the better player. After the game, Jeremy patted my shoulder.

“Here’s your chance to get back at her. On the odd points, try to serve to her body. Don’t let her get an angle. She’s got a dangerous forehand.”

“I’ll serve to her backhand then—”

“Her backhand’s dangerous too.” I rolled my eyes. “Remember, right at her body.”

I toed the fault line, bounced the ball several times, looked up at Wendy’s fatuous expression as she moved closer to the net on her deuce side, displaying open contempt for the velocity of my serve. I tossed the ball a good two feet above my head and gave it my best overhand swing. I ended up on my toes just a half an inch behind the fault line. I don’t think I grunted. That might have been Wendy grunting…in pain.

It was the hardest serve I’d ever made. One hard bounce and it hit Wendy right in the bread-basket. 15-love. After that, she shook her head in disbelief and the next time I served to her she backed up farther and farther behind the baseline. I gained enough confidence in my serve to attack her forehand and her backhand. I even won a point off a long return by Marshall. As we switched sides after the third game, ahead 2 to 1, Jeremy looked at me in amazement.

“I didn’t know you could serve like that!”

“There’s lots of things you don’t know about me.”

I looked into the sparse stands and locked eyes with Elena. She smiled and gave me a thumb’s up. Reflexively, I rubbed my right arm. Did she do this to help me or Jeremy? Whatever the answer was, Jeremy’s mood was a lot sunnier than it was on the half-hour drive up from the Lodge to the town of Liberty, site of Grossinger’s.

We had taken Aaron’s car. Me, Jeremy, Elena, and Grandma. There wasn’t much conversation on the way. Aaron’s only contribution was joking that he had a standing bet with Greg, the assistant manager at Grossinger’s, on the tennis match. He had to convince us that his wager was on us, not the Rubinstein twins. Elena and Grandma just groaned at Aaron, still gambling as his inheritance from his father was in mortal danger. Jeremy, as I noted, quietly looked out the window at the mountain greenery of Upstate New York, already resigned to the probability that Aaron would lose yet another bet.

As for me, I tried to keep up a cheerful front but I was worried about Dad. He had originally planned to come along to watch me play but didn’t feel well after lunch. The situation with The Lodge had preyed upon his mind to the point where sleep wasn’t coming easily to him. I’d wake up in the middle of the night to see him sitting by the door leading to the terrace of our hotel room, staring into the dark night sky. He’d tell me not to worry about him and go back to sleep. Grandma and I insisted he see Dr. Rosenberg but he begged off and told us he’d go back to our room and lie down for a while before doing his usual run-through in the Supper Club.

“Thinking about your father, sweetie?” Elena asked.

“I keep telling him to go in for those tests that Dr. Rosenberg suggested. But he’s so stubborn.”

“He’s worried about losing the pay for the remaining weeks of the summer,” Elena surmised.

“I keep telling him I can enroll in public school. And after my senior year, I can attend a state college. If I keep my grades up, I’ll qualify for a full ride to Rutgers…”

“It’s a shame, Lindsey. Your father so wanted you to be the first female rabbi from the Azoff side of the family,” Grandma said in a disconcerted tone.

Elena and I exchanged knowing smiles, verging on giggles.

“Well, as they say in Yiddish, what a bummer.” Grandma nodded sadly.

Jeremy and I won the first set 6-4, having broken Marshall’s serve in the final game (game point won on a forehand winner I hit to the corner of the deuce court that Wendy completely whiffed on). But, the Rubinstein twins upped their game in the second set. After reaching a 6-6 score, the set would have to be decided on a best-of-13 tiebreak. If we won, we’d clinch the match. If they won, we’d have to play a third set. And I was getting a little winded, to be honest.

“I think we’re better off hitting it to Marshall,” Jeremy advised.

“Nah, it’s mano-a-mano. Me and Wendy. Sudden death overtime!”

“That’s football, Lindsey. First pair to reach 7 points and by a margin of at least 2 points wins the tiebreak in tennis. Don’t they play by the new Wimbledon rules at your school?”

“We’re very traditional at the Yeshiva,” I offered.

“Anyway, it can’t be mano-a-mano. You’re both girls,” Jeremy laughed.

“Hey, genius, mano is the Spanish word for hand. You know, hand-to-hand like hand-to-hand combat? And mano is already a feminine noun, stupid.” I stuck my tongue out at him.

“I took French in school…” Jeremy looked away.

“Ready? Miss Rubinstein to serve first. Play!” came the Chair Umpire’s stentorian command.

It came down to the 12th point of the tiebreak on Marshall’s serve. We were leading 6-5, needing this point to take the title. Marshall saved 4 ad points before Jeremy whistled a backhand past Wendy at the net to settle it. Jeremy and I high-fived, hugged and then decorously shook hands with the Rubinsteins and the Chair Umpire.

There was a brief ceremony as Grossinger’s assistant manager, the aforementioned Greg, handed us our gold-plated trophy for winning the mixed doubles championship. The small crowd politely applauded us as we walked off the court. Kisses and hugs were exchanged all around among our happy troupe but I noticed Aaron standing near center court. Greg was counting out Aaron’s winnings into his open palm. After Greg slapped Aaron on the shoulder and walked away, it shocked me to see Aaron running toward us. Running!

“Emergency! Emergency! Everyone to the parking lot and get in my car. Now! Pronto!”

“That’s Spanish for hurry up, Jeremy,” I teased.

Just seconds after Jeremy practically tumbled into the back seat, jostling me into Grandma, Aaron turned the ignition and got the car off to a roaring start.

“Where are we going in such a hurry? What emergency?” everyone asked.

“It’s your dad, Lindsey. He had a heart attack while he was doing his run-through—”

Grandma screamed. I was silenced by fear.

“Sam drove him to the hospital in Harris—”

“Is…is he…” I spluttered.

“Sam says he’s ok.”

“Who is Sam?” asked Grandma.

“Doctor Rosenberg. He’s the doctor in residence at The Lodge. Aaron’s cousin,” I breathlessly informed her.

“They say it’s a minor attack. They’re treating him with clot-blockers and painkillers.”

“Jeremy’s father had to have a stent put in when he had his heart attack,” Elena said.

“Sam gave him some aspirin immediately for blood-thinning. It’s a good thing the hospital in Harris is only 10 minutes away from The Lodge.”

“Did this just happen? Did Greg tell you this while paying out your winnings?” I was puzzled as to how Aaron found this out. He was sitting in the stands while we played two sets and a tiebreak.

“Well, it happened about an hour ago. Sam’s wife called Greg here at Grossinger’s. Greg called me over to tell me. I thought Greg was going to welsh on our bet. But it turned out to be about your father…”

“An hour ago? Why didn’t you tell us immediately? They could’ve stopped the match,” I practically shouted.

“You guys were leading 5 games to 4 in the second set. I thought for sure you’d break serve and finish the match. But then you needed a tiebreak. After all, they said your dad wasn’t in any real danger—”

I leaped out of my seat to choke the life out of Aaron.

“You’re trying to kill my father, you moron!”

Aaron started making gurgling sounds and the car began to weave along the road. Jeremy pulled me off Aaron’s neck and held onto me as I struggled to jump back up.

“I had a c-note on 2 to 1 odds,” Aaron weakly declared after clearing his throat and regaining control of the steering wheel.