Read Online The Heat Islands: A Doc Ford Novel by Randy Wayne White - Free Book Online
Authors: Randy Wayne White
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her in pigtails, swinging a pro-size tennis racket, age four.
That's the way her life had gone.
Her father was a tennis fanatic—no other way to describe him. He'd wanted desperately to play pro tennis during the days of Pancho Gonzales, Rod Laver, Ken Rosewall, and Stan Smith, but he'd never had the talent— not that he would admit that, no. In his mind, coaching was all he'd lacked, so he made damn sure that she had all the coaching she could bear, and then some.
Because her father had made a bundle of money at insurance and could afford it, she had been one of the youngest players ever accepted into the Nick Bolliteri Tennis Academy. Which meant that, all through adolescence, she lived in a dormitory, not at home. Which was hell at first, but then she grew to know the other girls so well that they were more of a family than her real family. After that, it wasn't so bad. In fact, it was pretty good.
She'd spent some time at the Harry Hopman Auzzie Camp, too, and played all the USTA tournaments, and won her seetional at fourteen, which was considered a hell of a thing to do in those days, and then she won her age group in nationals, two years running, so going pro was the next logical step.
Only it had never crossed her father's mind that she would someday grow tired of tennis. Tired of him first, really, and tennis seeond. But she had, sure enough. So weary of both of them that she could hardly bear to think of it. So she only talked to her father about once a month by phone. And, since the elbow operation, she only worked at tennis when her best friend from NBTA, Bets, who was Romanian, chided her into it.
Otherwise, she played golf. Which she loved—except for the first few shots, in which she really sucked.
Goddamn it!
Smiling, Ford let the fly sink through the murk and began to strip it back slowly, his concentration vectoring on that unseen point where his lure and the fish should interseet... but they did not. This time, anyway. He made several more casts, listening to Dewey's running commentary behind him, talking to herself as if no one was there to hear.
"Oh Christ, look at this divot—I want the mineral rights on this one.... That's right, Nye, hit another one in the water. Russian judge gives that about a six. Good height, bad entry.... Military golf, that's what Miss Nye is playing today, folks: left, right, left, right."
Ford reeled his line in, watching her. "Having fun?" he asked.
She looked up, jaw set, eyes intense. "Hold it." She stood over her last ball, brought the club up slowly, then swung down through it. Ford watched the ball start low, rising on a line, then hit once on the distant green before kicking back toward the flag.
"Finally," she said, gathering her clubs. "Two to the left, five just off to the right, and one on the dance floor."
"How far is that?"
"Hundred sixty yards, maybe one seventy."
"My gosh."
"You want to try?"
"Naw."
"Why not?"
"I already told you, I played golf once. It was like tennis. I spent the whole time apologizing."
Dewey said, "Hit just one, and maybe a little later I'll try to catch a fish. I can give you some tips."
Ford said, "Okay, just one," and laid his rod carefully in the grass, taking the club the woman offered, and stood over the ball as he had seen golfers on television do.
Dewey was saying, "Don't try to hit it hard, just hit it solid. Keep the club face square; don't let your body get out in front."
Ford said, "Right, uh-huh, okay," then hit the ball like a rocket toward the green, but it sliced way right, where it disappeared toward the line of trees and houses.
Dewey had been squatting down, watching, and now she stood, taking the club from Ford. "You're right," she said.
"Huh?"
"About golf. You suck."
Ford was still looking where his ball had gone, and Dewey said, "Hope some kid's dog wasn't over there playing or something. Well... if it was, it's dead, and there's nothing you can do about it now. Or maybe an old lady out
That's the way her life had gone.
Her father was a tennis fanatic—no other way to describe him. He'd wanted desperately to play pro tennis during the days of Pancho Gonzales, Rod Laver, Ken Rosewall, and Stan Smith, but he'd never had the talent— not that he would admit that, no. In his mind, coaching was all he'd lacked, so he made damn sure that she had all the coaching she could bear, and then some.
Because her father had made a bundle of money at insurance and could afford it, she had been one of the youngest players ever accepted into the Nick Bolliteri Tennis Academy. Which meant that, all through adolescence, she lived in a dormitory, not at home. Which was hell at first, but then she grew to know the other girls so well that they were more of a family than her real family. After that, it wasn't so bad. In fact, it was pretty good.
She'd spent some time at the Harry Hopman Auzzie Camp, too, and played all the USTA tournaments, and won her seetional at fourteen, which was considered a hell of a thing to do in those days, and then she won her age group in nationals, two years running, so going pro was the next logical step.
Only it had never crossed her father's mind that she would someday grow tired of tennis. Tired of him first, really, and tennis seeond. But she had, sure enough. So weary of both of them that she could hardly bear to think of it. So she only talked to her father about once a month by phone. And, since the elbow operation, she only worked at tennis when her best friend from NBTA, Bets, who was Romanian, chided her into it.
Otherwise, she played golf. Which she loved—except for the first few shots, in which she really sucked.
Goddamn it!
Smiling, Ford let the fly sink through the murk and began to strip it back slowly, his concentration vectoring on that unseen point where his lure and the fish should interseet... but they did not. This time, anyway. He made several more casts, listening to Dewey's running commentary behind him, talking to herself as if no one was there to hear.
"Oh Christ, look at this divot—I want the mineral rights on this one.... That's right, Nye, hit another one in the water. Russian judge gives that about a six. Good height, bad entry.... Military golf, that's what Miss Nye is playing today, folks: left, right, left, right."
Ford reeled his line in, watching her. "Having fun?" he asked.
She looked up, jaw set, eyes intense. "Hold it." She stood over her last ball, brought the club up slowly, then swung down through it. Ford watched the ball start low, rising on a line, then hit once on the distant green before kicking back toward the flag.
"Finally," she said, gathering her clubs. "Two to the left, five just off to the right, and one on the dance floor."
"How far is that?"
"Hundred sixty yards, maybe one seventy."
"My gosh."
"You want to try?"
"Naw."
"Why not?"
"I already told you, I played golf once. It was like tennis. I spent the whole time apologizing."
Dewey said, "Hit just one, and maybe a little later I'll try to catch a fish. I can give you some tips."
Ford said, "Okay, just one," and laid his rod carefully in the grass, taking the club the woman offered, and stood over the ball as he had seen golfers on television do.
Dewey was saying, "Don't try to hit it hard, just hit it solid. Keep the club face square; don't let your body get out in front."
Ford said, "Right, uh-huh, okay," then hit the ball like a rocket toward the green, but it sliced way right, where it disappeared toward the line of trees and houses.
Dewey had been squatting down, watching, and now she stood, taking the club from Ford. "You're right," she said.
"Huh?"
"About golf. You suck."
Ford was still looking where his ball had gone, and Dewey said, "Hope some kid's dog wasn't over there playing or something. Well... if it was, it's dead, and there's nothing you can do about it now. Or maybe an old lady out
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