Read Online The Heat Islands: A Doc Ford Novel by Randy Wayne White - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Randy Wayne White
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watering her flowers."
"Fine golf coach you'd make."
"Wait till I try to teach you tennis."
"After my next golf lesson. You're so encouraging." She cupped her hand around the back of his neck. "Aw, I am too tough on you, aren't I. Doc? I guess that's why you never ask me out. Is that the reason? It's always me that asks you." Joking with her voice, but not joking with her eyes, looking at him.
"You mean, like a date?"
"You do catch on quick, buster." Smiling a question with her expression, then answering it herself. "I'm too abrasive, huh? Maybe too young for you—you said that once."
"I don't remember ever saying—"
"Well, maybe you didn't. Just an idea, that's all."
"And you just called it quits with your guy Doug. On the rebound—isn't that what they call it?"
"Mr. Have Porsche Will Babble? More like on the short hop from him. No romance; strictly buddies, and then that wasn't enough for him. Dougie reminds me too much of that guy on the reruns... Alan Alda? Talk, talk, talk, like he was imitating Groucho Marx all the time, but not funny." Dewey was shouldering her bag, ready to move to the next hole. "Besides, you're the only guy I've ever hung around with where I actually learned something. And the only one who didn't try to give me advice on my ground stroke. Talking about bugs and fish and stuff. I like that. I always was sort of a nature buff."
"Your what stroke?"
"See?" Grinning, she gave him another one of those squeezes, communicating on a whole different level as she brushed past him, saying. "Don't forget your rod, dearie." On the next hole. Ford made a steady series of casts without a strike, while Dewey hit irons, talking about tennis more, it seemed to Ford, to put distance between the talk of dating than to actually discuss the sport. She said, "The thing with tennis, you absolutely work your butt off to qualify for the Grand Prix Circuit and. or.ee you qualify, you still have to work like a maniac to maintain your ranking. Mucho pressure. There's a major tournament someplace every week of the year, except Christmas, so that means you better by God be there on the court, ready, or you begin to slide in the ratings. You live in hotels and planes. Really sucks after a while. More than once I woke up and had to find the telephone book just to remember where I was."
She was hitting balls, nearly every shot straight now, relaxed and enjoying herself, but introspective, too. Ford hadn't seen this side of her.
"The way it works is, the whole thing's computerized. Computer figures the weight of the tournament—that's how many seeded players—then figures in the purse, gives a bonus if you beat a seeded player, and that all works out to a single number. You're better off making the semis in two big tournaments than winning two small ones. Complicated."
He said, "I see that."
"Miss a few tournaments, your number slips. Last year, playing full time. I was ranked nineteenth in the world. This year, with the injury and all the time off. sixty-fourth. Three years ago, my best year, I was thirteenth. Lucky thirteen. You can make a lot of money just beating seeded players, not even winning, but I made a lot more on exhibitions, endorsements. But that's changed now. Even the big manufacturers aren't giving long-term contracts anymore. Strictly year by year, and all incentive-type stuff, unless you're Graf or Martina."
Ford said, "Yeah?" wondering where she was going with this.
Dewey said. "You know what bothers me the most?"
"What's that?"
She hit another long iron, the ball's trajectory creating a brief laser streak, catching the remnant pink flare of sunset. "I've been playing tennis nearly every day of my life since age five...." She began to put her clubs away, done now, her face sweaty and standing close enough so that he could smell the woman mixture of sweat and body lotion. "I've been on the circuit nearly eight years now ... and the thing that bothers me is that I wasn't born for it. Not born
"Fine golf coach you'd make."
"Wait till I try to teach you tennis."
"After my next golf lesson. You're so encouraging." She cupped her hand around the back of his neck. "Aw, I am too tough on you, aren't I. Doc? I guess that's why you never ask me out. Is that the reason? It's always me that asks you." Joking with her voice, but not joking with her eyes, looking at him.
"You mean, like a date?"
"You do catch on quick, buster." Smiling a question with her expression, then answering it herself. "I'm too abrasive, huh? Maybe too young for you—you said that once."
"I don't remember ever saying—"
"Well, maybe you didn't. Just an idea, that's all."
"And you just called it quits with your guy Doug. On the rebound—isn't that what they call it?"
"Mr. Have Porsche Will Babble? More like on the short hop from him. No romance; strictly buddies, and then that wasn't enough for him. Dougie reminds me too much of that guy on the reruns... Alan Alda? Talk, talk, talk, like he was imitating Groucho Marx all the time, but not funny." Dewey was shouldering her bag, ready to move to the next hole. "Besides, you're the only guy I've ever hung around with where I actually learned something. And the only one who didn't try to give me advice on my ground stroke. Talking about bugs and fish and stuff. I like that. I always was sort of a nature buff."
"Your what stroke?"
"See?" Grinning, she gave him another one of those squeezes, communicating on a whole different level as she brushed past him, saying. "Don't forget your rod, dearie." On the next hole. Ford made a steady series of casts without a strike, while Dewey hit irons, talking about tennis more, it seemed to Ford, to put distance between the talk of dating than to actually discuss the sport. She said, "The thing with tennis, you absolutely work your butt off to qualify for the Grand Prix Circuit and. or.ee you qualify, you still have to work like a maniac to maintain your ranking. Mucho pressure. There's a major tournament someplace every week of the year, except Christmas, so that means you better by God be there on the court, ready, or you begin to slide in the ratings. You live in hotels and planes. Really sucks after a while. More than once I woke up and had to find the telephone book just to remember where I was."
She was hitting balls, nearly every shot straight now, relaxed and enjoying herself, but introspective, too. Ford hadn't seen this side of her.
"The way it works is, the whole thing's computerized. Computer figures the weight of the tournament—that's how many seeded players—then figures in the purse, gives a bonus if you beat a seeded player, and that all works out to a single number. You're better off making the semis in two big tournaments than winning two small ones. Complicated."
He said, "I see that."
"Miss a few tournaments, your number slips. Last year, playing full time. I was ranked nineteenth in the world. This year, with the injury and all the time off. sixty-fourth. Three years ago, my best year, I was thirteenth. Lucky thirteen. You can make a lot of money just beating seeded players, not even winning, but I made a lot more on exhibitions, endorsements. But that's changed now. Even the big manufacturers aren't giving long-term contracts anymore. Strictly year by year, and all incentive-type stuff, unless you're Graf or Martina."
Ford said, "Yeah?" wondering where she was going with this.
Dewey said. "You know what bothers me the most?"
"What's that?"
She hit another long iron, the ball's trajectory creating a brief laser streak, catching the remnant pink flare of sunset. "I've been playing tennis nearly every day of my life since age five...." She began to put her clubs away, done now, her face sweaty and standing close enough so that he could smell the woman mixture of sweat and body lotion. "I've been on the circuit nearly eight years now ... and the thing that bothers me is that I wasn't born for it. Not born
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