Clowns

"David Mirokin put his toe up to the line. 'Forty love.' The chair umpire called out the score in monotone, the crowd growing silent as Mirokin prepared to serve. The U.S. Open second round was underway, and this was the third set in a five-set match. David came in seeded eighth in the tournament, and was favored to win the match, especially after taking the first two sets 6-2, 6-2.

Standing six-foot-eight with an athlete's build, David Mirokin was no slouch to look at. His impressive German Irish features came through on the court, and his ripped abdominals led up to a powerful chest and stern, handsome features. He had many female fans, and a few were in the light crowd cheering him on. With a loud Thwok, his opponent groaned and slouched as an ace went by him.

That was five games to three. The girls in the crowd cheered loudly as David batted the tennis balls to the nearest ballboy. That was a thing he couldn't quite wrap his head around. The crowd. It had been a tough set, though he had gotten the break rather early on and held his serve comfortably. But there was a group of hecklers in the stands nearby the midcourt line, and David's bristles were hackling.

Booing, comical gestures, and hurled insults flew from the crowd constantly, almost every time Mirokin made a mistake. A group of ornery young men, they seemed very threatening and passive aggressive. David Mirokin was a fighter, but he knew better. This was his job, and he had to be a professional. His opponent, Justin Ruffin, ranked somewhere around fifty in the world, was preparing to serve.

David glanced over at the heckler's section, sneers, branded logo shirts, and pointed fingers meeting him in return. It was like these young men had no identity. Just shit talk and mocking behaviors. It was like they were clowns or something, instead of people, who couldn't take themselves seriously at all. No seriousness...

David rolled his eyes and wiped his brow on his wristband, ignoring the annoyance and preparing to receive. A rally ensued as Ruffin served hard down the middle, Mirokin batting the ball back in return.

The game went on, Mirokin taking advantage of a couple of weak second serves to gain a forty to thirty lead in the game. The heckling grew to a new outrageous momentum, as several curse words escaped the hecklers mouths.

It was match point. Prize money, and advancing further into the tournament, was on the line. Mirokin complained to the umpire as the umpire obliged with a few commands to the rowdy fans.

Casting his fierce eyes once again at the rude crowd members, Mirokin refocused and pounced on a high kick first serve. Receiving a weak reply, Mirokin ran around a cross court forehand and smashed the ball. The hecklers' faces fell, a look of dismay crossing in each of their faces, as David fist pumped with masculine politeness and approached the net.

His eyes glinting, a moment occurred David Mirokin could not explain. Ruffin trotted to the net, removing his sweaty head scarf, and offered a humble congratulations. The light crowd cheered him loudly with a wave of energy.

They could sense it too. He had beaten something else that day. The wave of energy burst through the whole stadium, as David glanced up at the night sky in New York City after the handshake. He thought to himself, with the only word that made sense of it clearing in his mind. Victory...

The umpire prepared to announce the final result, with the annoying hecklers strangely nowhere in sight.

Game. Set. Match. Mirokin..."