My cardinal offense, the one that branded me, played out on a tennis court in late April. On the East End of Portland, Maine, there are a few courts open to the public as long as gym class isn’t in session. Waylon and I were finally getting in our first game of the year after him texting me on the two previous nice days and then both of us balking.
The prospect of losing Waylon as a tennis partner weighed on me more heavily than the loss of his friendship, which was circumstantial at best. At school we traveled in similar circles and had discovered via ugly small talk one morning early in our senior year that we were both looking for better people to play tennis with. Better as in more fun. I would not normally look to make a new friend so haphazardly, but I guessed accurately from our conversation that he was looking for the same type of play as me: uninvested. We had both done it, tennis, more seriously in high school, and Waylon and I sometimes talked about how a lot of our self-worth had gotten tangled up with our tennis achievements, common for high-schoolers, and were both glad that we’d grown out of that misconception and now played with nothing to prove on the court. We’d played just enough tennis at the exact right time in our lives so that we would never forget it, and now we just wanted to bask in the sport. After hesitantly setting up our first playdate, it came to pass that Waylon was the only person I would play tennis against for the rest of our time at school, and I’m pretty sure that vice versa was true.
If there were quantitative measurements of recreational tennis skill, our data points would be snuggled together on the graph. I appreciated how the evenness of our abilities combined with the pretense of taking it easy eliminated the risk of anybody getting pissed off. I would have done anything to avoid that. I never vocalized it for fear of troubling Waylon and I’s situation, but I would always much rather lose a game if it meant everyone was happy. I felt strongly that competition was the worst part of games, the easiest way to ruin them, especially when so many people were prone to getting upset by loss. That to me was a slightly detestable ego thing that I was glad not to suffer from but was happy to accommodate, because it’s easy to do so when you’re fiercely motivated by a fear of confrontation. If I got trounced, great, who cares. If I was significantly better, I would measure my play accordingly to keep things balanced and adjust based on my opponent’s temperament, or maybe not even play against them in the first place. Waylon was perfect for me, and perhaps I for him, because I could play really hard, as best as I could, and it would always be even-keeled.
We only hung out to play tennis. Post graduation we both ended up in Portland and that spring was testing loyalties to our arrangement. We hadn’t communicated since graduating or at all over the winter, so there was the queasy sense that we would likely never see each other again if we didn’t get it up to meet on the court. I owed it to a lot of things internal and external to try to do this at least once in this vulnerable first year out of college, having lost all my ‘real’ friends to New York City. I liked torturing myself by dipping into our group chat to scan their recounts of great nights out that had nothing to do with me. I tried to keep reminding myself that the true reality was that my friends wanted me there, but many days were still spent feeling dejected to the point of tears.
This cloud of angst was dark above me when I met Waylon at 2:30pm, severe enough that it had almost prevented me from showing up. I kept imagining my friends in New York laughing at me for the quality of my only acquaintance in this lesser city and getting more and more mad from my single bedroom apartment above the Vietnamese take-out restaurant on Cumberland Ave. Waylon wasn’t cool to us art kids because he was very very normal. He had a normal-ass whiteboy haircut for his hair, was like six feet tall, broad-faced and slightly chubby. He had perpetually pouting red lips that made one feel inclined to be annoyed at him on sight, though his deep voice and sparse speech combated that. A mark against him for some but not for me, he had majored in some kind of science and had never once given thought to the end of history.
I walked up, then down, Munjoy Hill, the view of the ocean that exploded once you got out of the neighborhood never getting old. The courts were one of a few recreational niceties decorating a wide grassy slope that provided a few winding passages to the shore. As expected, Waylon and I were not alone in trying to get some sunlight into our Vitamin-D deprived bodies on that April day; there were many presumptively unbundled people doing all sorts of things. They would be too cold in like one hour.
Waylon had gotten there first and was leaning against the chain link fence protecting the courts. When he saw me he weakly raised his hand in acknowledgement and my stomach clenched. Oh god, was this going to be awkward? I got closer and was relieved to find that it wasn’t. Waylon was a very nice boy and his normalness, so degraded by others, made him a very easy person to jump back into. There was never much at stake in our relationship, and it wasn’t until that moment that I realized that that was its greatest strength.
“Long time no see.”
“Yeah. How’re you?”
“You know, going.”
“Oh yeah, I know.”
“You played any tennis recently?”
“No, not since we graduated. You?”
“Yeah, me too, I mean so yeah, no, I haven’t.”
“Cool, so we’ll both be bad.”
“Ha. Yeah.”
We were both in sweats and carrying racket quivers and tennis balls, together representing a myriad of brands as we moved to occupy one of the three courts. The other two were empty. Women in puffy jackets and leggings ran by.
“Where’re you in Portland?” Waylon asked.
“Oh I’m just on Cumberland Ave., it took me like 10 minutes to walk here.”
“Dope, I’m on the West End, yeah. What do you do?”
“I’m doing an unpaid internship at Portland Press Herald but the point is to start getting paid soon.”
“Ha ha, yeah that’s how it goes. Yeah, I actually got set up by one of my dad’s friends and I’m a supervisor at the KeyBank on Congress. The one next to the library.”
“That’s cool.”
And at the exact moment I wanted the conversation to end, it did. Our pleasantries had lasted the duration of the walk to the court, and once we got there, he immediately went to the opposite side and started getting his racket out. See, this is why Waylon was the best–we got straight to the brass tacks of our companionship. Not for the first time I wondered if knowing anyone past this level of acquaintance was superfluous. We puttered around, warming up with purely performative stretches, for me at least. If I really cared about being limber for this day I would have stretched literally any time leading up to this.
After volleying a ball back and forth for a physical reminder (we still had it), we began playing matches and it was immediately fun. The activity and the sun were doing wonders for my serotonin, and Waylon and I were having fun playing like shit and getting sore, laughing amiably at ourselves and each other. Emboldened by our community on the promenade, we had both ambitiously taken off our sweats. That Saturday it was cloudless and 51, a real boon for April in Maine, but per usual the ocean breeze was gusting through with just enough force and frequency that a chill was almost certain if you stopped moving, all sweat all at once arresting you with an icy palm.
I won our first match and about halfway through the second, a gaggle of four Somali teens approached loudly from Melbourne Street and entered the space. Later I would be asked incessantly whether I was sure that I didn’t notice any change in Waylon’s demeanor, as this moment would be posed as a bit of a crux by those I felt were unfairly trying to convict me for premeditated non-action. No, I promise. Even in hindsight I don't think there was any change in his tall, ruddy face, un-creased from years of limited expression. Besides, he must have been focused on the match because I was winning.
God, how the Somalis swaggered. Tall, weight on their toes, chin up, eyes down, voices high and gesticulating wildly but paying us no mind, the lively coeds seized another court for doubles. To be clear, I had and have no qualms with the Somali population in Maine. It’s a very white state and I appreciate their blackness being here. I was far from ingratiated in any of their communities because I’d never tried, but I rooted for them from the sidelines. I tried to treat them like I treated everyone else, probably even a little better, and I thought that was a decent contribution. I thought it was respectful to assume that the average Somali immigrant wanted nothing to do with me, least of all a teenager. Teenagers of all races will always put me on edge with their cruelty and posturing that I find unreckonable, their chaotic confidence cowing me easily. Any confidence I had in dealing with young people over the years came from tempering my bubbling fear into a gentle, detached disdain.
Waylon and I were immersed in the match, being loud physically and orally, amateurishly aping the movements of players in a game that actually mattered, shouting and lunging. Drenched in sweat, our orange and red shirts turned to shades of brown and black the longer we played. The average volley didn’t last longer than six returns. It was the kind of poor play that could only be elevated by self-parody, exuding the confidence required to own how stupid you look. Waylon’s face was red and his ears were white; his jaw was slack, his exhalations were labored, and his eyes were glazed from focus combating exhaustion. Tennis grunts turned into tennis wheezes and moans. Pauses between sets were spent with hands on hips or atop his curly blonde hair, shirt lifting to reveal a winter’s extra pudge. The truth is that I felt really good, weirdly good. I’d been eating well.
Then we made eye contact and in that moment both instantly knew some things we were only hovering around before: Each knew that the other had also realized that I was just going to keep winning, and that it had to be Waylon to cry uncle. It was for his sake, as all men know that it’s more humiliating to have your opponent try to graciously cut the game short than for you to bend the knee and eject yourself. I was still going to try to make my typical gameplay adjustments to ease some of the tensions. It’s all about consciously playing poorly in moments you might have unconsciously played well. Not chasing the ball when it’s just far enough away, or failing the serve and blaming weariness. Winning or losing, being an athlete is all mental.
But Waylon began playing so poorly that for him to beat me I’d have to lower my level of play so dramatically that it would be rude and obvious. To make matters worse, Waylon appeared to be doubling down and exerting himself more in spite of my broadcasted winning streak. He breathed harder, lunged longer, grunted louder, but still got progressively worse and worse. This was very uncomfortable since we were as close to strangers as we had ever been in our friendship, and therefore I had no familiar tools of tact for how to de-escalate this problem, which had never been a problem at school. Either one of us had changed or things were not going well today.
Then he asked me what the score was, and I knew he was pissed.
“Oh, I’m not sure, I’m pretty sure it’s like thirty-love?”
“Cool.” Then he just waited for me to serve. What was his problem?
The young Somalis hadn’t yet started what I had assumed would be a doubles match. Instead they were still stretching and enjoying each other, clearly watching us, as was their right, you know. I could feel the application of their attention before my eyes darted over to quickly confirm it, and I could tell Waylon felt it as well. Our audience made themselves known by a matter of degree. First it was little “ooo”s and “no!”s floating from their court to ours, and then it was whooping for my victories and lamenting Waylon’s failures. Some particularly excellent play on my end pushed the kids to address us specifically: “You’re killing him, man, you’re killing him!” An audience made it impossible to call the match without having it be an acknowledgement that the reason for it was Waylon’s sucking.
God, I wanted it all to stop. Not one part of this was I enjoying. I had done this in hopes of enhancing my shitty life, and now a shitty life was all I had to go back to. At school me and my friends fantasized about getting high and going to the MoMA, arranging for our mutual futures to subsist on aesthetics and the advantages of youth. Almost a year out and we had all learned that it was never going to be as good as all that, but I had done it alone. None of my friends could know how much a thing like this, this game with Waylon, could upset me until I told them, but the optics were too embarrassing for me to imagine even starting to try. I went to play tennis with that guy from school none of you know and it made me existentially afraid. This thought brought me to my lowest point, where I was convinced I would lose all my friends and every fault would be my own.
The burning in my mind and lungs peaked as I finally won the second match with a spike that roared defeat. The Somalis roared back in approval, and I enjoyed it despite myself. I gave a weak, dismissive-yet-jocular wave but they didn’t even see me do it, I think; they were back to themselves, finally starting their own game. Waylon wasn’t saying anything; neither of us were for lack of breath. We stood motionless for the recollection of our composure. Then abruptly and without words, Waylon grabbed his racket quiver and walked back towards the entrance while wiping at his sweaty face that was masked by tight moodlessness. I picked up the few scattered balls on our court with leisure, partly out of self-righteousness, partly from exhaustion. I had just enough pride to combat this petty fear that he was mad at me. I did not see Waylon chug his orange gatorade then reach into his drawstring bag for his phone. I swear I did not see him make the call; remember, I was picking up the balls.
The sky had gone overcast and the wind had picked up, making our short pants and sleeves feel so stupid. The heat in my head clashed with the chillier air, creating a sickly ache in my sinuses. As I walked to meet Waylon just outside the courts, I tried to make my body language speak to all parties: “I am nonplussed to the benefit of everyone involved.” For good measure, I shot off a big wave to the kids over my shoulder. I reached Waylon and, after putting on our sweats with infantile effort, we started walking up the promenade past Quebec Street to get to Congress.
I was shocked when he spoke first. “Sorry for leaving you to pick up all our shit. And for acting weird. I’m just pissed that I’m out of shape. Good game, though, until the end there.”
“Ah, well, for you, maybe, ha ha. But no worries, don’t worry, I had a lot of fun, don’t feel bad, I bet by the next match you’ll be back.” I surprised myself with the promise of a future match and was even more surprised by how quickly I had come around to mean it. Is that being a pussy or being forgiving? Flip flops like this made me doubt I ever knew what I actually wanted.
Waylon chuckled genuinely. “Enjoy the win now, Kirby, cause let me tell you, it’s over for you next time. This was just preseason.”
By all appearances Waylon had gotten over it, or hadn’t had anything to get over in the first place, and equal parts appreciation and guilt swelled in my chest. So, clearly, this whole thing was a me-problem, I thought as we made our way headlong into the wind along the promenade. The sun was now more or less gone behind gathering clouds, and all those people I thought were going to get cold were getting cold and going home. I guess we were also those people.
We held a contented silence that can come after shared athletics and a good mood was emerging. This had been good for me; built some character, re-established a friendship. Those were two of the most honorable things you could do in this life. Best of all, my thoughts were here, not where I was not. As we were passing the entrance to Turner Street, close to Congress, I saw a police car coming down the main promenade road towards us. This was not unusual, but my brain tingled in the way anyone’s does when something is about to capital-h Happen. I turned to watch the vehicle stop, make a left turn, and pull up to the curb a few yards away from the tennis courts. After a second, two officers got out and started slowly walking toward the tennis courts, these built bald guys in sports shades and hands on belts from which various accouterments dangled.
“Hey,” I said, tapping Waylon on the shoulder, “Check it out.” I gestured back towards the scene unfolding.
“Uh, yeah,” he responded, trailing off. “I actually called them.” Waylon paused for a second, not nearly long enough for me to process, and began to walk again. I stopped even though he hadn’t, so I pathetically shuffled to keep up, a buoy dragged by a motorboat.
“Wait, so, why? Why would you do that?” I blurted as the situation began to assemble itself to me, unbelievable largely for its disappointing and clownish lack of dimension. Waylon had enough of a shred of self-awareness to look guilty, his eyes shining with the panic of committal. I deeply resented him now for dragging me from one stressor to another and completely ruining the emotional catharsis we had achieved. Could he not have put up a front for me and then done the racist thing later? Or at least think it instead of doing it? What he did was surely racism and I didn’t know if I had the wherewithal to properly call him out for it. I was horrified that I was about to find out.
Waylon leaned in (not physically, as in into his argument): “Well, they shouldn’t have been acting like that, I felt really uncomfortable.”
What in the fuck. Why was he doing this???
“I mean, it’s not about race. It’s not a racist thing. No matter what race anyone was there, they would have been bothering us. They can’t do that in a public space.”
I was so surprised and embarrassed to be involved in a racist episode with so little nuance. School gave me the impression that the more invisible intersectionalities there were to racism, the more real it was. But I guess I had taken for granted the much more tangible, boilerplate racism that happens on the street, the kind that makes a direct judgment on the character of the white people who bear witness.
I forged ahead with a slowness I wish I could attribute to being deliberate but was pure discomfort. I was feeling the same kind of sick thrill I imagine is felt when people are robbed or witness a car crash, an out-of-body experience in the second-hand. Everything was heightened, but I got the creeping feeling that I was not rising to where the occasion was. I hated myself for not trying harder in letting him win because I knew if I had, none of this would have happened.
I stuttered ahead, “Okay, besides the obvious problem of what you did being, like, wrong…why would you do it? Like, why?”
Waylon’s eyes darted back and forth between me and the courts where the police had just arrived, their bald heads bobbing towards the entrance.
“What does it matter?” He said this with a dumb panic in his voice. Ah. He himself didn’t know. “It doesn’t matter! Everything will be fine, and if you don’t think so, go fix it. I didn’t actually do anything wrong, it’s just the police, and if those kids are good then there shouldn’t be any problem anyway so I don’t know what this big deal is.”
I silently gaped and Waylon’s rosy nostrils flared with anger. “You think you’re so great, then do something. You’re not doing anything! You just fuck me over in tennis and then judge me. Don’t walk with me.” He left.
Alone on the street, finally not cold in my sweats, there was I. Nowhere to be and no excuses. I glared at the tennis court, ducking and bobbing my head all around to see whatever was going on inside, but a black plastic that covered the chain link fence, put up for winter and not yet torn down, blocked my view. I couldn’t hear anything, which I took as a good thing, but the window was closing as far as my opportunity to do right.
“I should go say something,” I admitted to the empty street. “I should go say something.”
Why would it be so bad? Because it would be awkward? At least I wasn’t the perpetrator, but the racist’s lackey wasn’t the best look either. What if they were mad at me? Both parties, what if they were mad? What if they called me racist? What if they did. What would I do? What would I say? I apologize, my friend put in that call, they weren’t actually being a problem, he’s just, there’s something wrong with him. That was it, that was probably the thing. What would happen then? What if it got worse and I got completely out of my depth? How shallow is my depth? Should I be filming right now? My participation might not even do anything. The cops around here were fine, right? No one would buy that. This probably wasn’t a tragedy, though it looked like one. Could be looking like one.
“I should go say something.”
The wind blew in my eyes and it seemed just to feel tears trickling down my cheeks. I focused all my internal energy towards doing the right thing, on summoning my righteousness, on making any kind of decision that would keep my mind and body from combusting. The effort made my skin quiver and my vision go blurry. If I was in New York I would have had a friend to help me and it wouldn’t be such a struggle to be good and I wouldn’t be so sad. Lightning struck, my heart erupted, and I pivoted away to go home. Like all matters of character, the door was always open for me to save face, but I hadn’t done it yet. Since then I had only been scared. I didn’t want to know exactly what it took to make it out of this flood.
Illustration by Liam Stride (@yikespanthercooze)
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