Turn A Blind Eye Read online

  My 23rd birthday passed in December, last month. I celebrated by graduating from La Trobe University with a degree in finance, selling our family home, moving into the unit on Separation Street and placing my mother in a hospice for the terminally ill. Quite the month.

  Where do I begin?

  ***

  At eighteen, I’d just passed my final year at Bundoora Secondary College and had the world in front of me, full of piss and vinegar – like most eighteen-year-olds – and believing the entire world lay at my feet. A finance course at La Trobe University awaited, yet the lure of the professional tennis circuit was far greater for a head-strong young lad with delusions of grandeur. I’d had a fair degree of success in the junior ranks and a modicum of success in a few Open tournaments on the country circuit. My coach was gung-ho for me to take the plunge. We both agreed, the sky was the limit.

  My mother, begrudgingly, supported my endeavour. She was working at the time in a clerical position for the Catholic Archdiocese of Melbourne. And while she provided the moral support, it was up to me to provide the financial. For the next two years, between tournaments, I worked odd jobs here and there and coached a little to save enough money to travel.

  The plan for that first year, laid out by my coach, was to play as many of the futures tournaments around Australia I could squeeze into a tight budget. The hope being to accumulate as many ranking points as possible. Then, with luck, and if I’d managed to save – or win – enough money, mix in an overseas trip or two.

  In the world of professional tennis, points equate to ranking. And at the futures level – the lowest of the three stages in men’s tennis – the vision of ranking points on offer is like an oasis in the desert. For most, it remains a mirage. And even if successful, the prize money is lamentable. I laugh when I hear the top players in the world talk of stress. When you already have $40 million in the bank, how stressful can life be? Stress is needing to win a double’s match late on a Saturday so you can cover your week’s hotel bill. Trust me; I’ve been there.

  Over the next 12 months, I traversed Australia. From Mildura, north to Bundaberg, Alice Springs, up to Darwin, then a month in Western Australia, finally finishing the year back in Victoria. I learnt a great many things with the experience. But above all, deep down, I’d begun to doubt if I had the elusive “it” to be a success.

  Mental strength is a perplexing skill; to forge ahead with confidence in the face of mounting adversity. The ability to shut out the negative and focus on the positive is one I never fully mastered. It takes a special type of person to make it on the circuit, especially when 800 players in the world have virtually identical games. So, what trick of fate determines who breaks free of the pack? I’ve heard insanity described as doing the same thing over and over and expecting a different result. That perfectly sums up most of the journeymen on tour. Plugging away for years thinking their big break is just the next tournament away, for the vast majority it is a dream forever unfulfilled.

  At my coach’s urging, I embarked once again on the January through March stretch of tournaments in Australia, but inwardly

  I’d begun questioning if my heart was really in it. By April, I was at the crossroads in my career, when, out of the blue, I received a scholarship offer from an American University. My coach, sensing which way the wind was blowing, put out some feelers as an option to keep the dream alive. I wasn’t sure how to approach Mum with the news. I wasn’t even sure if I was ready to make the commitment. Leaving Mum all alone would be a tough call to make.

  After my dad’s death, it had been just the two of us for the past 16 years. A travelling salesman for a local window manufacturer, he hawked the latest in casement windows to the housewives of Castlemaine, double-hung frames in Dimboola and whatever took their fancy in Wedderburn. Dad’s travels kept him on the road at least five days of every week. So, for me, growing up, he was more an acquaintance than a parent. Someone who woke late on a Saturday. Sat beside me on the couch watching the football or cricket in the afternoon. Went to church with us on Sunday morning, before melting away to his office for the rest of the day. He was gone again by the next morning, usually before I’d made it to the breakfast table.

  Driving home late one night from a business trip to Ballarat his company car left the M8, just west of Bacchus Marsh, and collided head-on with a ghost gum. He died instantly. Police investigators, looking for the cause of the accident, found minimal skid marks where the car left the road and blood on the front bumper. No roadkill littered the scene, a wallaby or perhaps a wombat may have been lucky enough to survive and share the tale with their offspring. Not so my old man.

  Mum took it all in stride, her faith in God and His ultimate “plan” for each of his children enough of an explanation. I wasn’t too sure about the “plan” and how it related to me, but at seven years of age formulating a counter argument was a little beyond my grasp.

  I sat down for breakfast that morning still debating how to broach the scholarship offer. As it turned out, Mum had some news of her own.

  In a calm and concise voice, she told me she’d been experiencing some episodes of memory loss.

  The first few times I just put it down to getting older or something like that. I’d misplace my car keys. Forget where I parked when I went to the shop. The girls and I at work just laughed it off. But it has kept getting worse. A few weeks ago, the electric company called to say I’d paid them twice that month. Then the water company called. And the credit card people. So, I decided I’d go see Doctor Parks, just for a check-up.

  And what did he say?

  Well, he wasn’t too sure, so he sent me to see a specialist. Nice young man, think he was Indian. Or was he from Sri Lanka?

  Mum, what did he say?

  I’m getting to that love. Hold your horses. The visit was about a month ago.

  A month? And you’re just now telling me?

  Well, I wanted to wait until all the tests came back. I didn’t want anyone worrying unnecessarily.

  And?

  I saw the lovely Indian or Sri Lankan doctor again yesterday. It seems I have a disease, something called early onset dementia.

  The name of the disease meant nothing to me.

  Okay. So, what is that, and how long will it be until you’re better?

  See that’s just it, love. It’s incurable. He says I have two, maybe three, years to live.

  Mum turned and put the kettle on the stove, lit the gas beneath and waited for it to boil. I couldn’t believe she was taking this all so calmly. I was speechless. Just like that, a bolt from the blue. What do you say? Granted, we weren’t the closest family in Australia. Mum had her faith, I had my tennis, and we told stories of our day back and forth over meals which neither one of us cared much to hear.

  Losing one parent, albeit one I barely knew, and as I grew older one I could barely recall, wasn’t ideal. But having Mother there by my side, a rock in the tough times, someone I could always rely upon, somehow made the loss manageable.

  Not having her in my world was, up until that moment, the furthest thing from my mind. I just assumed, foolishly, like a small child yet to learn the harsh realities of life, she would always be there. Knowing, over the years, how much I’d taken her for granted left a knot in my stomach I wasn’t sure how to erase, or if I even deserved to be free of the dull ache within.

  Now love, don’t you go worrying about me. I promise I won’t be a bother. The girls at the church said they’d help out when things get a little hard to manage around the house. Can I get you a cup of tea?

  That was Mum, message delivered, cool as a mountain stream and back to the business at hand. A pot of tea doesn’t make itself. Mum turned from the stove with the tea kettle in hand. One large tear crested her eyelid and tumbled slowly down her cheek. Perhaps not as detached from reality as I’d assumed.

  Mustering a wan smile, she wiped the side of her mouth with the back of her hand. I stood, took the kettle from her hands and placed it back on
the burner. We hugged for the longest time I could ever recall. Her tears left two small wet circles on my T-shirt over my heart.

  She lifted her face for just a second as we separated and managed a smile which seemed to say, I’m sorry I’m such a bother.

  Taking a step backwards, she smoothed non-existent wrinkles from her apron to gather her composure, and without looking up asked.

  And what was the big news you wanted to tell me?

  When her eyes met mine the answer to my decision became abundantly clear.

  Oh… nothing. And I think I’ll pass on that cup of tea right now.

  Making my way from the kitchen, I balled up the letter from the university in my left hand and tossed it in the small rubbish bin beside the fridge; not giving the stillborn dream of spending the next four years in America another moment of thought.

  Outside, a small fluffy white cloud passed before the sun leaving our street for the briefest of moments in shadow. Two young children kicked a football back and forth on the road. And across the street our neighbour worked on his car’s engine, it’s rough idling the only sound reaching into my room.

  Sitting on my bed, I typed early onset dementia into the search bar of my laptop. Scouring the internet, I knew, would help in finding out more about the disease and its effects on the body. Was there no hope? And, going forward, what was in store for the two us? As the search results populated on the screen and I poured over article after article, the lifeline for which I grasped grew ever more distant.

  Within an hour I’d discovered enough to know just how quickly and drastically our world would change.

  ***

  Five hundred metres from home, my legs were leaden and my breathing ragged. The lead singer of Bonjah, Glenn Mossop, growled through my earbuds that, ‘the girl had one bullet in the barrel and the other was in her man.’ And I was wishing she’d use the spare shell to put me out of my misery.

  I managed the last few metres at a half stumble, came to a faltering stop, and leant against my back gate. Sweat instantly teemed from every pore in my body, as if I’d been doused with a pitcher of seawater. And as if guided by radar, made a beeline for my eyes to induce a stinging blindness. Peering through eyes which no amount of coaxing could fully open, I felt my way slowly through the back door while randomly discarding clothes at varying intervals along the way.

  A near freezing shower revived me somewhat. My body temperature slowly dropping back to normal levels. I dried off, dressed, then noticed the time. Almost 9:30, time to be on my way. I grabbed the last of the grapes from the fridge along with a half-full Powerade, slamming the door shut before the milk could make a move. I decided to give the Beast the day off and headed south for the short walk to the Alphington train station.

  The “Beast” was my mother’s 2000 Holden Commodore station wagon. The registration form stated the original colour as mint julep, the Beast – poor thing – pined for those long-forgotten days. Dayne, my best friend since primary school, once described its tint as “baby shit” green. His remark earned him a week-long ban. Poor Beast.

  Striding along Yarana Street, barely 100 metres from home, I was again sweating profusely. Two small children gleefully ran back and forth under a sprinkler set up on their front lawn. I seriously considered joining them. Their mother sat in the shade of the front veranda reading a paperback and waved as I passed, but ready to defend the sprinkler, I was sure, if I’d made a charge.

  I crossed the pedestrian footbridge passing over the tracks of the Hurstbridge line train and made my way up the ramp to the platform. And without a moment to spare. A citybound train pulled into the station just as I made a mad dash through the gates. I jumped aboard and found an open row of seats. At my back, the doors closed with a resounding whoosh.

  The station at Jolimont was a further nine stops down the line. I reclined on a bench seat, basked in the refreshing air blowing from the vents above and hoped the driver wasn’t in a rush.

  For most Melburnians, the Australian Open tennis tournament began the following week with Monday’s first-round matches. For the hard-core fan, and those players on the cusp of relevance, the tournament started today with the first round of qualifying. It was close to four years since I’d last played a professional match, but as I headed downhill through the towering eucalypts of Yarra Park and skirted the western stands of the monolithic Melbourne Cricket Ground my senses began to come alive. Ascending the footbridge to cross the multitude of train lines feeding Flinders Street station, the bright blue awnings and court backdrops of the National Tennis Centre blossomed into view. And with it a tingling sensation in the pit of my stomach.

  At the main gates, Rod Laver Arena loomed overhead, and to the side, the corner of Margaret Court Arena peeked out demurely from the stadium court’s shadow. The tingling sensation continued to inch its way north, like the soft buzz of a thousand bees spreading throughout my chest and tickling my throat. I zig-zagged along the pathway snaking between the numerous outside courts to Court 13. And as much as I tried to tell myself I didn’t miss the game; that I’d made my decision, that I’d moved on, I was powerless to stop every nerve-ending in my body from firing at once.

  The crowds wouldn’t arrive en masse until Monday, so today, open seats on the outside courts were plentiful. For a moment, I imagined my name being called from the player’s lounge to report to my assigned court. Just for a moment, then the image passed.

  Court 13 is one of the farthest outside courts to the west of the main stadium. I chose a seat on the west side, five rows up, slightly to the left of the chair umpire. My view took in a smattering of outside courts and the winding pathways leading back to Rod Laver Arena. Looming up from behind the centre’s crown jewel was the 100,000 seat Melbourne Cricket Ground; deathly quiet on this Wednesday morning.

  The players for the morning’s first match had yet to make their appearance, so I spent the time trying to make myself as comfortable as possible on the hot metal bench under the searing sun. The first to make his way courtside, to the left of the chair umpire’s stand, was the latest American Phenom, just 18 years of age, close to breaking into the top one hundred in the world rankings, and knocking loudly on the door of future stardom. His first-round opponent, Blake Cuypers, a 23-year-old local kid from Greensborough, ranked 275 in the world and my former doubles partner.

  Blake strode purposefully across the court and peered skyward, looking left and right, as if adjusting his eyes to the sunlight. In reality, I knew he was fighting hard to keep his emotions under control. This was Blake’s first appearance at the Australian Open. Six weeks earlier he scored his biggest success as a professional, winning a Futures tournament in a small seaside town 100 kilometres south of Sydney. The 27 points he earned for the win vaulted him into the world’s top 300. The prize money – less than $3,000 – barely made a dent in his credit card’s outstanding balance. However, by far, the bigger payoff was the jump in ranking which earned him entry into the Australian Open qualifying. A win today was extremely unlikely, but the $6,000 payday for losing would heal those wounds very quickly.

  As the players warmed up and made adjustments to compensate for the horrendously windy conditions, I perused the stands in search of familiar faces. Of the 20 or so people in attendance, half belonged to the travelling party of the young American. I knew Blake’s parents wouldn’t be attending; they’d always been too nervous to watch in person. A routine unchanged since we’d played junior tournaments together. Blake’s coach, dressed as if he too had a match later in the day – though his massive beer gut stretching his Adidas shirt to its full potential begged to differ – sat close by the sidelines on the opposite side of the court.

  I sat back taking in the scene and couldn’t help but feel a pang of regret for what might have been. Until I recalled the hours upon hours of mind-numbing practice, the hours spent in the weight room, running up and down sand dunes until legs turned to noodles then urged ‘to run just one more’, the travel, the cheap
hotels, cheaper meals, mounting bills. And the crushing feeling deep down inside of wondering if it would ever lead to something. I sat back against the blazing hot bench seat as the American toed the baseline preparing to serve, almost convinced I’d made the correct decision.

  Blake, despite being made to do all the heavy lifting, gamely hung tough for the majority of the first set. His game revolved around his consistency, wearing his opponents down, grinding them into dust. But he was struggling to come to terms with the weather conditions, his timing and placement not quite on song, which allowed his opponent to dictate play. The American’s groundstrokes being just a little crisper, with pinpoint accuracy, and his serve exploded off his racquet as if shot from a howitzer. At four-five, two careless forehand errors on serve by Blake handed the break and the first set to the American.

  The dam burst, and you could see the onset of impending doom mirrored in Blake’s body language. With the first set gone, the second set also quickly began to slip away. As the errors continued to mount, Blake’s shoulders slumped further, and the wind and heat became more of a distraction. Finally, the last vestiges of the mental fortitude needed to fight through a tough match deserted him. His mind, against his best efforts, shifted gears and began daydreaming of a shady tree to lie under.

  The final score 6-4 6-1. At courtside, the American chatted with his travelling party, presumably, already discussing potential next opponents. Later today, his coach would further debrief his young charge on what worked well and what they’ll work on the next day during practice, set his practice court time and where they’ll eat dinner. Every aspect of his preparation controlled, like an automaton undergoing a minor system upgrade. Meanwhile, Blake trudged off the court, the weight of his immense racquet bag and the world sitting squarely upon his shoulders.