The Quality of Mercy - By Barry Unsworth Page 0,117
of them before Michael realized another crucial difference in their styles of play. Dickson had so much force in his rig ht arm and was so quick on his feet that he based his whole game on these strengths, counting always on getting across the court fast enough to deliver the sidearm blow. Michael knew that he lacked the other man’s power in driving the ball, but he was a two-handed player, and his returns on the left were hardly weaker than those on the right. In the fourth game he adopted the strategy—which involved high risks, especially as he was a game behind, and behind on points in this one—of striking the ball straight forward instead of aiming at angled shots, using his left hand whenever possible, hitting the ball as low and as hard as he could. By these means he was able to achieve a number of what were known as kill shots—shots that came off the wall so low as to be virtually impossible to return—and he won the game by a margin of two points.
Dickson’s play in the fifth and final game was as aggressive as ever, but Michael sensed a certain wildness in it and thought he knew why: his opponent had made the mistake of counting victory as assured, as a foregone conclusion. He had been winning by two games to one and well in the lead in the fourth game; a win here would have given him the match. Now, by a change in the other’s tactics that he had not been flexible enough to respond to, he had seen this lead melt away and the two of them return to an equal footing.
The decisive point in the fifth game came when the score stood at fifteen to twelve in Michael’s favor. Dickson served strongly across the court, bringing the ball rebounding at a sharp angle and very low, no more than a foot from the ground on Michael’s left side. There was only one stroke possible if the ball was to be kept in play. He struck upward with clenched fist in a kind of blow that was half hook, half uppercut, felt a sharp pain in his knuckles, saw the ball come off the wall, saw it spin and bounce short, saw Dickson lunge at it and miss, deceived by the bounce.
With this it was all over. The serve passed to Michael, and he closed the game with a series of five wins over a now demoralized opponent.
A great storm of shouted applause came from the ranks of the Thorpe men. The two opponents shook hands with an appearance of good grace. Spenton, beaming with delight, got up from his seat and advanced into the court to shake Michael’s hand; Colonel Pemberton followed suit, having first, however, congratulated his own champion on a hard-fought match.
Michael was making to leave the court, but he had not gone far when an exuberant group of his fellow miners surrounded him, hoisted him to their shoulders and bore him up the slope of the yard and along in the direction of the alehouse, followed by a good number behind, all singing his praises. He had upheld the honor of the colliery, and there were those who had won some shillings that day.
Kemp had risen with those beside him at the culminating moment of victory, as the arbiter held up Michael’s hand. He had seen the winner hoisted up and borne away, but it was only after this that he looked behind him, and then only to follow the course of the victorious cavalcade as it mounted the slope of the yard. He, like the others who had been seated there, was obliged to wait until the mass of spectators had departed before making his way out. But as he glanced up to follow the hero’s progress, he saw a face he thought he knew, one different from the others, not only because of this half recognition but from its ruddier coloring, as if the man had been more in the sun. The hair, which was long and very dark, was tied behind with a ribbon, not the common way among the miners, who wore their hair close-cropped because of the dust that got into it from the coal and slate. The face passed in profile across his line of vision and in a second or two was gone, lost in the crowd that was following behind the champion.