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thundered close to the centre line. An ace.
    “Fifteen love.”
    Alex was close enough to see defeat in the German‟s eyes. This was the cruelty of the game; the psychology of it. Lose your mental edge and you could lose everything. That was what had happened to Blitz now. Alex could almost smell it in his sweat. As he walked to the other side of the court to face the next serve, his whole body looked heavy, as if it was taking all his strength just to keep himself there. He lost the next point and the one after. Alex sprinted across the court, snatched up a ball and just had time to roll it up to the ballboy at left base one. Not that it would be needed. It looked as if there would be only one more serve in the game.
    And sure enough, Lefevre managed a final ace, falling to his knees, fists clenched in triumph. It was a pose seen hundreds of times before on the courts of Wimbledon and the audience duly rose to its feet, applauding. But it hadn‟t been a good match. Blitz should have won. Certainly the game shouldn‟t have ended in three straight sets. He had been terribly off form and the young Frenchman had walked all over him.
    Alex collected the last of the balls and sent them rolling up to the far corner. He stood to attention while the players shook hands, first with each other, then with the umpire. Blitz walked towards him and started packing up his sports bag. Alex studied his face. The German looked dazed, as if he couldn‟t quite believe he had lost. Then he picked up his things and walked away.
    He gave one last salute to the audience and walked off the court. Lefevre was still signing autographs for the front row. Blitz had already been forgotten.

    “It was a really bad game,” Alex said. “I don‟t know what was wrong with Blitz. He seemed to be sleepwalking half the time.”
    It was an hour later and Alex was sitting at a table in the Complex, the set of rooms underneath the umpire‟s office at the corner of Number One Court where the two hundred boys and girls who work throughout the tournament have their meals, get changed and relax. He was having a drink with two other ballboys and a ballgirl. He had become good friends with the girl in the last couple of weeks—so much so that she‟d invited him to join her and her family when they went down to Cornwall after Wimbledon finished. She was dark-haired, with bright blue eyes and freckles. She was also a fast runner and very fit. She went to a convent school in Wimbledon and her father was a journalist working in business and current affairs, but there was nothing remotely serious about her. She loved jokes, the ruder the better, and Alex was sure that her laughter could be heard as far away as Court Nineteen. Her name was Sabina Pleasure.

    “It‟s too bad,” Sabina said. “But I like Lefevre. He‟s cute. And he‟s only a bit older than me.”
    “Seven years,” Alex reminded her.
    “That‟s nothing these days. Anyway, I‟ll be back on Centre Court tomorrow. It‟s going to be hard to keep my eye on the game.”
    Alex smiled. He really liked Sabina, even if she did seem to have a fixation with older men. He was glad now that he had accepted Crawley‟s offer. “Just make sure you keep your hands on the right balls,” he said.
    “Rider!” The voice cut through the general chat in the cafeteria and a small, tough-looking man came striding out of a side office. This was Wally Walfor, the ex-RAF sergeant responsible for the ballboys and girls.
    “Yes, sir?” Alex had spent four weeks training with Walfor and he had decided that the man was less of a monster than he pretended to be.
    “I need someone for standby. Do you mind?”
    “No, sir. That‟s fine.” Alex drained his drink and stood up. He was glad that Sabina looked sorry to see him go.
    Standby involved waiting outside the umpire‟s office in case he was needed on one of the courts or anywhere inside the grounds. In fact, Alex would enjoy sitting outside in the sun, watching