The Sun is Not Enough [antikvár]

CHAPTER ONE Martin tucked his racket under his arm and paused to wipe his glasses. Without them the figures on the court dissolved into one of those modem paintings he disliked : a blur of red ant-bed cut by white lines and white net. He blew on the lenses and polished them again. He was taking too long over it but he must have time to get his breath. He guessed how they were poised waiting: Lisha looking back at him from the net; Donald crouching ready for his service; Liz hopping from one leg to the other in the manner he had found irritating ever since she could walk. No one spoke. They waited. He felt their impatience as he breathed deeply and tried to stili the quivering in his calves. The last long-drawn-out game had been too much for him. Now the set depended on his service and he knew he would lose it. Slowly he put on his glasses and the young faces leapt into focus, three pairs of eyes fixed on him impatiently, young bodies taut, just as he had seen them practically every morning for the past ten years. He had watched them grow from leggy children. He had taught them their game, perfected their services, their cross-court drives, their half-volleys, passed on to them ali the tricks he had learned in his youth. Now they were no longer children and he was no longer young. He was too old to be playing with them. He knew it and they knew it. But no one, not even Liz, would say it. He raised his racket, felt the furry skin of the ball against his palm, served the first shot into the net and the second out.