Tennis Crack Secret Santa Fic
Title: A Christmas Slam
Characters: Roger Federer, Stanislas Wawrinka, Mario Ancic, Juan Carlos Ferrero, Marat Safin, Andy Murray, Novak Djokovic, Rafael Nadal, Andy Roddick, Tim Henman, Nikolay Davydenko
Rating: err, PG? Mild swearing.
Story: I ripped off Christmas Carol.
Authors note: My tennis_crack Secret Santa for nonobstant! I’m sure you’re going to hate this but I’m the mod and I say what you like! It has Federinka in it anyway! Happy Christmas and enjoy!
A Christmas Slam
Roger Federer sat in his trophy room, meticulously checking each cup for any specks of dirt or dust. There were none. Each trophy glistened and gleamed like the sun on the ocean. His personal trophy cleaner had done a good job, and as well he might, for he knew the consequences would be great if any dirt was ever found. Roger ran his eyes over his grand slams; all fourteen of them. Nobody had ever won more than that. That pesky Sampras had won the same, but Roger was confident he could still beat the record. He was almost seventy, but he had one huge advantage over Pete.
For Sampras was dead, to begin with. There could be no doubt about that. Roger had even attended his funeral, maintaining a look of sadness while all the time he was secretly rejoicing. Surely that elusive fifteenth slam that had eluded him for almost forty years was now his!
Roger had watched as the coffin had been lowered into the earth. He had seen the earth shovelled on top. Sampras was dead, and was never coming back, that was for sure.
That had been seven years ago, this very night. It was Christmas Eve, but Roger didn’t see that as any excuse for his trophies to go unpolished for more than a day. He looked over at his cleaner, crouched over his first Wimbledon cup, scrubbing furiously with beeswax. He was very thin, and his cheap clothing had holes in and didn’t offer much protection from the cold. Roger insisted on the room to be unheated, as it meant better conditions for the metal. Consequently, his cleaner always looked freezing.
Roger allowed himself a grin. How times change! It was a mere forty years ago that he had been playing doubles with his cleaner! He had even helped Roger get that elusive gold medal at the Olympics. But whereas Roger had won trophy after trophy and booked his place in the ‘best players ever’ club (which held a moderately priced dinner every year), Stan had won a few tour championships and consequently fallen into obscurity. Which was why he was cleaning trophies for a living now.
Stan coughed a little and tried to draw his meagre rags around him some more. His breath condensed in the air and as he looked out of the window, he saw snow falling on the hills around Roger’s huge house. Trying to think of happier thoughts, such as Christmas, and his only day off of the year, he began to scrub even harder.
Suddenly a voice echoed throughout the empty house. Roger sat up with a start. What on earth? The door burst open and a merry shout rang out.
“Merry Christmas, Roger!”
Roger rolled his eyes as he saw his irrepressible neighbour; that Mario Ancic, stride into the room, a huge smile on his face.
“Merry?” he grumbled. “What’s so merry about it? You didn’t exactly hit the big time in your career, Mario!”
“Well you did!” the Croatian grinned cheerfully, completely ignoring the barb. “Look at this place! You should be the happiest man in Switzerland!”
“How can I be happy, when all people are trying to do at Christmas is make me poorer? Oh please donate to this foundation, that charity. Why can’t they just leave me alone? Besides, what does money matter when I don’t have the thing I want most in the world?!”
“Your fifteenth slam? Oh Roger, isn’t it time you have up that dream? You go out in the first round of every tournament you play in!”
“Bah!” cried Roger. “I just need a bit more practice! I’m the greatest player that ever lived! I can still beat these young pretenders!”
Mario shrugged, unsure of what to say.
“Well, never mind about that. You have plenty of time to practice before the Australian Open. Say, why don’t you come and have dinner with me and Juanqui tomorrow? It will do you good to get out of this empty house!”
“No thank you! I have to practice, and I don’t think I can stand to hear you two going on about how it’s such a ‘Merry Christmas’. What good has it ever done you?”
“Well, Christmas has never brought me any wealth, to be sure, but it’s a time of charity and comradeship; two values that you might do well to observe, Roger. There are greater things in life than material goods! You should understand that, and give up your pointless dreams and try to do some good in this world.”
Roger rolled his eyes.
“Good afternoon, Mario!”
“The offer still stands for dinner” Mario said genially, though secretly hoping that Roger would stay put and not ruin the festive mood.
“Good afternoon!” Roger snapped.
“A Merry Christmas!”
“Good afternoon!”
“And a happy new year!”
“OH JUST PISS OFF!” Roger roared.
Mario pulled a face and ran from the room, giggling. Stan couldn’t help smiling too at the irrepressible Croatian. He knew he would never dare to speak to Roger like that! Finishing the last trophy, he sidled up to Roger awkwardly, and coughed.
“Oh, it’s you” Roger’s temper still hadn’t disappeared. “I suppose you’ll want tomorrow off, will you?”
Stan blushed.
“If it’s not too inconvenient?”
“Well, it is inconvenient actually! My trophies don’t clean themselves. Do you realize how much dust can gather in just one day?”
“It’s only once a year!”
“Bah. What an excuse. I suppose if you must have the day off, then do it. But be here earlier the next day!”
Stan nodded his thanks and scurried from the room. Phew! Thank God that was over for another year. He allowed himself a shiver of excitement before pulling on his coat and heading out into the veritable blizzard to go home.
Roger’s brow furrowed as he heard the door slam. Why were people always taking advantage of him? He was too nice, that was his trouble! Grumbling, he left the cold trophy room and went into the hall. He didn’t usually sleep in his huge mansion. It cost far too much to heat. He had a house in Basel that was much smaller and cheaper to maintain. Wrapping up in his fur coat, he headed outside to his Porsche.
The blizzard had slowed by the time he got to the city and the snow was falling lightly, muffling all sound. Many people still thronged the streets; revellers singing carols, throwing snowballs, chattering happily and wishing each other a ‘Merry Christmas’. Strings of silver fairy lights hung across the roads and a Christmas Market was selling everything from gingerbread and chestnuts to sprigs of holly and Christmas turkeys!
Roger saw none of it. He was too busy beeping his horn at a group of children running across the road, pelting snowballs at each other and laughing in happiness.
‘Stupid kids’ he thought, swerving sharply and showering the children in icy slush. Roger allowed himself a little giggle. So much for Christmas spirit! Things were actually looking up!
He pulled up outside his house and headed to the front door. But as he reached out to the handle, he got the shock of his life. His door knocker suddenly morphed into the grisly decapitated head of Pete Sampras. Yelping in terror, he sprang back from the door, and the image faded. Sighing in relief, he told himself it was a track of the light and pushed open the door.
A cold blast hit him and he shivered before hanging up his fur coat. Hurrying to the front room, he quickly lit the fire and settled down in front of the TV. He had a great evening planned, eating his discount turkey feet and watching the Wimbledon final 2007. He had played so well back then, he could still do it, he knew he could! Ok, so the bones had got a bit creakier, and he couldn’t run for five minutes without having to take an injury timeout. Thank God for the new rule that allowed as many as you wanted!
Switching on the TV, he sighed in happiness as he saw himself in that dashing blazer and trouser combo.
“Such a pretty boy” he murmured at his younger self.
Suddenly, he heard a terrible clanking sound echoing throughout the household. His turkey feet dropped to the floor in shock as he whirled round. Roger’s mouth fell open to scream, but no sound came out. For in the doorway stood the man he had thought was long since dead. The man he had watched be buried in the earth. The man whose grave he had danced on!
Pete Sampras!
He didn’t exactly look how Roger remembered him. He was a bit grey for a start, and was missing several fingers. And he was see-through. Roger’s memory was getting a bit hazy in his old age, but he was sure Pete wasn’t that transparent in life! And he was also dragging what seemed to be a chain with fourteen very familiar trophies attached to it.
“ROGER FEDERER!” boomed Pete.
A chill ran through Roger as he surveyed the…thing in front of him.
“Who…or what are you?” he stuttered.
“In life I was your friend and rival, Pete Sampras!”
“But you died!” Roger stated the obvious.
“Yes, but now I wander the earth, with no place to go. In life I was too greedy. I put money and fame above everything else, desperate to win slam after slam, never giving anyone else a chance. It is too late for me now, but I came to give you a warning. If you don’t change your glory-seeking ways, you too will end up like me!”
Roger managed to laugh.
“Hold on a minute! I’m not even sure I believe in you! I mean, ghosts don’t exist! You could be a figment of my imagination!”
Pete shrugged, his chains rattling loudly.
“Believe what you want, but I’m trying to help you. You will be visited by three others...each with a different message. You cannot hope to avoid my fate if you don’t take this chance.”
Roger blanched.
“Well, err, thank you for the thought, but still I think I’d rather not bother!”
“Expect the first when the bell tolls one!” boomed Pete.
Roger realised he was gripping his chair so hard his knuckles had gone white. He watched as Pete faded away into nothing, the only sound being the clanking of his huge chain. Letting out a shiver which wasn’t altogether due to the cold, he turned back to the TV. He noticed he was already a set up. By the time the match was over, he had almost forgotten about his unpleasant experience earlier. Feeling much better, he turned off the lights and headed upstairs to bed. Everything would be better in the morning, he was sure of it.
*
Roger was sleeping soundly when he heard his alarm clock chime the hour. One o’clock. Funny, he was sure he hadn’t set it. Yawning, he reached out to turn the offending item off, when a bright light shone throughout the room, blinding him temporarily.
“Argh!” he screamed. “Show yourself!”
The light began to fade and out of the brightness stepped a figure; a figure Roger knew very well indeed, but hadn’t seen looking so young for a very long time.
Rafa.
“Jesus, Rafa! You look amazing - have you had work done?” he exclaimed.
Rolling his eyes, Rafa stalked over to the bed and pulled back the covers. Roger yelped in shock, not least because he always slept naked.
“Wow Roger, you really should put the heaters on” Rafa remarked, his eyebrows raised. “The cold does you no favours!”
Roger grabbed a pair of boxers in temper.
“All right, all right! What the hell do you want?”
“Pete told you about my visit, didn’t he?”
“WHAT? You mean you’re like him? A…um…ghost? I didn’t hear about you dying!”
“Oh, I didn’t. The guy who usually does this job has got the flu so I offered to help. Thanks for being so caring!”
Roger shrugged.
“Well, seeing as you’re here, you might as well say what you came for.”
“Better” Rafa said. “I’ll show you. Come on!”
Roger pulled on his RF dressing gown and slippers and followed Rafa downstairs. Pulling a DVD from his bag, the Spaniard turned on the TV. A familiar boy filled the screen. Roger gasped involuntarily.
“But that’s me! Look, there I am, winning my first tournament! Ah...how happy I was!”
“Were you?” Rafa remarked.
Roger hesitated.
“Well, actually, all I wanted to do back then was play with my school friends, but what does that matter now? I became the greatest player ever! It was a little price to pay to give up my childhood!”
Rafa nodded thoughtfully. The two men watched as the video changed to another image. It was the famous ATP Christmas party. Everyone was having a great time, dancing, drinking and feasting. Rafa saw himself, joking with the Armada. Novak Djokovic, the life and soul of the party! But where was Roger? The camera panned to show the Swiss sitting in the corner with a glass of water, discussing tactics for the new season. Rafa watched as Roger’s brow furrowed.
“I could have been having a good time, but all I wanted to do was discuss tennis!” he murmured, half to himself.
“Yeah” Rafa agreed. “You missed out on a lot of things!”
“But I won more slams than everyone else” Roger said petulantly.
The video changed again to show those five linked rings that had come to mean so much to Roger. But instead of showing his glorious gold medal like he’d expected, he saw a very familiar woman.
“Oh no!” he breathed.
Roger watched his meeting of Mirka with a heavy heart. His eyes stung as he saw how awkward they both looked; he could barely meet her eyes and when he asked her on a date, she blushed. They had been so young; so full of hope and dreams for the future. What had gone wrong?
The image faded again and he saw an even more painful event. Christmas Eve; fifteen years later.
“Please!” he cried, tears stinging his eyes. “Don’t show me this!”
Rafa shook his head and motioned for Roger to watch the screen.
“But Roger!” Mirka was saying. “We’ve been dating fifteen years! When are you going to marry me?”
“Look, Mirka. Now’s just not a good time! I have to concentrate on winning my fifteenth slam! When I’ve won it, I swear I’ll marry you!”
“But what if you never win it?” she cried in temper. “Look, your last slam win was five years ago! You’re getting too old to play! And...I’m getting to old to have children!”
“You don’t know anything!” Roger yelled furiously. “You should be supporting me, not trying to control what I do! I’ll win another slam, I know I will!”
Mirka held back her tears as Roger turned away.
“Well I hope you do. I won’t be there to see it, though”
“What are you saying?”
“It’s over, Roger. You’re obsessed with this bloody slam. You obviously care about it more than you’re ever going to care about me, so I’m leaving. I’m not giving up my chance to have a family. Goodbye”
Roger winced as he watched her walk from the room and slam the door.
“Go after her, you idiot!” he yelled at himself on the screen.
The Roger in the video merely sighed in exasperation and went back to studying the stats on his next opponent.
“I can’t watch anymore!” Roger cried, wiping his eyes furiously. “I’ve seen enough, Rafa!”
Rafa nodded and turned off the TV.
“I must go now, but think about what you’ve seen.”
Roger nodded, screwing up his eyes.
“Fine...now leave me alone!”
Rafa left, and Roger crept back up to bed, the silence seeming to draw in around him.
*
The next thing Roger knew was waking up to a huge crash. Grabbing the nearest object to him which happened to be his ‘RF’ monogrammed walking stick. Not that he needed it of course. He was just...testing it.
Dashing (well, walking faster than usual) out of the room, he raised the walking stick above his head, reading to attack whoever was breaking into his house.
He only just managed to stop himself as he saw who was currently sprawled in a heap on his floor. Apparently, in all the excitement of a visiting ghost, he had forgotten to clear away the remains of his turkey feet, and Andy Roddick had fallen over head first.
“Andy!” Roger exclaimed. “Don’t tell me you’re my second visitor!”
“No, I just enjoy breaking into people’s houses in the middle of the night!” Andy snapped, brushing his clothes down. “Of course I am you idiot!”
“Sorry!” Roger said hastily. “Well, what are you going to show me?”
Andy grinned at Roger.
“I’m going to show you how to have fun at Christmas!”
*
Roger stamped his feet and rubbed his hands together, teeth chattering. It was bloody freezing! He thought Andy was going to show him how to have some fun, not half kill him!
“What are we doing here?” he hissed as they reached a run-down building in the back streets.
“This is the Basel branch of my foundation. While you’ve been trying to get your fifteenth slam all these years, I’ve been expanding my charity foundation. It has locations all over the world. Half these kids’ families don’t even have enough money to buy a proper Christmas dinner. We’re going to give them one!”
“Oh” Roger was lost for words for a moment. He’d had his own foundation back when he played the entire tour, but only because it was the expected thing to do when you were that rich and famous. He’d discontinued it as soon as he’d announced his partial retirement. He didn’t realise there were players who actually cared about this charity stuff!
He followed Andy inside. The room looked like someone had put Christmas in a blender. There were decorations and lights everywhere, and kids ran around, screaming and shouting. Roger winced as the high-pitched sound filled his ears. Kids were something he didn’t understand.
“Woah, Andy!” he cried, as the children noticed him and began a stampede. “Help!”
“It’s Roger Federer!” they cried, swarming around him.
“Relax, Roge, they just want your autograph. You’re still a huge celebrity!”
Roger couldn’t help smiling as the kids clamoured for his attention. They weren’t so bad after all! Some of them were actually asking some intelligent questions about tennis! He answered them happily as Andy prepared the Christmas dinner.
“Ok, kids, food’s ready!” Andy shouted.
Roger grinned as the hungry children grabbed their plates and formed an orderly queue. He found he actually enjoyed serving them huge plates of roast turkey with all the trimmings, and watching their little faces light up. After the two men had seen every child had a plate of food, Andy dragged Roger away.
“Come on, we’ve still got lots to do!”
“Ok! Where to next?”
“Somewhere you know very well!” Andy grinned.
A little while later, Roger found himself standing outside his mansion. But Andy dragged him to the much smaller house next door.
“Mario’s place?” Roger snorted. “How is this fun? We get to watch him and Juanqui pass mono to each other like some freakish game of ‘pass-the-parcel’ and then hear them argue about who had the most injury laden career?”
Andy smiled secretly.
“You’d be surprised. If you actually got to know them, you’d find out they’re a lot of fun!”
Roger shrugged and followed Andy round the back of the house. An open window (Mario always kept his windows open to let out germs) meant they could hear voices. Mario and Juanqui were there, who were currently entertaining their friends, Novak and Andrew, as well as Marat. They were all laughing and playing a game.
“Ok!” cried Mario. “Now guess what I am!”
Roger couldn’t help smiling as Mario contorted his face into a grotesque grimace, roaring and snorting like an angry bull.
“A bull!” yelled Juanqui.
Mario grinned.
“Nope!”
“A lion?”
“Tiger?”
“A monster!” Roger cried before he could stop himself. Luckily nobody heard him.
The Croatian shook his head.
“Ok, I’ll make it a little easier!”
Mario set about hobbling around the room and miming playing tennis. He then fell to the floor and clutched at his knee. Everyone burst out laughing.
“IT’S ROGER!” cried Novak, giggling uncontrollably.
Roger, who had been enjoying the game, suddenly crumpled. So that’s what everyone thought of him. Instead of respecting him for still playing the game forty years after everyone else had retired, he was actually a laughing stock; mocked and ridiculed for doing something he could now see was utterly pointless. He would never win that grand slam. Who was he kidding?
Dejectedly, he turned from the window.
“No more!” he said dully. “Please show me something of comfort!”
Andy nodded, leading the Swiss away. Presently, they came to a tiny log cabin on the outskirts of town.
“What the hell is this dump?” Roger said.
“You should know it very well” Andy remarked. “But I don’t think you’ve ever been here!”
Roger peered into the window and recognition flooded his face.
“There’s Stan!” he said happily, watching his cleaner as he danced round the room in a frilly apron, wooden spoon in hand. Delicious smells wafted from pans on the stove, and Roger could see a tray of Christmas cookies cooling on the table. “I didn’t know he lived alone.”
“He doesn’t” Andy said, pointing to a corner.
In a rocking chair by the fire, a tiny old man sat shrivelled up, sipping a cup of what looked like Proper English Tea.
“Tim!” Roger gasped. “He’s so tiny!”
“Yeah, they call him Tiny Tim now!” Andy shrugged. “Because he’s so shrivelled.”
“Oh” Roger looked utterly dejected for a moment. He remembered a year ago this very night when Tim had appeared on his doorstep, desperate for help from his old friend. Roger had refused, telling him he couldn’t afford to take care of an old man when he had a rigorous training schedule to keep.
“What’s the matter?” Andy asked.
“Oh...nothing. I just wish...” Roger tailed off, unable to finish the sentence.
The two men watched as Stan lifted a turkey from the oven. Roger couldn’t help his mouth watering at the delicious smell, but he pulled a face at the tiny turkey, barely enough for two people. He realised that it was all Stan could afford on the pitiful wage he paid him, and felt suitably chastened.
“Here you go, Tim!” Stan said cheerfully, handing the old man a plate of the food. “Merry Christmas!”
“Merry Christmas, Stan!” Tim replied. “As merry as it can be in the circumstances, anyway!”
“Oh come now, Tim. We could be a lot worse off! I could be unemployed and we’d be on the streets!”
Tim snorted.
“You might as well be, as much as Roger pays you! It’s criminal! All the money he has, and he can’t pay you more than minimum wage! All he cares about is that stupid slam! No wonder he has no friends left!”
Stan shrugged uncomfortably.
“He has a lot on his mind. Anyway, it’s Christmas! Let us toast to him. I give you Roger Federer; the founder of the feast!”
Tim rolled his eyes.
“Well, I’ll toast because it’s Christmas, but I certainly don’t wish him any more happiness or success than he’s got already!”
“To Roger!” Stan raised his glass.
“To Roger” grumbled Tim, downing his tea in one go. “Any more tea, Stan?”
Roger was soon forgotten as the conversation moved on to happier topics as they ate their meagre feast. Roger noticed Tim could only eat a small amount, which was just as well as the turkey had been picked dry, but after the meal, he lapsed into a choking fit which lasted a good five minutes.
“Oh Tim!” Stan said in concern, pouring out more tea. “We’ll get you to the doctor tomorrow!”
“No!” gasped Tim. “You can’t afford it!”
“We’ll find a way” Stan said.
“Andy” Roger said fearfully. “Tim’s not going to...die is he?”
Andy shrugged.
“What do you care? He’s no use to anyone anymore. He’d be better off dead, surely?”
Roger looked down at the ground bitterly.
“Oh God, Andy! I can’t take anymore! I’ve been a monster! I didn’t realise. Please...take me home! You’ve shown me so much already.”
Andy smiled warmly.
“But we haven’t had any fun yet!” he said.
“I don’t really feel like fun anymore” Roger said miserably.
“Really?” Andy took Roger’s hand, caressing it gently with his thumb.
“Oh...” realisation dawned on Roger. “Well...it is Christmas!”
“That’s the spirit!” Andy winked.
The two men dashed back to Roger’s house and...well, let’s keep this G rated shall we? Old man sex? No thanks!
*
After Roger and Andy had tired themselves out, Roger had fallen asleep. When he awoke a few hours later, he found Andy had gone and his room was freezing cold. He suddenly felt incredibly depressed; alone and forgotten at Christmas? Could there be any more of a miserable thing than that?
Suddenly, he noticed a pair of gleaming eyes in the darkness and he almost heart attack.
“Andy?” he called in a trembling voice. “Is that you?”
“No” came a whispering voice that chilled Roger to the bone.
“Are you the third visitor whose coming was foretold to me?” Roger asked.
“I am” the scary voice continued.
“Show yourself!”
The figure stepped out of the shadows and Roger only just managed to stop himself screaming in terror. It was Nikolay Davydenko, wearing a Santa hat and white beard.
“Hello Roger!” the squeaky, high-pitched voice continued, half-muffled by the fake beard. Well, Roger assumed it was fake. Perhaps Kolya only had trouble growing hair on his head! He looked absolutely terrifying.
“What are you going to show me?” he asked fearfully.
“Come with me.”
Roger dressed and followed the creepy Kolya out of the house. Roger relaxed when he realised they had returned to Stan’s cabin. This wouldn’t be so bad. He and Tim had seemed so happy before.
But as he peered into the window he saw a very different scene. Stan was no longer dancing. No delicious smells came from the oven. Instead, a microwave ready-meal lay on the table, half eaten, and Stan was sitting dejectedly in Tim’s rocking chair. There was no sign of Tiny Tim. A half-drunk cup of tea sat next to the chair.
“Oh no!” Roger breathed. “Please, no!”
The Roger saw something else. Stan was reading a letter, and Roger saw malicious red writing all over the paper. He caught one terrible word: EVICTION.
Roger felt a lump in his throat and tears sprang into his eyes. He felt so helpless, and so desperate to help his cleaner and former friend. He owed him that much.
“You can’t help him” whispered Kolya, seemingly reading Roger’s mind. “These are visions of the future. They haven’t happened yet.”
“I can’t watch anymore!” Roger said bitterly, turning away from the window.
The Russian then led him to Roger’s local church. He never went to church, but he knew it well as he had attempted to have it demolished because it was blocking his view of the mountains.
There were a group of people standing outside the church in the softly falling snow; people that Roger knew well from the tour. People that used to be his friends.
“Well I only came because they paid me” scoffed Andrew Murray. “Apparently it wouldn’t look good on TV if there was only an empty church!”
“I can’t believe he asked for it filmed!” Marat laughed. “How desperate can you get?”
Mario shrugged.
“Nothing surprises me with him! We tried, we really did, didn’t we Juanqui?”
“You can’t do anything with people like that” the Spaniard replied. “I’m just glad he’s gone! He certainly won’t be missed!”
“I’ll miss the laughs, that’s about it!” giggled Andrew.
“Come on, let’s go inside” Marat said, stamping his feet in the cold. “There might be some food.”
Roger’s brow furrowed.
“What is this?” he asked. “Whose funeral was that?”
Kolya did not answer, and merely pointed inside the church yard. Roger took a deep breath and walked slowly inside. A freshly dug grave was lying towards the back, with a cheap-looking new headstone. Roger glanced fearfully up at the Russian.
“Please tell me” he whispered. “Are these visions of things that might be, or things that will definitely be? I have learned so much already! I can change, I know it. Things will be different.”
Kolya was silent, still pointing towards the headstone. Roger felt as if a huge weight was hanging round his neck as he trudged forward to the forbidding grave. Snow had obscured the name, so he knelt on the cold ground to rub the stone clear. Although he was pretty sure what it was say, his heart missed a beat when he read his own name:
ROGER FEDERER
THE GREATEST PLAYER OF ALL TIME
WINNER OF FIFTEEN SLAMS
Roger’s mouth dropped open. He had done it! He had beaten Sampras’ record. He’d achieved his life dream!!
Then why was he feeling so empty? This revelation had brought him no happiness whatsoever. What good was it? He was dead and had no friends to miss him or mourn him. Everyone was glad to see him go! What use was a fifteenth slam when he couldn’t enjoy his success with people he loved?
Breaking down into bitter tears, he grabbed desperately for Kolya, trying to garner any comfort at all from the unforgiving Russian.
“Please, Kolya, speak some comfort to me! I’m a changed man! No longer will I be so mean. No longer will I shut out and ignore my friends! No longer will I seek glory as my only goal. I’ve learned the importance of love. Tell me I can change this terrible future!”
As he said these words, he felt himself falling, falling, falling into darkness. Kolya disappeared, the snowy churchyard disappeared, that terrible grave disappeared, and suddenly, Roger found himself back in his bed, as if he’d never been away.
*
The first thought to run through Roger’s mind was that it had all been a dream, but as he looked over to his bedroom chair and saw Andy’s snowmen boxers still lying there, he knew it hadn’t. He allowed himself a happy smile. Today was the first day of his new life. He had meant what he’d said in that churchyard. He was a changed man; a better man. Leaping out of bed in excitement, he flung open the curtains and was met by a wonderful sight.
Christmas day! The streets were covered in pristine white snow, and the sun shone down on this wonderful Christmas morning. Happy people thronged the streets, chattering, laughing, wishing each other health and happiness of the season. Pulling on his clothes, including Andy’s snowmen boxers for luck, Roger dashed downstairs and into the street. People gasped when they saw the man they had all learned to hate dashing around with a huge smile on his face.
“Merry Christmas!” Roger called.
Most people were too shocked to return the greeting, but a small boy who had been at the Andy Roddick Foundation building the previous night smiled up at the tennis star.
“Merry Christmas, Mr. Federer!” he smiled.
Roger felt a happiness wash over him like he had never known before. It was so good to feel love and friendship. How had he gone all his life without it? Grinning broadly, he went into the nearest butchers and bought the biggest turkey in the shop.
“I’ll take it to Stan’s!” he said gleefully to himself. “And I’ll hire the best doctor in the land to make Tiny Tim better again! Oh! And Mario and Juanqui. So many people I have to apologise to and make things up to. And I’ll resign immediately from the tour. It’s absolutely ridiculous I’m still playing!”
All these thoughts bouncing around in his head, he took the turkey and put it in the passenger seat of his Porsche. Screeching off down the street, he grinned at a group of carol singers on the corner. They immediately cowered, expecting Roger to spatter them with dirty snow as usual, but instead he pulled up, reached into his pocket and threw several notes into their tattered busking hat.
“Oh thank you, Mr. Federer!” gasped the conductor.
“No problem! Merry Christmas!”
Soon he was back at his mansion. How empty and depressing it seemed. Did he really need such a huge house? Resolving to sell it as soon as he could, he sauntered next door to Mario’s house.
Mario pulled a face as Roger walked through into the main room.
“Oh no, he decided to come after all!” he hissed to Juanqui.
“Well you invited him!” Juanqui said, rolling his eyes.
“Mario, my friend!” cried Roger, sweeping the surprised Croatian into a huge hug. “I came to make my apologies that I can’t stay for dinner as I’ve made other plans, but I want you to know my gratitude to your invitation. You didn’t have to invite me, and to be honest, I wouldn’t have wanted to spend Christmas with such a miserable bastard like I was!”
“That’s true!” remarked Marat.
Mario was still speechless.
“But...what?” he stuttered.
Roger grinned.
“I’ve changed, guys. I’m no longer going to be that mean bastard you all hated whose only goal in life was success and money. I’m sorry I was ever like that. Can you forgive me?”
There was silence for a moment while the group considered the proposal, before a huge grin spread across Mario’s face and he grabbed Roger in another hug.
“Of course! I always knew you were really a good man!”
One by one, the old friends added their words of support and soon Roger was feeling happier than he had done when he had won Wimbledon for the first time. But he couldn’t stay. There was one more place left to go.
As Roger pulled up outside Stan’s modest log cabin, he reflected for a moment on what his life would have been like, had he stayed the way he was. He still wasn’t completely sure what had happened, but he knew the ghost of Pete Sampras and those three men had somehow saved him from himself and a lifetime of misery, and managed to show him the true meaning of Christmas. Come to think of it, it sounded completely ridiculous when he thought about it, but it must have happened. He had the boxers to prove it!
Knocking on the door, he shivered in anticipation. A moment later, Stan appeared. As soon as he saw Roger, he almost cowered.
“Oh, err, hi, sir! What can I do for you?”
Roger managed to keep his face grim.
“You didn’t turn up for work this morning!”
“But sir, you said I could have the day off!”
“That doesn’t sound like something I would say. I’m sorry to say it, Stan, but this is a poor excuse for shirking your duties so therefore I’m going to have to raise your salary!”
“But please!” protested Stan. “It’s only one day and I really need - wait a moment, what did you say?”
Roger grinned and threw his arms round his fellow Swiss.
“That’s right, Stan! In fact, I don’t even want you to clean my trophies anymore! You and Tiny Tim must come and live with me in my mansion! It’s far too big for just one lonely old man!”
Stan’s mouth fell open in surprise and delight.
“Err...come in!” he said.
Roger hurried to the car and grabbed the turkey. As he carried it through into the main room, he saw Tiny Tim’s eyes widen in amazement.
As the turkey roasted in the oven, Roger followed Stan into the bedroom. Their gold Olympics medal hung above the bed, in pride of place, gleaming like the sun. Roger realised Stan must clean it every night, just like he did with Roger’s own trophies. The thought of this touched his heart as he remembered how much fun the two of them had had together.
“Stan, I-” he knew exactly what he wanted to say, but couldn’t find the words.
Stan put out his hand and touched Roger’s cheek lightly.
“I know” he breathed.
*
And so it came to pass that Roger Federer turned into the kindest, happiest, most charitable man the tennis world had ever seen. He gave up playing immediately, and devoted his life to good causes, such as helping unwanted babies to become great tennis champions. To Tiny Tim he became a second brother, providing him with the best doctor in the land, as well as a constant supply of Proper English Tea. Soon, Tim wasn’t so shrivelled anymore and he and Stan and Roger lived happily in their huge mansion. Stan and Roger were madly in love, and soon married in the very church Roger had witnessed that terrible vision that had changed his life. And as for Christmas? Well, there wasn’t another man in the whole of Switzerland who knew how to celebrate this glorious holiday like Roger did.
And so, as Tiny Tim observed; “God bless us, every...holy fuck! What’s that??”
Unfortunately, the Plant Juanqui had decided enough was enough, and being unable to take any further fluffiness, sent his faithful accomplice the Maratsteroid to earth, where he obliterated the entire planet, killing everyone.
~The End~
Characters: Roger Federer, Stanislas Wawrinka, Mario Ancic, Juan Carlos Ferrero, Marat Safin, Andy Murray, Novak Djokovic, Rafael Nadal, Andy Roddick, Tim Henman, Nikolay Davydenko
Rating: err, PG? Mild swearing.
Story: I ripped off Christmas Carol.
Authors note: My tennis_crack Secret Santa for nonobstant! I’m sure you’re going to hate this but I’m the mod and I say what you like! It has Federinka in it anyway! Happy Christmas and enjoy!
A Christmas Slam
Roger Federer sat in his trophy room, meticulously checking each cup for any specks of dirt or dust. There were none. Each trophy glistened and gleamed like the sun on the ocean. His personal trophy cleaner had done a good job, and as well he might, for he knew the consequences would be great if any dirt was ever found. Roger ran his eyes over his grand slams; all fourteen of them. Nobody had ever won more than that. That pesky Sampras had won the same, but Roger was confident he could still beat the record. He was almost seventy, but he had one huge advantage over Pete.
For Sampras was dead, to begin with. There could be no doubt about that. Roger had even attended his funeral, maintaining a look of sadness while all the time he was secretly rejoicing. Surely that elusive fifteenth slam that had eluded him for almost forty years was now his!
Roger had watched as the coffin had been lowered into the earth. He had seen the earth shovelled on top. Sampras was dead, and was never coming back, that was for sure.
That had been seven years ago, this very night. It was Christmas Eve, but Roger didn’t see that as any excuse for his trophies to go unpolished for more than a day. He looked over at his cleaner, crouched over his first Wimbledon cup, scrubbing furiously with beeswax. He was very thin, and his cheap clothing had holes in and didn’t offer much protection from the cold. Roger insisted on the room to be unheated, as it meant better conditions for the metal. Consequently, his cleaner always looked freezing.
Roger allowed himself a grin. How times change! It was a mere forty years ago that he had been playing doubles with his cleaner! He had even helped Roger get that elusive gold medal at the Olympics. But whereas Roger had won trophy after trophy and booked his place in the ‘best players ever’ club (which held a moderately priced dinner every year), Stan had won a few tour championships and consequently fallen into obscurity. Which was why he was cleaning trophies for a living now.
Stan coughed a little and tried to draw his meagre rags around him some more. His breath condensed in the air and as he looked out of the window, he saw snow falling on the hills around Roger’s huge house. Trying to think of happier thoughts, such as Christmas, and his only day off of the year, he began to scrub even harder.
Suddenly a voice echoed throughout the empty house. Roger sat up with a start. What on earth? The door burst open and a merry shout rang out.
“Merry Christmas, Roger!”
Roger rolled his eyes as he saw his irrepressible neighbour; that Mario Ancic, stride into the room, a huge smile on his face.
“Merry?” he grumbled. “What’s so merry about it? You didn’t exactly hit the big time in your career, Mario!”
“Well you did!” the Croatian grinned cheerfully, completely ignoring the barb. “Look at this place! You should be the happiest man in Switzerland!”
“How can I be happy, when all people are trying to do at Christmas is make me poorer? Oh please donate to this foundation, that charity. Why can’t they just leave me alone? Besides, what does money matter when I don’t have the thing I want most in the world?!”
“Your fifteenth slam? Oh Roger, isn’t it time you have up that dream? You go out in the first round of every tournament you play in!”
“Bah!” cried Roger. “I just need a bit more practice! I’m the greatest player that ever lived! I can still beat these young pretenders!”
Mario shrugged, unsure of what to say.
“Well, never mind about that. You have plenty of time to practice before the Australian Open. Say, why don’t you come and have dinner with me and Juanqui tomorrow? It will do you good to get out of this empty house!”
“No thank you! I have to practice, and I don’t think I can stand to hear you two going on about how it’s such a ‘Merry Christmas’. What good has it ever done you?”
“Well, Christmas has never brought me any wealth, to be sure, but it’s a time of charity and comradeship; two values that you might do well to observe, Roger. There are greater things in life than material goods! You should understand that, and give up your pointless dreams and try to do some good in this world.”
Roger rolled his eyes.
“Good afternoon, Mario!”
“The offer still stands for dinner” Mario said genially, though secretly hoping that Roger would stay put and not ruin the festive mood.
“Good afternoon!” Roger snapped.
“A Merry Christmas!”
“Good afternoon!”
“And a happy new year!”
“OH JUST PISS OFF!” Roger roared.
Mario pulled a face and ran from the room, giggling. Stan couldn’t help smiling too at the irrepressible Croatian. He knew he would never dare to speak to Roger like that! Finishing the last trophy, he sidled up to Roger awkwardly, and coughed.
“Oh, it’s you” Roger’s temper still hadn’t disappeared. “I suppose you’ll want tomorrow off, will you?”
Stan blushed.
“If it’s not too inconvenient?”
“Well, it is inconvenient actually! My trophies don’t clean themselves. Do you realize how much dust can gather in just one day?”
“It’s only once a year!”
“Bah. What an excuse. I suppose if you must have the day off, then do it. But be here earlier the next day!”
Stan nodded his thanks and scurried from the room. Phew! Thank God that was over for another year. He allowed himself a shiver of excitement before pulling on his coat and heading out into the veritable blizzard to go home.
Roger’s brow furrowed as he heard the door slam. Why were people always taking advantage of him? He was too nice, that was his trouble! Grumbling, he left the cold trophy room and went into the hall. He didn’t usually sleep in his huge mansion. It cost far too much to heat. He had a house in Basel that was much smaller and cheaper to maintain. Wrapping up in his fur coat, he headed outside to his Porsche.
The blizzard had slowed by the time he got to the city and the snow was falling lightly, muffling all sound. Many people still thronged the streets; revellers singing carols, throwing snowballs, chattering happily and wishing each other a ‘Merry Christmas’. Strings of silver fairy lights hung across the roads and a Christmas Market was selling everything from gingerbread and chestnuts to sprigs of holly and Christmas turkeys!
Roger saw none of it. He was too busy beeping his horn at a group of children running across the road, pelting snowballs at each other and laughing in happiness.
‘Stupid kids’ he thought, swerving sharply and showering the children in icy slush. Roger allowed himself a little giggle. So much for Christmas spirit! Things were actually looking up!
He pulled up outside his house and headed to the front door. But as he reached out to the handle, he got the shock of his life. His door knocker suddenly morphed into the grisly decapitated head of Pete Sampras. Yelping in terror, he sprang back from the door, and the image faded. Sighing in relief, he told himself it was a track of the light and pushed open the door.
A cold blast hit him and he shivered before hanging up his fur coat. Hurrying to the front room, he quickly lit the fire and settled down in front of the TV. He had a great evening planned, eating his discount turkey feet and watching the Wimbledon final 2007. He had played so well back then, he could still do it, he knew he could! Ok, so the bones had got a bit creakier, and he couldn’t run for five minutes without having to take an injury timeout. Thank God for the new rule that allowed as many as you wanted!
Switching on the TV, he sighed in happiness as he saw himself in that dashing blazer and trouser combo.
“Such a pretty boy” he murmured at his younger self.
Suddenly, he heard a terrible clanking sound echoing throughout the household. His turkey feet dropped to the floor in shock as he whirled round. Roger’s mouth fell open to scream, but no sound came out. For in the doorway stood the man he had thought was long since dead. The man he had watched be buried in the earth. The man whose grave he had danced on!
Pete Sampras!
He didn’t exactly look how Roger remembered him. He was a bit grey for a start, and was missing several fingers. And he was see-through. Roger’s memory was getting a bit hazy in his old age, but he was sure Pete wasn’t that transparent in life! And he was also dragging what seemed to be a chain with fourteen very familiar trophies attached to it.
“ROGER FEDERER!” boomed Pete.
A chill ran through Roger as he surveyed the…thing in front of him.
“Who…or what are you?” he stuttered.
“In life I was your friend and rival, Pete Sampras!”
“But you died!” Roger stated the obvious.
“Yes, but now I wander the earth, with no place to go. In life I was too greedy. I put money and fame above everything else, desperate to win slam after slam, never giving anyone else a chance. It is too late for me now, but I came to give you a warning. If you don’t change your glory-seeking ways, you too will end up like me!”
Roger managed to laugh.
“Hold on a minute! I’m not even sure I believe in you! I mean, ghosts don’t exist! You could be a figment of my imagination!”
Pete shrugged, his chains rattling loudly.
“Believe what you want, but I’m trying to help you. You will be visited by three others...each with a different message. You cannot hope to avoid my fate if you don’t take this chance.”
Roger blanched.
“Well, err, thank you for the thought, but still I think I’d rather not bother!”
“Expect the first when the bell tolls one!” boomed Pete.
Roger realised he was gripping his chair so hard his knuckles had gone white. He watched as Pete faded away into nothing, the only sound being the clanking of his huge chain. Letting out a shiver which wasn’t altogether due to the cold, he turned back to the TV. He noticed he was already a set up. By the time the match was over, he had almost forgotten about his unpleasant experience earlier. Feeling much better, he turned off the lights and headed upstairs to bed. Everything would be better in the morning, he was sure of it.
*
Roger was sleeping soundly when he heard his alarm clock chime the hour. One o’clock. Funny, he was sure he hadn’t set it. Yawning, he reached out to turn the offending item off, when a bright light shone throughout the room, blinding him temporarily.
“Argh!” he screamed. “Show yourself!”
The light began to fade and out of the brightness stepped a figure; a figure Roger knew very well indeed, but hadn’t seen looking so young for a very long time.
Rafa.
“Jesus, Rafa! You look amazing - have you had work done?” he exclaimed.
Rolling his eyes, Rafa stalked over to the bed and pulled back the covers. Roger yelped in shock, not least because he always slept naked.
“Wow Roger, you really should put the heaters on” Rafa remarked, his eyebrows raised. “The cold does you no favours!”
Roger grabbed a pair of boxers in temper.
“All right, all right! What the hell do you want?”
“Pete told you about my visit, didn’t he?”
“WHAT? You mean you’re like him? A…um…ghost? I didn’t hear about you dying!”
“Oh, I didn’t. The guy who usually does this job has got the flu so I offered to help. Thanks for being so caring!”
Roger shrugged.
“Well, seeing as you’re here, you might as well say what you came for.”
“Better” Rafa said. “I’ll show you. Come on!”
Roger pulled on his RF dressing gown and slippers and followed Rafa downstairs. Pulling a DVD from his bag, the Spaniard turned on the TV. A familiar boy filled the screen. Roger gasped involuntarily.
“But that’s me! Look, there I am, winning my first tournament! Ah...how happy I was!”
“Were you?” Rafa remarked.
Roger hesitated.
“Well, actually, all I wanted to do back then was play with my school friends, but what does that matter now? I became the greatest player ever! It was a little price to pay to give up my childhood!”
Rafa nodded thoughtfully. The two men watched as the video changed to another image. It was the famous ATP Christmas party. Everyone was having a great time, dancing, drinking and feasting. Rafa saw himself, joking with the Armada. Novak Djokovic, the life and soul of the party! But where was Roger? The camera panned to show the Swiss sitting in the corner with a glass of water, discussing tactics for the new season. Rafa watched as Roger’s brow furrowed.
“I could have been having a good time, but all I wanted to do was discuss tennis!” he murmured, half to himself.
“Yeah” Rafa agreed. “You missed out on a lot of things!”
“But I won more slams than everyone else” Roger said petulantly.
The video changed again to show those five linked rings that had come to mean so much to Roger. But instead of showing his glorious gold medal like he’d expected, he saw a very familiar woman.
“Oh no!” he breathed.
Roger watched his meeting of Mirka with a heavy heart. His eyes stung as he saw how awkward they both looked; he could barely meet her eyes and when he asked her on a date, she blushed. They had been so young; so full of hope and dreams for the future. What had gone wrong?
The image faded again and he saw an even more painful event. Christmas Eve; fifteen years later.
“Please!” he cried, tears stinging his eyes. “Don’t show me this!”
Rafa shook his head and motioned for Roger to watch the screen.
“But Roger!” Mirka was saying. “We’ve been dating fifteen years! When are you going to marry me?”
“Look, Mirka. Now’s just not a good time! I have to concentrate on winning my fifteenth slam! When I’ve won it, I swear I’ll marry you!”
“But what if you never win it?” she cried in temper. “Look, your last slam win was five years ago! You’re getting too old to play! And...I’m getting to old to have children!”
“You don’t know anything!” Roger yelled furiously. “You should be supporting me, not trying to control what I do! I’ll win another slam, I know I will!”
Mirka held back her tears as Roger turned away.
“Well I hope you do. I won’t be there to see it, though”
“What are you saying?”
“It’s over, Roger. You’re obsessed with this bloody slam. You obviously care about it more than you’re ever going to care about me, so I’m leaving. I’m not giving up my chance to have a family. Goodbye”
Roger winced as he watched her walk from the room and slam the door.
“Go after her, you idiot!” he yelled at himself on the screen.
The Roger in the video merely sighed in exasperation and went back to studying the stats on his next opponent.
“I can’t watch anymore!” Roger cried, wiping his eyes furiously. “I’ve seen enough, Rafa!”
Rafa nodded and turned off the TV.
“I must go now, but think about what you’ve seen.”
Roger nodded, screwing up his eyes.
“Fine...now leave me alone!”
Rafa left, and Roger crept back up to bed, the silence seeming to draw in around him.
*
The next thing Roger knew was waking up to a huge crash. Grabbing the nearest object to him which happened to be his ‘RF’ monogrammed walking stick. Not that he needed it of course. He was just...testing it.
Dashing (well, walking faster than usual) out of the room, he raised the walking stick above his head, reading to attack whoever was breaking into his house.
He only just managed to stop himself as he saw who was currently sprawled in a heap on his floor. Apparently, in all the excitement of a visiting ghost, he had forgotten to clear away the remains of his turkey feet, and Andy Roddick had fallen over head first.
“Andy!” Roger exclaimed. “Don’t tell me you’re my second visitor!”
“No, I just enjoy breaking into people’s houses in the middle of the night!” Andy snapped, brushing his clothes down. “Of course I am you idiot!”
“Sorry!” Roger said hastily. “Well, what are you going to show me?”
Andy grinned at Roger.
“I’m going to show you how to have fun at Christmas!”
*
Roger stamped his feet and rubbed his hands together, teeth chattering. It was bloody freezing! He thought Andy was going to show him how to have some fun, not half kill him!
“What are we doing here?” he hissed as they reached a run-down building in the back streets.
“This is the Basel branch of my foundation. While you’ve been trying to get your fifteenth slam all these years, I’ve been expanding my charity foundation. It has locations all over the world. Half these kids’ families don’t even have enough money to buy a proper Christmas dinner. We’re going to give them one!”
“Oh” Roger was lost for words for a moment. He’d had his own foundation back when he played the entire tour, but only because it was the expected thing to do when you were that rich and famous. He’d discontinued it as soon as he’d announced his partial retirement. He didn’t realise there were players who actually cared about this charity stuff!
He followed Andy inside. The room looked like someone had put Christmas in a blender. There were decorations and lights everywhere, and kids ran around, screaming and shouting. Roger winced as the high-pitched sound filled his ears. Kids were something he didn’t understand.
“Woah, Andy!” he cried, as the children noticed him and began a stampede. “Help!”
“It’s Roger Federer!” they cried, swarming around him.
“Relax, Roge, they just want your autograph. You’re still a huge celebrity!”
Roger couldn’t help smiling as the kids clamoured for his attention. They weren’t so bad after all! Some of them were actually asking some intelligent questions about tennis! He answered them happily as Andy prepared the Christmas dinner.
“Ok, kids, food’s ready!” Andy shouted.
Roger grinned as the hungry children grabbed their plates and formed an orderly queue. He found he actually enjoyed serving them huge plates of roast turkey with all the trimmings, and watching their little faces light up. After the two men had seen every child had a plate of food, Andy dragged Roger away.
“Come on, we’ve still got lots to do!”
“Ok! Where to next?”
“Somewhere you know very well!” Andy grinned.
A little while later, Roger found himself standing outside his mansion. But Andy dragged him to the much smaller house next door.
“Mario’s place?” Roger snorted. “How is this fun? We get to watch him and Juanqui pass mono to each other like some freakish game of ‘pass-the-parcel’ and then hear them argue about who had the most injury laden career?”
Andy smiled secretly.
“You’d be surprised. If you actually got to know them, you’d find out they’re a lot of fun!”
Roger shrugged and followed Andy round the back of the house. An open window (Mario always kept his windows open to let out germs) meant they could hear voices. Mario and Juanqui were there, who were currently entertaining their friends, Novak and Andrew, as well as Marat. They were all laughing and playing a game.
“Ok!” cried Mario. “Now guess what I am!”
Roger couldn’t help smiling as Mario contorted his face into a grotesque grimace, roaring and snorting like an angry bull.
“A bull!” yelled Juanqui.
Mario grinned.
“Nope!”
“A lion?”
“Tiger?”
“A monster!” Roger cried before he could stop himself. Luckily nobody heard him.
The Croatian shook his head.
“Ok, I’ll make it a little easier!”
Mario set about hobbling around the room and miming playing tennis. He then fell to the floor and clutched at his knee. Everyone burst out laughing.
“IT’S ROGER!” cried Novak, giggling uncontrollably.
Roger, who had been enjoying the game, suddenly crumpled. So that’s what everyone thought of him. Instead of respecting him for still playing the game forty years after everyone else had retired, he was actually a laughing stock; mocked and ridiculed for doing something he could now see was utterly pointless. He would never win that grand slam. Who was he kidding?
Dejectedly, he turned from the window.
“No more!” he said dully. “Please show me something of comfort!”
Andy nodded, leading the Swiss away. Presently, they came to a tiny log cabin on the outskirts of town.
“What the hell is this dump?” Roger said.
“You should know it very well” Andy remarked. “But I don’t think you’ve ever been here!”
Roger peered into the window and recognition flooded his face.
“There’s Stan!” he said happily, watching his cleaner as he danced round the room in a frilly apron, wooden spoon in hand. Delicious smells wafted from pans on the stove, and Roger could see a tray of Christmas cookies cooling on the table. “I didn’t know he lived alone.”
“He doesn’t” Andy said, pointing to a corner.
In a rocking chair by the fire, a tiny old man sat shrivelled up, sipping a cup of what looked like Proper English Tea.
“Tim!” Roger gasped. “He’s so tiny!”
“Yeah, they call him Tiny Tim now!” Andy shrugged. “Because he’s so shrivelled.”
“Oh” Roger looked utterly dejected for a moment. He remembered a year ago this very night when Tim had appeared on his doorstep, desperate for help from his old friend. Roger had refused, telling him he couldn’t afford to take care of an old man when he had a rigorous training schedule to keep.
“What’s the matter?” Andy asked.
“Oh...nothing. I just wish...” Roger tailed off, unable to finish the sentence.
The two men watched as Stan lifted a turkey from the oven. Roger couldn’t help his mouth watering at the delicious smell, but he pulled a face at the tiny turkey, barely enough for two people. He realised that it was all Stan could afford on the pitiful wage he paid him, and felt suitably chastened.
“Here you go, Tim!” Stan said cheerfully, handing the old man a plate of the food. “Merry Christmas!”
“Merry Christmas, Stan!” Tim replied. “As merry as it can be in the circumstances, anyway!”
“Oh come now, Tim. We could be a lot worse off! I could be unemployed and we’d be on the streets!”
Tim snorted.
“You might as well be, as much as Roger pays you! It’s criminal! All the money he has, and he can’t pay you more than minimum wage! All he cares about is that stupid slam! No wonder he has no friends left!”
Stan shrugged uncomfortably.
“He has a lot on his mind. Anyway, it’s Christmas! Let us toast to him. I give you Roger Federer; the founder of the feast!”
Tim rolled his eyes.
“Well, I’ll toast because it’s Christmas, but I certainly don’t wish him any more happiness or success than he’s got already!”
“To Roger!” Stan raised his glass.
“To Roger” grumbled Tim, downing his tea in one go. “Any more tea, Stan?”
Roger was soon forgotten as the conversation moved on to happier topics as they ate their meagre feast. Roger noticed Tim could only eat a small amount, which was just as well as the turkey had been picked dry, but after the meal, he lapsed into a choking fit which lasted a good five minutes.
“Oh Tim!” Stan said in concern, pouring out more tea. “We’ll get you to the doctor tomorrow!”
“No!” gasped Tim. “You can’t afford it!”
“We’ll find a way” Stan said.
“Andy” Roger said fearfully. “Tim’s not going to...die is he?”
Andy shrugged.
“What do you care? He’s no use to anyone anymore. He’d be better off dead, surely?”
Roger looked down at the ground bitterly.
“Oh God, Andy! I can’t take anymore! I’ve been a monster! I didn’t realise. Please...take me home! You’ve shown me so much already.”
Andy smiled warmly.
“But we haven’t had any fun yet!” he said.
“I don’t really feel like fun anymore” Roger said miserably.
“Really?” Andy took Roger’s hand, caressing it gently with his thumb.
“Oh...” realisation dawned on Roger. “Well...it is Christmas!”
“That’s the spirit!” Andy winked.
The two men dashed back to Roger’s house and...well, let’s keep this G rated shall we? Old man sex? No thanks!
*
After Roger and Andy had tired themselves out, Roger had fallen asleep. When he awoke a few hours later, he found Andy had gone and his room was freezing cold. He suddenly felt incredibly depressed; alone and forgotten at Christmas? Could there be any more of a miserable thing than that?
Suddenly, he noticed a pair of gleaming eyes in the darkness and he almost heart attack.
“Andy?” he called in a trembling voice. “Is that you?”
“No” came a whispering voice that chilled Roger to the bone.
“Are you the third visitor whose coming was foretold to me?” Roger asked.
“I am” the scary voice continued.
“Show yourself!”
The figure stepped out of the shadows and Roger only just managed to stop himself screaming in terror. It was Nikolay Davydenko, wearing a Santa hat and white beard.
“Hello Roger!” the squeaky, high-pitched voice continued, half-muffled by the fake beard. Well, Roger assumed it was fake. Perhaps Kolya only had trouble growing hair on his head! He looked absolutely terrifying.
“What are you going to show me?” he asked fearfully.
“Come with me.”
Roger dressed and followed the creepy Kolya out of the house. Roger relaxed when he realised they had returned to Stan’s cabin. This wouldn’t be so bad. He and Tim had seemed so happy before.
But as he peered into the window he saw a very different scene. Stan was no longer dancing. No delicious smells came from the oven. Instead, a microwave ready-meal lay on the table, half eaten, and Stan was sitting dejectedly in Tim’s rocking chair. There was no sign of Tiny Tim. A half-drunk cup of tea sat next to the chair.
“Oh no!” Roger breathed. “Please, no!”
The Roger saw something else. Stan was reading a letter, and Roger saw malicious red writing all over the paper. He caught one terrible word: EVICTION.
Roger felt a lump in his throat and tears sprang into his eyes. He felt so helpless, and so desperate to help his cleaner and former friend. He owed him that much.
“You can’t help him” whispered Kolya, seemingly reading Roger’s mind. “These are visions of the future. They haven’t happened yet.”
“I can’t watch anymore!” Roger said bitterly, turning away from the window.
The Russian then led him to Roger’s local church. He never went to church, but he knew it well as he had attempted to have it demolished because it was blocking his view of the mountains.
There were a group of people standing outside the church in the softly falling snow; people that Roger knew well from the tour. People that used to be his friends.
“Well I only came because they paid me” scoffed Andrew Murray. “Apparently it wouldn’t look good on TV if there was only an empty church!”
“I can’t believe he asked for it filmed!” Marat laughed. “How desperate can you get?”
Mario shrugged.
“Nothing surprises me with him! We tried, we really did, didn’t we Juanqui?”
“You can’t do anything with people like that” the Spaniard replied. “I’m just glad he’s gone! He certainly won’t be missed!”
“I’ll miss the laughs, that’s about it!” giggled Andrew.
“Come on, let’s go inside” Marat said, stamping his feet in the cold. “There might be some food.”
Roger’s brow furrowed.
“What is this?” he asked. “Whose funeral was that?”
Kolya did not answer, and merely pointed inside the church yard. Roger took a deep breath and walked slowly inside. A freshly dug grave was lying towards the back, with a cheap-looking new headstone. Roger glanced fearfully up at the Russian.
“Please tell me” he whispered. “Are these visions of things that might be, or things that will definitely be? I have learned so much already! I can change, I know it. Things will be different.”
Kolya was silent, still pointing towards the headstone. Roger felt as if a huge weight was hanging round his neck as he trudged forward to the forbidding grave. Snow had obscured the name, so he knelt on the cold ground to rub the stone clear. Although he was pretty sure what it was say, his heart missed a beat when he read his own name:
ROGER FEDERER
THE GREATEST PLAYER OF ALL TIME
WINNER OF FIFTEEN SLAMS
Roger’s mouth dropped open. He had done it! He had beaten Sampras’ record. He’d achieved his life dream!!
Then why was he feeling so empty? This revelation had brought him no happiness whatsoever. What good was it? He was dead and had no friends to miss him or mourn him. Everyone was glad to see him go! What use was a fifteenth slam when he couldn’t enjoy his success with people he loved?
Breaking down into bitter tears, he grabbed desperately for Kolya, trying to garner any comfort at all from the unforgiving Russian.
“Please, Kolya, speak some comfort to me! I’m a changed man! No longer will I be so mean. No longer will I shut out and ignore my friends! No longer will I seek glory as my only goal. I’ve learned the importance of love. Tell me I can change this terrible future!”
As he said these words, he felt himself falling, falling, falling into darkness. Kolya disappeared, the snowy churchyard disappeared, that terrible grave disappeared, and suddenly, Roger found himself back in his bed, as if he’d never been away.
*
The first thought to run through Roger’s mind was that it had all been a dream, but as he looked over to his bedroom chair and saw Andy’s snowmen boxers still lying there, he knew it hadn’t. He allowed himself a happy smile. Today was the first day of his new life. He had meant what he’d said in that churchyard. He was a changed man; a better man. Leaping out of bed in excitement, he flung open the curtains and was met by a wonderful sight.
Christmas day! The streets were covered in pristine white snow, and the sun shone down on this wonderful Christmas morning. Happy people thronged the streets, chattering, laughing, wishing each other health and happiness of the season. Pulling on his clothes, including Andy’s snowmen boxers for luck, Roger dashed downstairs and into the street. People gasped when they saw the man they had all learned to hate dashing around with a huge smile on his face.
“Merry Christmas!” Roger called.
Most people were too shocked to return the greeting, but a small boy who had been at the Andy Roddick Foundation building the previous night smiled up at the tennis star.
“Merry Christmas, Mr. Federer!” he smiled.
Roger felt a happiness wash over him like he had never known before. It was so good to feel love and friendship. How had he gone all his life without it? Grinning broadly, he went into the nearest butchers and bought the biggest turkey in the shop.
“I’ll take it to Stan’s!” he said gleefully to himself. “And I’ll hire the best doctor in the land to make Tiny Tim better again! Oh! And Mario and Juanqui. So many people I have to apologise to and make things up to. And I’ll resign immediately from the tour. It’s absolutely ridiculous I’m still playing!”
All these thoughts bouncing around in his head, he took the turkey and put it in the passenger seat of his Porsche. Screeching off down the street, he grinned at a group of carol singers on the corner. They immediately cowered, expecting Roger to spatter them with dirty snow as usual, but instead he pulled up, reached into his pocket and threw several notes into their tattered busking hat.
“Oh thank you, Mr. Federer!” gasped the conductor.
“No problem! Merry Christmas!”
Soon he was back at his mansion. How empty and depressing it seemed. Did he really need such a huge house? Resolving to sell it as soon as he could, he sauntered next door to Mario’s house.
Mario pulled a face as Roger walked through into the main room.
“Oh no, he decided to come after all!” he hissed to Juanqui.
“Well you invited him!” Juanqui said, rolling his eyes.
“Mario, my friend!” cried Roger, sweeping the surprised Croatian into a huge hug. “I came to make my apologies that I can’t stay for dinner as I’ve made other plans, but I want you to know my gratitude to your invitation. You didn’t have to invite me, and to be honest, I wouldn’t have wanted to spend Christmas with such a miserable bastard like I was!”
“That’s true!” remarked Marat.
Mario was still speechless.
“But...what?” he stuttered.
Roger grinned.
“I’ve changed, guys. I’m no longer going to be that mean bastard you all hated whose only goal in life was success and money. I’m sorry I was ever like that. Can you forgive me?”
There was silence for a moment while the group considered the proposal, before a huge grin spread across Mario’s face and he grabbed Roger in another hug.
“Of course! I always knew you were really a good man!”
One by one, the old friends added their words of support and soon Roger was feeling happier than he had done when he had won Wimbledon for the first time. But he couldn’t stay. There was one more place left to go.
As Roger pulled up outside Stan’s modest log cabin, he reflected for a moment on what his life would have been like, had he stayed the way he was. He still wasn’t completely sure what had happened, but he knew the ghost of Pete Sampras and those three men had somehow saved him from himself and a lifetime of misery, and managed to show him the true meaning of Christmas. Come to think of it, it sounded completely ridiculous when he thought about it, but it must have happened. He had the boxers to prove it!
Knocking on the door, he shivered in anticipation. A moment later, Stan appeared. As soon as he saw Roger, he almost cowered.
“Oh, err, hi, sir! What can I do for you?”
Roger managed to keep his face grim.
“You didn’t turn up for work this morning!”
“But sir, you said I could have the day off!”
“That doesn’t sound like something I would say. I’m sorry to say it, Stan, but this is a poor excuse for shirking your duties so therefore I’m going to have to raise your salary!”
“But please!” protested Stan. “It’s only one day and I really need - wait a moment, what did you say?”
Roger grinned and threw his arms round his fellow Swiss.
“That’s right, Stan! In fact, I don’t even want you to clean my trophies anymore! You and Tiny Tim must come and live with me in my mansion! It’s far too big for just one lonely old man!”
Stan’s mouth fell open in surprise and delight.
“Err...come in!” he said.
Roger hurried to the car and grabbed the turkey. As he carried it through into the main room, he saw Tiny Tim’s eyes widen in amazement.
As the turkey roasted in the oven, Roger followed Stan into the bedroom. Their gold Olympics medal hung above the bed, in pride of place, gleaming like the sun. Roger realised Stan must clean it every night, just like he did with Roger’s own trophies. The thought of this touched his heart as he remembered how much fun the two of them had had together.
“Stan, I-” he knew exactly what he wanted to say, but couldn’t find the words.
Stan put out his hand and touched Roger’s cheek lightly.
“I know” he breathed.
*
And so it came to pass that Roger Federer turned into the kindest, happiest, most charitable man the tennis world had ever seen. He gave up playing immediately, and devoted his life to good causes, such as helping unwanted babies to become great tennis champions. To Tiny Tim he became a second brother, providing him with the best doctor in the land, as well as a constant supply of Proper English Tea. Soon, Tim wasn’t so shrivelled anymore and he and Stan and Roger lived happily in their huge mansion. Stan and Roger were madly in love, and soon married in the very church Roger had witnessed that terrible vision that had changed his life. And as for Christmas? Well, there wasn’t another man in the whole of Switzerland who knew how to celebrate this glorious holiday like Roger did.
And so, as Tiny Tim observed; “God bless us, every...holy fuck! What’s that??”
Unfortunately, the Plant Juanqui had decided enough was enough, and being unable to take any further fluffiness, sent his faithful accomplice the Maratsteroid to earth, where he obliterated the entire planet, killing everyone.
~The End~