Total pages in book: 92
Estimated words: 87804 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 439(@200wpm)___ 351(@250wpm)___ 293(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 87804 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 439(@200wpm)___ 351(@250wpm)___ 293(@300wpm)
I could come up with a dumpster full of legitimate excuses. I could say that I was busy training. That I lived an ocean away, in the UK. That I was building a career. And all those things are true, but it’s not the entire truth.
The truth starts at the beginning and the beginning starts with a boy named Noah Callahan, a boy who lived in the house across the street from my grandfather, Rowdy Ronald Murphy.
My grandfather was something of a legend to everyone who follows the PBR, the professional bull riding circuit. Before retiring in his late thirties, Rowdy won every bull riding championship there was to win, and broke just about every bone twice doing it, only to recover and win again. The old coot used to say it strengthened the bones. Many people would argue that Rowdy was certifiable but no one would dispute that he was a bull riding phenom.
Being a natural born risk-taker, all rough and tumble, it’s no surprise that he assumed his children would follow in his footsteps. But life has a shit sense of humor––Rowdy’s words, not mine. And despite his best efforts, what he got was one son, my father.
Jonathan Murphy, quiet scholar, collector of stamps, and Professor of Organic Chemistry at the University of Oklahoma, can best be described as the polar opposite of rough and tumble. The only time my father breaks a sweat is when he prunes my mother’s rose bushes, or the Dallas Cowboys make the playoffs. That’s about it though.
Seeing his only son was a lost cause but not one to take matters lying down, Rowdy set his sights on his last great hope, me and my younger sister, Annabelle.
He tried horses. Bebe was allergic and I was terrified. He tried golf. Neither of us had the temperament for it. We got fined at the local golf course for tearing up the place. That was before the screaming and brawling managed to get us permanently banned. Nobody was surprised. Rowdy was proud.
All hope seemed lost until, on a whim, Rowdy purchased two tennis rackets and took us to the courts behind the high school. That was all she wrote.
Bebe was a natural, a tennis playing Mozart, the second coming of Billy Jean, Chris, and Steffi all rolled up into one aggressively competitive blonde package. I had to work a little harder at it, which turned out to be a blessing in the long run.
The summer after I turned ten my grandfather installed a tennis court in his backyard. As soon as my sister and I had finished our chores, we hopped on our banana seat bicycles and went to get a look at the newly built court. In my defense I had asked for a dirt bike and my mother refused.
As we rode up, I noticed a boy in the front yard of the red brick house across the street, a boy I had never seen before. He was busy doing yard work and didn’t notice us. I’d learn later that the family had recently moved from a few streets over. Which is why I’d never seen him before. Otherwise I would have––trust me.
While Annabelle raced to Grandpa’s backyard to check out the tennis court, I stood in the driveway and in a trance watched him, committing every detail to memory. The hair that was as black as tar. The blond freckles that covered the bridge of his nose, which was peeling from sunburn. Sweat dripped down his face and neck. His faded Dallas Cowboys t-shirt was soaked straight through. I don’t think I blinked once.
He was bent over, down on his knees, trying to pull weeds. Trying being the operative word because the gloves he wore were way too big for him. The weeds kept slipping through his fingers. Until, finally, he yanked them off, threw them across the lawn, and started pulling with his bare hands.
There was no thunderbolt. No parting of the heavens. Only a quiet knowing. Clearly as day I remember thinking, there you are. As if I’d been searching for him all my ridiculously short life. Noah Callahan became mine the moment I laid eyes on him and nothing would’ve convinced my ten-year-old self otherwise.
I didn’t question it any more than I would’ve questioned that my parents were Jonathan and Maryanne Murphy, that my name was Maren Murphy, and that I loved tennis. I didn’t question why I loved tennis, I just did. And it was the same of the boy standing before me.
Sensing me, he stood straight and glared. He was built like a scarecrow, tall and painfully thin. His knees were stained green below his silky blue basketball shorts and his t-shirt stuck to his bony torso, and still he was the best thing I’d ever seen.
“What are you lookin’ at?” he barked. His anger made me smile, which judging by the expression he returned, only confused him.