In an odd and not particularly telegenic freeze dance, the spectators in Serena's box were caught in what appeared to be an eternal grimace, though they must have known what I and everyone else knew at that moment -- that Serena would take the third set swiftly and efficiently, without giving up a game.
ESPN remained frozen for a least a couple of hours, long enough for me to watch the end of Apollo 13 and then catch the entire movie again as it circled through its continuous loop. I checked back periodically; still, the grimaces. Back to the movie, unchanged from the last time I saw it, and the time before that. My stomach churns while Kevin Bacon struggles to lock the lunar module in place. I wince each time another desperate effort at Mission Control fails. I hold my breath for what seems like an eternity as I search the silent and empty sky for the sudden burst of colorful parachutes. I bite my lip and hold back tears as Tom Hanks is extracted from the floating capsule that somehow got him and his crew almost to the moon and back.
As predictable as Serena's blow-out third set was, I would have savored the stomach churning, the wincing, the breath holding, the lip biting, and the holding back of tears as I watched her game face go through its all too familiar paces before loosening up into the signature wide smile that can make you believe the fierce competitor never really existed. In her thirties now, Serena still, with her last winning shot, jumps up and down like a little girl and seems genuinely stunned at her latest good fortune. As predictable and lacking in true suspense as the tennis itself, the transformation gets to me every time. I'm just a sucker for unadulterated joy.
I felt a tiny bit of self satisfaction when I checked the score at four in the morning and saw I had predicted correctly, but I knew I had cheated. I had seen the look in her eye when she decided enough was enough in the second set, and I had seen it when she emphatically delivered the message to her shell-shocked opponent who had somehow gotten to 5-5 in the second set. I was as sure of a 6-0 third set as I was that the Apollo 13 cast would land safely, but still, it would have been sweet to see.
Flipping back to the movie channel in the wee hours of the morning, I came upon another old favorite -- The Ice Storm. Much more of a sleeper than Apollo 13, it remains unfamiliar to many, and certainly does not get the kind of prime air time reserved for blockbusters. Actually, I don't think I have seen it since it ran in theaters in 2001. I remember vividly, though, how I related equally, at the time, to the adults and the teenagers in the film. Set in 1973, it was a story of kids growing up and getting messed up when I grew up (and was probably getting messed up but didn't know it yet). When it was released, I was in my early forties, about the same age as the messed up adult characters. I remember the tantalizing mix of predictability and suspense. The stomach churning and the lip biting even though the inevitable doom was foreshadowed constantly in trays of ice cubes inside and glistening icicles outside and icy conversations between people who seemed to have forgotten why they ever loved each other.
I view Serena with awe; I view the narrow escape of the Apollo 13 astronauts, still, with a mix of awe and relief. And I watch The Ice Storm now with the wisdom of almost fifteen additional years under my belt. I want to shake each character, explain to each one how they can make it turn out better if they just don't give in to the ice. Just put on your game face and fight your way through the cold darkness, I want to tell them. But the damage is frozen in time.
I wish I could predict what happens to the survivors of the ice storm, years later, but when you're dealing with mere mortals, it's not so easy.
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