“My mistake,” I said, shaking my head. “I missed out on psychology when I worked my way through college. I’d’ve thought playboys would have been your strong suit. Let’s forget it,” and I picked up my program and pretended to study it.
She gave me another bleak stare and concentrated on the court below.
Four men had just walked on. One of them was Gomez. You could tell he was the local champ. Not only did the crowd give him a tremendous hand, but the other three players hung back and let him scoop the limelight. He was full of bounce and arrogance. I watched him wave to the crowd. He certainly had something to be arrogant about. I’ve never seen such a specimen of a he-man. He looked in our direction and gave Miss Spence a special wave. She ignored him, so I waved for her, just for the hell of it. He didn’t seem to appreciate the gesture.
Miss Spence’s mouth tightened, but she didn’t say anything.
The four men were now in a huddle in the middle of the court, testing the pelot a which had jus t been thrown in. Then they broke up and went to their positions.
“Do these guys get paid to play this sissy game?” I asked out of the corner of my mouth.
“What makes you think you’re so tough?” she snapped back, before she remembered her dignity.
“Give me a chance and I’ll show you,” I said.
She leaned forward and looked down at the players. Her eyes brooded sudden death.
Gomez served. I’ll say this for him, he could certainly sling a mean pelota. The ba ll whizzed through the air, struck the front wall and shot back, hugging the wall and buzzing like an outsized hornet. One of the other players turned into the side wall and took three quick steps up its perpendicular height, like a man running up a short flight of stairs. He trapped the ball in his cesta, dropped back and slammed the ball away. White figures darted about the court, arms reached out, the ball whizzed to and fro. Gomez did all the things you’d expect a champ to do, and did them well. His stamina was terrifying. The score moved quickly. It looked a walk-over