Mess by Molly

Cousin Cloud and I sit huddled, comrades in arms, on the soft grey family room carpet of our woodsy Minnesota summer lake cabin.  The talent portion of the annual Merickel Invitational Family Tennis Tournament is underway.

Cloudy, nearly a teenager, giggles and points at Grandma who can be glimpsed from behind the glass double doors of the master bedroom wearing a sailor hat.  

My younger sister Kim points out that she is also sucking on a red lollypop. 

My fierce mom, the master of ceremonies, presses play on the boombox and Grandma MaryLou, with beauty-parlor coiffed gray hair and a mischievous grin, sashays dramatically onto the makeshift stage, a raised carpeted area three steps above the living room overlooking the minnow-filled FishHook Lake.  She wears a short-sleeved white dress with a navy-blue bow around the neck.  The 1960s hit, Lollypop, its familiar chorus, “lollypop, lollypop, oh lolly lolly lolly,” commences and Grandma shimmies her hips, kicks her legs Rockette-like, lip syncs and uses her red lolly to make the POP noise, flicking it out of her cheek. 

Chaotic hooting reverberate throughout the room as my gathered relatives appreciate their beloved mother’s effort.    

My aunt Missy teases Grandma; she’s even better on this stage than on Family Feud last summer when she kissed host Richard Dawson on the lips.  Mary Lou led the family to five victorious days and $13,000 in winnings. My sister and I love to re-watch the hilarious bloopers on VHS. Mom says Grandma was always a flirt. She adored the handsome actor interviewing her about her adventurous life, which included supporting the Navy in California during World War II. 

Everyone, from the priest to the drycleaner, worships Grandma.  She hosts bridge club and happy hour, taught rhythm method at the church and hides in the bathroom to savor 3-Musketeers bars in peace.  Grandma’s primary claim to fame was birthing and graduating 13 competitive children through college:  Mike, Debby, Kathy, Sally, Teri, Missy, Peggy, Polly, Tommy, Harry, Jo, Maggie, and Casey.  It’s even a rivalry to see who can recite their names from memory the fastest.

We grandchildren are concerned about Grandma swooping in on the talent event since personal attention is hard to come by in this family and as kids, we counted on prevailing here in the talent portion and not in the actual tennis tournament tomorrow.

My competitiveness, already in overdrive at 10, kicks in; I’m astonished both that she packed a sailor’s outfit and that we’re going to lose to her.

We cousins are up next performing my idea, a rendition of the current hit, “All I need is a Miracle” using tennis rackets as air guitars.  Since the family’s surname is Merickel, I thought it was brilliant, but clearly the family disagrees, and I’m humiliated when they lose interest and begin talking amongst themselves two minutes into our act. 

Uncle Casey says that while Grandma may have won the talent portion of the competition, he’s going to win the tennis tournament.  Aunt Maggie claims that Casey has an unfair advantage being on a tennis scholarship at the U of M, but it’s ok because she’s Grandma’s favorite. And Aunt Missy, who has just graduated dental school, explains she doesn’t mind losing tomorrow because Grandma just told her she’s the smartest one here.   

No one is paying any attention to me anymore, so I slip quietly into the back bunkroom to lose myself in a Nancy Drew mystery.  It’s hard to get a word in edgewise with Mom’s family and when I tried, I got drowned out and felt uninteresting.  I learned early on it was better to not even try.

Tomorrow is my chance; it’s my debut in the Merickel Invitational.  At 10 I’m following in the footsteps of my uncle Casey, a top ranked junior who now plays at the U of M, and my mom, who coaches at NDSU, the high school and country club.   I’ve been competing the last two years and am excited and nervous for the tournament.

The dawn of the tournament breaks sunny, the July air muggy.  Fresh seedlings press through the wet dew competing for daylight in the thick forest of pine trees, survival of the fittest playing out in nature as it will soon on the tennis court.

The coveted winners’ plaque sits appetizingly next to a large red igloo cooler of water on the worn picnic table outside the tennis fence.  The names of victors from years past are engraved in metal providing guaranteed bragging rights for the next 365 days.   My mom’s black hair parted into two low ponytails, sits next to me, wearing the obligatory turquoise Merickel Invitational t-shirt.  She braided my brown hair for the round robin. Since there are no kids’ shirts, I wear a red and white t-shirt from the national tournament I played last Easter in Florida. 

Casey, Teri, Missy, and Mike’s shoes squeak as they thwack the ball wearing headbands and white shorts.   Dark blue patches of sweat form in their armpits as they volley through a lively doubles match.  Today’s competition is fierce.  After her match, Missy flips up her skirt, mooning the crowd.  Her frilly tennis underwear read ‘I cheated’. 

After a close victory over 8-year-old Kim and Uncle Casey, I make the final.  Kim sulks by the playground convinced that Casey threw me the match, dousing her chances to win. I doubted that anyone in the Merickel family would lose on purpose.    

Eyes scrunched up, squinting in the sunlight, I toss the ball and serve.  It’s an ace; on my grandmother.   Grandma chuckles graciously, clapping the strings of her racket with her left hand.  Her partner Maggie complains that I have no mercy on my grandmother.   

“I didn’t try to ace her; I was just focusing on the ball.”

It’s match point now.  I keep my head down ignoring the taunts and bounce the ball three times before launching it up and serving it to Maggie’s weak side, her backhand.   She hits an easy lob for my partner, Jo, to smash it.  It’s over.  I’m the only kid ever to win the Merickel Invitational. Grandma and Mom embrace me, telling me how proud they are and how much they love me.   They take a picture of me wearing a medal with the plaque, where my name will be, forever, engraved.