US OPEN by Marcia Tiersky As the blue light of leaping faded, Sam found himself blinking in the bright sunlight. He glanced around, noting that there were thousands of people on bleachers staring at something on the opposite side of the enclosed area from where Sam was standing. He looked over to see what they were all looking at and observed as an athletic-looking young man tossed a yellow ball in the air and hit it straight at Sam. Sam gulped. "Oh boy." Sam made a valiant effort to connect with the ball, but the disorientation of leaping had thrown him off his guard and he missed with a whiff. He heard a disembodied voice announce, "Ace, Reneberg. Game. Set. 6-1. Reneberg." Sam quickly searched his swiss-cheesed memory for some meaning that might be attached to those numbers. He noticed that the crowd seemed to be stretching. His opponent was snagging a drink of water and receiving shouts of congratulations. Shaking his head, Sam headed over to his towel and water. As he walked across the court, he had a chance to take a quick peek around. He noticed signs all around him announcing "US Open" and winced, wondering if he was any good at tennis. Gradually, the little he knew about the game was beginning to sink in and he suspected that he had lost the first set. The sound of the imaging chamber door opening startled him as he was preparing to return to the court. "Al, where have you been?" he demanded. "Las Vegas," Al responded with a sniff. "I lost 50 bucks." "I'm sorry to hear that," Sam answered, rolling his eyes. Al grinned impishly. "But let me tell you about what I won. There was this waitress who felt sorry for me and she offered..." "Al!" Sam snapped. "I'm in kind of a hurry," he pointed out. "Who am I and what am I doing here?" Al looked offended. "I was getting to that," he said as he pulled out the handlink and began to poke at it. "You are Boris Becker. A professional ten-" Al glanced up, "A ten? I wouldn't rank you more than an eight." He whacked the side of the handlink. "Is player. Eh? Oh! Professional tennis player," he glanced up sheepishly. "Mr. Becker. Mr. Becker!" A man in a striped uniform was trying to get Sam's attention. Sam turned quickly. "It is time to start the next set." Sam nodded absently. "If you don't get onto the court immediately it will be interpreted as a forfeit," the man added firmly. Sam glanced up in horror and quickly headed out onto the court, Al in tow. "Ok, kid. I got it," Al said quickly. "Hey!" he added as a tennis ball went right through his body into Sam's hands. "Oh, yeah, it's your serve, Sam." "Ummm....right....my serve..." Al looked at him in disgust. "I am sure that at some point in your life you have played tennis," he paused thoughtfully, "though not as long as I've known you. Look it's easy. You stand there, toss the ball into the air, and hit it into that box in front of Reneberg, that's your opponent's name, Richie Reneberg. Got it?" Sam nodded, positioned himself, tossed the ball, and missed it cleanly. He heard the disembodied voice again. "Fault. Becker." Once again, Sam was tossed a ball. He did manage to hit it this time, but it veered off to the right, missing the box. The voice informed him that the score was now love-15. "Ah, love," Al sighed. "Al, this is not funny," Sam responded through gritted teeth. "Why am I here, wherever here is?" While waiting for an answer, Sam served again, this time even serving to the right place. Reneberg hit the ball in a strong backhand and Sam could not catch it. He glanced at the speedometer as he returned to serving position and groaned as he noticed that it read "107 MPH." As Sam stood in position to serve once again, Al announced, "The date is August 29, 1994. You are in Flushing Meadow, New York for the US Open tennis tournament." Sam glanced up, "No kidding," he responded sarcastically, "what gave it away?" Al glared at him. "Of course, if you don't want my help, I could give that waitress a tip..." Sam grinned. "Me too. Stay away from Al Calavicci." "Humph!" Al responded. Sam turned his attention to serving again. "Hey look! I got a point, Al!" he announced merrily, turning to talk to the hologram, only to find that he was all alone. "15-30" the speaker informed him. Sam sighed. About half an hour later Al returned. Sam was drinking his water and wishing that he were anywhere else. He was sweating and tired. He had no idea why he was there. Furthermore, he was a miserable tennis player. He decided that he hated the US Open. "Why does anyone ever play this game?" he muttered. "To pick up women, of course," a familiar voice responded. Sam broke into a huge grin. "Al, you came back!" "Of course I came back, kid. What did you think, I was going to leave you trapped in a washed-up tennis player forever?" Sam looked at him seriously. "OK, I have two minutes before I have to go back out there. So, what's the scoop?" Al glanced up at him thoughtfully. "What's the score?" Sam winced slightly. "I'm down 2 sets. 1-6, 4-6." "Wow, that's great! You must've gotten a lot better while I was gone. I was afraid you were never gonna score." "Yeah, I think I am beginning to get the hang of this game, but I am still losing. All I have to lose is one more set and it will all be over." "Well, kid, if it makes you feel any better, you haven't changed history at all yet. Becker was down two sets with the same scores at this point, too." Sam smiled. "Well that's a relief. How did it end up?" Al poked at the handlink a bit more and said, "Becker lost in the fifth set. The game went on for almost 4 hours. It seems that the last set was 7-6, so it took quite a while. The physical fatigue and pain of the loss after such a long battle really got to Becker. He retired immediately after." Sam looked across the court at his opponent, chatting cheerfully with the crowd and blotting sweat off his face. "And Reneberg?" "Oh, beating Becker really made his tennis career. He goes on to win the US Open and several other championships as well." "Hmmm," Sam said. "What does Ziggy think I'm here to do?" "Ziggy says you are here to win this match for Becker. If you can do that, even if he loses in the next match it won't be such a crushing blow and he can go on to do tours and stuff." "Win the match?" Sam repeated. "Al, I'm two sets behind and I'm not very good." Al lit a cigar thoughtfully. "I know that, kid, but it's our only hope. Remember that Becker almost won in the original history starting from where you are now. All you have to do is be a little better in the last game. It's possible. After all, you are more rested than Richie over there cause you didn't have to do the first set." Sam's face brightened. "That's true! And if I win, I'll leap?" "98 percent," Al assured him. They heard the speaker announcing the start of the third set. "Good luck, kid," Al said softly. Sam stepped out onto the court with a confidence that surprised and puzzled his opponent and fans. Many were surprised at how poorly Becker had been playing and people were beginning to suspect that he was out of the running. Reneberg was so taken aback by Sam's attitude that he actually missed the first serve. "Ace, Becker. 15-love," the speaker announced. A long grueling set finally began to draw to a close. First Sam was ahead, then Reneberg, then Sam crept up again. Finally, with a ferocious return to the backcourt Sam ended the third set. "Point, Becker. Game. Set. 6-4, Becker." "You did it, Sam! You won the set. Now all you need is to win two more." He studied Sam's flushed face carefully. "Are you OK?" "Do I look OK?" Sam asked tiredly. "I really don't think I can do this, Al. Tell me, what happens to Reneberg if I do win?" Al frowned and consulted the handlink. Ziggy says he'll try again next year, but will never be really successful. I guess he needed the big break that beating Becker gave him." Al pursed his lips in thought. "Come to think of it, maybe I should go run a few more scenarios with Ziggy." Sam nodded wearily and slumped down to rest for the remainder of the period. When Al next returned Sam was deep into the fourth set. Sam had 4 games and Richie had 5. The score was 30-30. "Sam," Al said, "I couldn't find anything. Ziggy says your best bet is still to beat Richie in this match. So be careful. The next few points are critical." Sam glanced over Al's way. "I know they are. I'm just not sure that winning is necessarily the right answer," he sighed heavily. Al studied Sam suspiciously. "What's the matter," he taunted suddenly, "can't you do it? Maybe you just aren't up to it?" Sam hit the ball hard, hoping to relieve his frustrations on it and watching in disgust as it went out. He accepted another ball from the sidelines. "I can do it, Al. I know that I can. I'm just not sure..." Sam looked at Al for a moment and then gave Richie a long measuring look. Sam's serve hit the net. "30-40," the speaker informed the tense crowd. "Sam," Al's voice held a warning note. "Sam what about Becker? Sam don't do this!" Al waved his hands in front of Sam's face, hoping to distract him. "Ziggy is certain that you are here to win this game." "Ziggy's been wrong before, Al." "So speaks Mister Swiss-cheese brain. I'll bet you don't even know if Ziggy's been wrong or not." Al smirked triumphantly, waving his cigar in Sam's face. Sam hesitated. "Ziggy thought that I was supposed to marry that girl, Tess, and I wasn't," he pointed out. "There! I remembered something. And I have the distinct impression that that wasn't the only time." Al scowled. "That doesn't mean that he's wrong this time." Sam smiled. "Only one way to find out!" He served the ball gently right to Reneberg. Not one to miss an opportunity, Reneberg hit it towards the deep right. "You can get that, Sam!" Al said urgently. "It's not even going all that fast." "You're right," Sam whispered as he ran, "I can." Sam arrived at the spot to hit the ball at the exact right time and then, he stumbled, missing the ball. He hid a smile as he heard the speaker announce. "Game, set match." Sam walked over to the net and offered his hand to Reneberg. Reneberg looked him over carefully. "Good game," he said, still looking rather confused. Sam returned to where Al was busily poking at the handlink. "Well, how'd we do?" he asked. Al studied the handlink and said, "I don't know how, but you did it, kid. Becker decides not to leave tennis and he returns next year very successfully. I guess thinking that he would have won if he hadn't stumbled," Al paused to roll his eyes, "convinced him not to give up." "So, am I ready to leap?" Al hesitated. "I'm not sure," he admitted. "Wait, Ziggy says there's one other thing that you did." Al glanced up at the large clock on the wall of the court and noted that it was five minutes before midnight. "What's that?" "Well, in the original history, the game ran until almost one in the morning, umm eastern time this is, which caused USA, the channel televising the US Open, to cancel some important television show at midnight. By finishing the match early you have guaranteed that the show will go on as planned." Sam looked aghast. "I was sent here to save one episode of some silly television show?" "Hmmm? No. I think you also need to make sure that none of the other broadcasts of the US Open run into the midnight time slot either. There seem to be some very unhappy fans. Must be one hell of a show." Sam put his hands on his hips and was prepared to argue when he heard someone calling his name. He turned and found himself face to face with a TV camera with "USA" plastered across the side. "Mr. Becker, could we have a moment of your time?" Sam hesitantly turned to face the camera. "Mr. Becker, we know that this upset must be a terrible disappointment to you. Tell me, what do you think the most important result of this match will be?" A slow smile spread across Sam's face. "I think," he said solemnly, "that the important thing is that USA will be able to air their regularly scheduled midnight program. I would hate to think that this, or any other match of the US Open would ever displace an important show like that." The cameramen looked at each other and shrugged. "Thank you for your time, Mr. Becker." Sam turned back to Al who smiled happily. "You did it, Sam. USA reschedules all of their episodes of this program during the US Open so that they are all shown back-to-back on a Sunday, which is really what all the fans wanted anyway." "That's great! Hey, what is this show anyway?" Al poked the handlink one more time and gasped. He held out the machine for Sam to examine just as the light of leaping overtook him. Sam barely had time to catch the words "Quantum Leap."