Naked Hero - The Journey Away

having none of that! This was his moment and he was determined to seize it. Maybe Tommy Jackson had a part to play with an element of complacency at the start of the second set. Some pundits accused, but the reality was, it was Lewis who somehow raised his game and broke the American’s serve. It was a ding-dong battle for the rest of the set, but Lewis held on and levelled the score. After that there was no stopping the lad on a mission. He took the next two sets and with them the title. Fame and fortune was now his to claim by the bucket-load, but it was notoriety that would steal the day.
    Lewis shifted on his stool as he recalled the scene, or the little of it he could remember beyond what televised replays had shown him. It all became a bit of a blur after the winning shot: the falling to his knees; looking up to his box; shaking hands at the net; leaping around like a maniac; then sitting on his chair in a complete and utter daze as he waited on the presentation. Clarity sharpened when it came to the trophy. Lewis certainly remembered getting that handed to him by a charming young prince who was in line to be king. He accepted it with glee and showed it to the crowd then took a good look at it for himself... And there it was already carved on the cup, the latest addition to the role of champions – the Macleod family name with honour restored, etched onto a trophy that was revered beyond all others in the sport. On seeing it his face erupted with happiness. Lewis threw a look to the sky and offered up some words, and then kissed the cup as the poster shot was taken capturing his joy for prosperity.
    ‘How long was it after that?’ Lewis asked himself as he looked at his moment in the sun. ‘Ten minutes – fifteen? It couldn’t have been much longer.’
    He stiffened in his chair as he dredged up the past. Ten minutes of parading round the court showing the trophy off and then it was on to the post-match interview with Samantha Allen that took place on the grass, in front of the crowd and the viewing billions. It started so easy, Samantha singing his praises, talking about the match and how proud the country was. Then it got a little tricky when she moved onto the adoring fans, referring in particular to all the young ladies who viewed him so highly, and not just for his tennis. Now family honour took on a new perspective – there was honour in denial, which was what his mother wanted, but Lewis wasn’t prepared to hide himself away. Honour went with honesty and being brave – that was the thing his father had taught him – and those Fleet Street hacks would catch him out anyway, so it was better to do it on his own terms. He was tempted to broach the subject there and then, but he let the moment pass. Instead he took a cue that would later become an anthem.
    “With the weather, the win, and everything about it,” Samantha Allan had crooned, drawing things to a close, “surely you would say this is your perfect day.”
    Lewis went silent for a moment as he considered the answer, looking up to his box for inspiration. A yes would have been easy. It would have made everybody up there happy and kept it almost perfect. But not totally perfect for Lewis Macleod - how could it be perfect when someone wasn’t there. The dream was something he’d always shared, and standing on Centre Court holding the trophy, surrounded by the crowd who had witnessed his triumph, Lewis felt suddenly very alone.
    Awkward moments passed as everyone waited. Then Lewis gave them all his answer...
    “No, not perfect,” he ’d said looking slightly abashed. “For it to be perfect it needed my perfect man, sitting there in the box watching me. I had one once, but he’s not around anymore. But hopefully I’ll meet another one soon and I’ll have another big final to play, then he can sit in the box and watch... and that would be perfect, even if I lost.”
    Still on his own eighteen months later, Lewis looked at the euphoric face kissing the cup, and raised his glass as he had done for Chantal Duboir. An involuntary smile appeared. Whatever happened after that: all those disappointments, especially with himself - nothing could take away the reality of that moment, or the Macleod name from that trophy - still the only one of consequence to bear it.

Chapter 3
    The present came crashing back to Lewis Macleod in the form of a beaming face atop a garish peach shirt which was heading towards him.
    “Lewis, we are so happy