𝘿. 𝙏𝘼𝙇𝘽𝙊𝙏.

i'm seventeen, GOING UNDER.

[17goiingunder-a-blog]

can’t be bothered to make a pinned post maybe later but i have dave’s stats and bio up... and i wanna write him so like this for a starter maybe

[17goiingunder-a-blog]

amnerise​:

“oh, you must!”  now, amira adores dave, but australia is, allegedly, a land with venomous snakes and spiders the size of dinner plates, and other creepy crawlies that she doesn’t want to wake up face to face with.  “or better yet — you could stay in new york permanently,”  she wryly grins as she settles herself to the couch, one leg draping over the other. amira pats the empty space beside her and dramatically sighs.  “you know me. always busy, busy, busy! like a little bee,”  she chuckles and waves her hand through the air for effect.  “i should show you my portfolio! i’ve added so many sketches this semester.”

“I could.” He grins, as he flops down on the couch next to her. “But I’d pay just as much tax here as I do in Australia.” That’s only half a joke--- when you’re winning a quarter of a million dollars per tournament, tax rate isn’t trivial. “Maybe Monaco. Have you ever been? You’d love it. I’m playing the Monte Carlo tournament in a few months, you should come. I’ll return the hospitality.” Dave just doesn’t want to be alone, under any circumstances--- despite all the success, he finds himself desperately lonely. “Oh, yeah? Show me. I’ll tell you whether I’d wear that or not.”

[17goiingunder-a-blog]

changed my url cos i feel like that song is more appropriate for dave and also i’m considering making him his own blog... hmm

[17goiingunder-a-blog]

who wants a starter from my problematic aussie tennis boy

[17goiingunder-a-blog]

“…on his day, the youngster from melbourne is, in our opinion, the best in the world. his ferocious serve and his backhand make him a formidable opponent on any indoor surface, but grass is his favorite, having won four times at w.imbledon. alongside his hugely impressive list of tournament wins, dave talbot has also won the davis cup for australia twice and clinched a bronze medal in the men’s singles at the 1988 olympics.”

[timotaychalamet]

A Woman Under the Influence (1974) dir. John Cassavetes

[17goiingunder-a-blog]

“...on his day, the youngster from melbourne is, in our opinion, the best in the world. his ferocious serve and his backhand make him a formidable opponent on any indoor surface, but grass is his favorite, having won four times at w.imbledon. alongside his hugely impressive list of tournament wins, dave talbot has also won the davis cup for australia twice and clinched a bronze medal in the men’s singles at the 1988 olympics.”

[17goiingunder-a-blog]

what if... picrew dave

[17goiingunder-a-blog]

exspiritment​:

“Dickhead?” She blinks, astounded and a bit too taken aback to do anything but parrot him. 

Clothes on, comforter comfortably wrapped around her. This is nice. As risky as it is, she should go home with quasi-famous people more often. 

“I just like the plain. Or Nutella. I love chocolate.” As for the rest of what Dave has to say, Spirit just rolls her eyes. What happened in the night isn’t a pleasant topic for light morning conversation.

“Sorry.” Despite the raging hangover, he can’t help but laugh at her surprise. “I always forget you can’t go ‘round calling people dickheads in America. It’s not an insult, I promise.” Now he wants some bloody Nutella. His coach would kill him, but hey, what he doesn’t know won’t hurt him.

“Nutella it is, then.” He calls for room service, delicately avoiding the topic of what the fuck happened with the television last night. Dave decides he’ll deal with that later. “You know nothing about tennis, do you?” A pause. “It’s fascinating. You’re not missing very much, I’ll tell you that.”

[17goiingunder-a-blog]

5 july, 1987, w.imbledon, london, united kingdom.

             “Soph—”

             “Hmm?”

             “We should get married.”

             They’re standing in the locker room, waiting for the prize-giving ceremony to begin. His suggestion makes Sophia stop in her tracks with her jacket only half-zipped up.

             “Shut up, Davey.”

             “No. I’m serious. Marry me.” Okay, maybe he’s a little doped-up. The final match had taken well over three-and-a-half hours and his doctor had given him a painkiller injection to help his twisted ankle. This is his third W.imbledon title, and probably the one that’s taken the most out of him. But he feels good, he feels great--- he doesn’t know how much is from the adrenaline and how much is from the injection, but he’s not going to question.

             “Dave.” Sophia turns around to face him. “You’ve lost the plot.”

             “Think about it, Soph.” He sits down on one of the benches, letting his racquet bag fall to the wayside. “We’ve both got it all. You’re going to be world number one. So am I. What’s the last thing left, but to get married?” He’s not going to remove his shoes, he thinks to himself. His feet are going to be a gruesome sight.

             “Yes, but I’m only nineteen, and you’re twenty. That’s too young to get married.”

             “I’m not saying we need to start a family. But any other man would be jealous that you’re always away, playing tournaments, always practicing. Not me. Look, we’ll even save on the cost and have one tennis court to practice on. We’ll buy a place in Prahran and we’ll put a grass court in. And best of all, my accountant said we’ll pay less tax if we get hitched.”

             “You’re mad, Dave. You know that?”

             “Of course.” He leaps up from the bench and presses a kiss to her cheek, one hand tenderly resting on her waist. “Think about it. It’s a long flight home. You can at least promise me you’ll think about it, right?”

             “Whatever you say.” She rolls her eyes playfully at him and returns the kiss on his cheek.

             “Your hair looks great. Now c’mon, we’re going to keep all the officials waiting. You’ll look gorgeous on the telly. Take my word for it.” Dave tugs at Sophia’s wrist, impatient as always, running from one idea to another.

             “You’re not very romantic, are you?” Her voice echoes down the tunnel as they make their way back onto the court, hand-in-hand.

             “Alright, alright. Let’s go back to the locker room and I’ll try again with some flowers. Would that make you happy?”

             “You’re mad, Dave.” Sophia giggles. “Absolutely mad.”

             “I know.”

[17goiingunder-a-blog]

amnerise​:

amira is incapable of doing anything less than ‘all of this’; it wouldn’t be her if she didn’t pull the extraordinary out of her sleeve.  “you came all this way! what sort of friend would i be if i didn’t roll out the red carpet?”  she presses a kiss to each of his cheeks, briefly wrapping her arms around dave’s neck in a small hug.  “tell me all about your travels! how was the flight?”  as she pulls back, amira pats his upper chest affectionately.

“Oh, the flight was sound. You know what they say about flying with Qantas: it’s like going to your grand-mum’s place, because they keep feeding you.” He grins, clearly appreciating her overt display of affection, even if it’s only friendly. “But my God, it’s a long bloody flight, that is. I keep saying I want to move to Europe. Maybe I should. It’ll be easier for you to come and visit me as well.” Dave sits down at the table; he’s hungrier than he realizes, and another bread roll is soon devoured. “How have you been, my darling? Designed any new clothes lately?”

[17goiingunder-a-blog]

dave retires from top-level tennis at the age of 27 after he breaks his wrist in three places at the f.rench open in 1994. while doing one of his trademark dives, he lands on top of his wrist and absolutely shatters it. he needs extensive surgery to put it back together but that’s basically the end of his tennis career, although it had been in a slump since 1989, really. his best weapon was always that ferocious serve and after he breaks his wrist, it’s never the same again.

[17goiingunder-a-blog]

exspiritment​:

“Bagels and cream cheese.” She looks at him sternly, like Obviously. It’s bread and butter, isn’t it? Peanut butter and jelly? Whatever.

“I just got dressed, and you’re wearing a towel. Do you think we got up to playing dress up?”

She’s just relieved to not be responsible for his very obvious injuries.

“No, the flavor, ya dickhead.” Out comes the obligatory Aussie slang before he even realizes it. He means it affectionately, he promises. “Don’t you have millions of flavors? Americans love their choices.” He’d gone to the grocery store upon arriving in New York and the sheer choice of chocolates and candies had overwhelmed him. It’d all make him sick, anyway.

“Maybe. Whatever I told you I was into last night, you didn’t hear it from me. Promise?”

[17goiingunder-a-blog]

w.imbledon champ, 1984. he was still 17 when he won his second grand s.lam.

[17goiingunder-a-blog]

exspiritment​:

“I didn’t think you were.” Spirit was kicking herself out, if anything — just to be polite. But somebody else buying breakfast is always ideal, so she settles fully under the comforter. “I like bagels, and waffles. Bagels best.” East on the go. 

Oh. He’s still talking. Spirit huffs, shimmies under the comforter. And yet:

“Did I hurt you last night?”

“Bagels. What kind? Cream cheese?” He feels a bit like a waiter. It makes him laugh as he makes his way over to the telephone that’s on the nightstand. Dave settles on top of the comforter, grateful that she can’t see him gritting his teeth.

“No. It was from the match last night. Hard court’s much less forgiving than grass.” She doesn’t know what he’s on about. He doesn’t care. “Should I even ask you what we got up to last night? Or am I better off not knowing?”

[17goiingunder-a-blog]

exspiritment​:

“Look, I don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about.” Spirit isn’t into athletes, but she is into bars and clubs where relatively famous people come to get fucked up. One more face is just that — one more face. She’ll try to keep her ignorance from wounding his ego. 

“You didn’t. It doesn’t matter. I can’t. You’re welcome.”

“Oh.” He’s trying to remember if the girls in New York were this blunt the last time he was here, or if it’s just Spirit. “Look, I’m not kicking you out or anything. I’ll get us some brekkie. What do you want?” Although Dave won’t admit it, he’s lonely, and the company of this abrasive (yet attractive) stranger is better than being alone. He knows how it’ll go if he’s alone; the rage and the self-hatred are never far away.

“They make quite a good omelette here, if I remember correctly.” He tries to haul himself to his feet, leaning on the armchair for support, but he can’t help the wince of pain when he puts his weight on his left leg. Ah, what the hell--- part and parcel. Another tournament, another loss, another injury. It’s almost routine nowadays.

[17goiingunder-a-blog]

@exspiritment:

“From the bar,” Spirit confirms while she shimmies back into her panties, skirt, and tank top. It’s hard to fully get out of the bed; hotel mattresses are so much nicer than the one she has at home. 

“Did you hear what I said? You won. Against the television, at least.”

“Thank you. I heard you the first time.” He replies, voice dripping with sarcasm. Dave watches with some interest as she gets dressed, but he’s too fucking tired and hungover to make a move again. “I’d have thought you would’ve held out for the winner instead of going to bed with some second-round loser.” He makes no attempt to get up off the rug. It feels nice and velvety under his fingers. And his feet hurt like hell.

“Please tell me--- please tell me I remembered to use a condom last night.” He doubts it.