Imagine this:
You step foot on a fresh swap-green court holding a brand-new racket in one hand, and a neon-green ball in the other. The wind whips through your hair while the heat of the sun radiates onto your skin. Your family and friends are cheering for you on the sidelines as you approach the baseline. 1 bounce 2 bounce 3 bounce. You are deciding which form of attack to use to catch your opponent off guard. Eventually, you throw the ball up high, high, high, into the air, and when you reach with your racket hand, you smash the ball vigorously on the opposite side of the court. The referee calls “Ace!!”, and you feel a proud grin slide across your face. Later in the game, your opponent who’s much more ferocious than you begins to serve. You sway from side to side, staring the ball dead in the eye while getting ready to return it. And in the blink of an eye, the ball is coming fast fast fast towards you, and with all your might- you release the forehand of the century. Your parents cheer from the sidelines while your friends scream from the top of their lungs.
As a matter of fact, I have never experienced this.
From the tender age of 10, I was stuck in community tennis lessons. From running laps around the court and practicing my serves – I absolutely hated every single second of it. Those 1 hour tennis lessons every Saturday, felt like the most monstrous thing my parents could make me endure. Tennis and I had an extremely toxic relationship that no matter how much I tried, I wasn’t allowed to avoid it. From tears in the car, while heading and coming back, I made sure to express my hatred for the sport.
After a whole year of this treacherous “torture”, I felt as though a miracle had occurred. I was finally allowed to quit tennis. I thought my parents finally had given in to the tears and the yelling and the sulk on my face as I swayed around the court.
As expected, I was happy. I was absolutely ecstatic. I was arguably the happiest girl in the world! But this happiness only lasted for about 1 singular month. During that month without tennis, I realized something. I had given up. I took the easy way out and had given up. Sure it felt amazing to not step foot in that center and run around the court like a maniac- chasing each ball with all my might. But deep down inside, underneath the pure joy, I was disappointed. Disappointed in myself for not pushing through. Not proving to not only my parents, but to myself, that I wasn’t a quitter.
This feeling lingered around for a very long time. Every time I went into the garage and saw my tennis racket sitting on the shelf, new and unused, I always felt a small pinch in my heart. A minuscule feeling of failure. My mom wanted to sell my racket so that another little kid could use it, but for some reason, I always stopped her. She never understood why, mainly because I always complained about hating tennis.
The truth is, I never necessarily hated tennis, as a sport. Truthfully, I hated the fact that I wasn’t good at it. I hated the fact that I was a chubby 10-year-old girl who didn’t have enough energy to run for the ball. I hated the fact that I just couldn’t hit with so much power as the other kids. In fact, I genuinely enjoyed watching tennis – but just hated playing it. After quitting, sure I felt relieved that this weight was lifted off my shoulders, but the weight of guilt and disappointment replaced it.
After a little while, I went up to my parents and said the most shocking thing known to mankind.
“I want to play tennis again”. You can imagine the look on their faces after hearing this.
When I first got back on the court, I decided to go back with a fresh perspective. Forgetting my past tennis experience, and then pretending as if it were my first time. As expected, I still wasn’t any better, or faster, or stronger. But I came to terms with that fact, and that it was ok. I didn’t have to be amazing at everything I did, and even though I was horrible, I was just so happy that I didn’t quit. That I tried my best and pushed myself to my fullest potential. I guess I would say that my toxic relationship with tennis had somewhat “healed”.
To this day, I still play tennis. I’ve gotten a little better, but I guess that didn’t really change much about how I felt about it. At this point in my tennis journey, I wouldn’t say that I hate tennis, but I also wouldn’t say that I loved it. Bringing in a Goldilocks reference, I felt my relationship with this sport was “just right”.
