I never thought I'd hear myself say this, but I had a good loss this weekend.
Marcia won, I lost...why isn't she smiling? Tennis Hate must be infectious.Yes, Haters, I lost my singles match in the USTA 3.0 Women's League playoffs at the Billie Jean King National Tennis Center, and I'm okay!
Stop calling the local emergency rooms. I'm fine. My racquets are still in playing condition. The USTA can confirm no balls were abused during my match.
I wanted to make the world fit into the circle of my racquet. There was nothing else requiring my attention.
I played the second singles spot against Worthy Opponent Marcia. She was the steadier player in our deciding 10-point tie-break and won the day, 6-2, 1-6, 10-7. But there was that second set! And I stayed even with her through the first 12 points of the tie-break, even trading a mini-break with her.
I was defeated by my serve (I frequently missed first serves and had at least two double faults), by pushy short balls that Marcia was able to pounce upon, and by her pace. She can really clobber the ball. She made money off a cross-court forehand wide to my forehand that I either hit long or pushed back to where she had quickly positioned herself, licking her lips, at the middle of the net. Ka-ching! Put-away volley.
She also rarely missed her first serve. How'd she do that?
Okay, I'm smiling through the agony of defeat....but Marcia, where's the thrill of victory?Okay, so that was how I was beaten. How I won was in keeping my wits and hope about me after that numbing first set. And as much as I pushed, Haters, I also slugged. I hit many strong drives. I felt, for once, like I was actually playing tennis, not patty-cake. And that is what keeps me heading back into the crucible of the tennis court. Someday, I'm going to play tennis, not a close approximation.
I reminded myself to stay focused and positive, and I told myself that those qualities simply required that I watch the ball, and see the hit. I chanted Coach Al's mantra as I waited at the baseline for Marcia to serve. "Your eyes make the shot." I didn't have to be someone I wasn't or conjure up some feeling that wasn't there. All I had to do was stay focused on that little fuzzy yellow orb speeding my way, and watch it all the way onto my strings.
I wanted to make the world fit into the circle of my racquet. There was nothing else requiring my attention.
What happened, as a result, was that I was waiting and ready for that ball, body coiled, racquet back. All the movements Coach barks at me to make before the ball bounces, so that I'm not hitting the ball late and pushing it back. What happend was that I hit the damn ball. Finally. I was also, because of my focus, able to pull off some heart-stopping drop shot winners that would've made my husband proud.
That was what helped me during the match. Invaluable, too, was time in the morning with my husband, playing at the totally empty asphalt courts at Jackie Robinson Park, about 6 easy blocks away from our new digs in Bedford-Stuyvesant. I got a little Tennis Hate when he broke me to go up 4-3.
"You look like a watch on a branch in a Salvador Dali painting," he scolded me during a water break. "It's not over! Don't quit!"
He shook his head and gave me one of his signature, incredulous, Don't Be An Idiot scowls. "You can't be acting this way when you play this afternoon. Make her beat you. Don't beat yourself."
I rallied to bring the set to 6-6. I looked at my watch. I had an hour and a half to shower and eat before heading to the NTC. Our match, and our marriage, saved by lunchtime.
Also keeping my Tennis Hate and pre-match panic at bay was additional warm-up time with my teammates an hour and a half before the match. Coach Winston helped lightened the mood by bringing animal crackers, pretzels and beer. This was, indeed, a time to celebrate, win or lose. The Ball Busters made the playoffs!
And I conquered Tennis Hate by warming up with friends and family, focusing on the ball during the match and learning more about how I perform best in big events.