Sport Story

After finishing my last season of T-ball as a grade-schooler, I knew that I wanted to remain active and pursue another sport. I was encouraged to continue pursuing baseball since I was ambidextrous and could prove to be an asset at the plate. But I had lost interest in the sport. What grabbed my attention was tennis. I was drawn to the independent nature of the sport. Win or lose, it would be on me. Or at most, it would be me plus one other taking on two others. And just as important, it wasn’t basketball, the sport that my older brother excelled in at the time. Tennis was my way to differentiate from him and have my own athletic identity.

I still remember picking up my first racket. It certainly was nothing fancy. It belonged to my Dad from his early years, long before he picked up golf. Navy blue, wooden with a large rubbery grip, it represented my introduction into a new sport and a minimal investment my parents had to make as they assessed the seriousness of my new pursuit. I started out hitting some balls with my mother’s friend who was an avid tennis competitor. She was patient enough to hit with me and allow me to get acclimated to the game. I would also spend many warm muggy summer nights hitting balls with my neighbor on the courts at the nearby University of Texas at Tyler. After a while, I had convinced my parents I was serious about tennis. They enrolled me in private lessons with a professional tennis player and bought me a real racket. I traded in my wooden racket for a Wilson metal racket with the signature “W” imprinted on the strings. It would be a while before I graduated to a Prince Pro, although I never really played like a prince or a pro. But with real rackets in hand, it was game on!

Through the remaining years of grade school, middle school, and into high school, there were countless lessons, practices, and matches. I felt at home on a tennis court. The feel of the racket in my grip, the quick shuffling of feet as soon as the serve was made, the force of the ball making contact with the strings, the clap of the ball hitting the asphalt court, the excitement of the quick rhythmic exchange over the net all served to ground me, to connect me to the sport. The more I practiced my strokes the better I got, although I never really developed a strong serve; it was always the weakest part of my game. But my Dad always told me, “Put the ball in play and see what happens.” This isn’t only true for sport, but life in general.

Tennis is not a contact sport (unless you take a ball to the eye which a friend of mine did!) But it does have a way of wearing on your knees. Years of quickly running and stopping and twisting on asphalt courts were taking a toll. About halfway through high school, I began noticing how my knees were constantly sore. It hurt to walk. I could walk only a few yards before “popping” my knees back into place. But I kept playing…until I couldn’t. I was in tennis practice and my doubles partner and I had just started a new set when I was presented with an opportunity to make what I knew was going to be an incredible forehand volley. With my racket in volley position, I rushed to the net and stopped suddenly, but my knees didn’t. I swung at the ball but the pain was so excruciating I let go of my racket which ended up in the net. I don’t remember if I hit the ball or not. I just remember hobbling off the court and telling my coach I couldn’t play anymore that day. I did not it know then but I was pretty much finished with tennis, not just for the day but for a very long time.

At my mother’s request, I agreed to consult an orthopedic surgeon. After an evaluation and some x-rays, he advised me to take a break from tennis and focus on leg presses to strengthen my knees before I resumed playing. If that didn’t help, he said he would then recommend surgery so that he could “go in and look around.” His words sent a chill down my spine. “Go in?!“ Look around?!” This was long before arthroscopy. Knee surgeries then resembled something more from the medieval days compared to now and with a very protracted recovery. The leg presses didn’t work. The pain persisted. I had a choice: allow my surgeon to filet open my knees in the hopes of saving the sport or put down my racket and walk (or hobble) off the court.  I chose the latter.  I tried playing some after graduating from college but my knees still weren’t having it.  So, I surrendered my racket and made peace with what was.

I enjoyed tennis and took pride in the game. It fit my personality. Tennis is played either individually or with just one other person but still allows athletes to belong to a larger team, a tribe. The game was much more than just about winning or losing. It taught me how to show up, how to meet each return as a new opportunity, and how to challenge myself and be challenged by my doubles partner and opponents to excel. Tennis taught me how to rely on myself in singles and how to share the responsibility in doubles. It showed me the importance of being flexible and thinking quickly on my feet. Tennis illustrated how boundaries shift depending on whether I was playing solo or in a partnership. The game taught me early in life how to face disappointment, trust the process, and know when it is time to just let go. Tennis taught me how to embrace endings. It was game, set, match.  Or so I thought.

A few years ago, after the urging from a close friend who recognized my passion for the sport, I decided to pick up a new racket and take another swing at it. I was anxious.  My knees are much older and I was just wrapping up several months of physical therapy for a new knee injury from a wakeboarding incident. I had managed to escape knee major surgery twice now and I wasn’t in the mood to tempt fate.  But after getting cleared by my PT, I walked onto a court for the first time in decades.

Muscle memory is real and the body actually does remember. I was very rusty but equally surprised at how soon the motions began to feel more and more familiar.  What did not surprise me was the feeling that returned with the grip of the racket, the sound of the ball hitting the strings, the movement across the court, and the fun of a friendly competition.  I was both invigorated and at peace.  It was like a homecoming.  I had returned to a place where I could once again lose myself in the game and enjoy challenging myself to excel.  Granted, I am respecting the limits of my body and the talent of my opponents.  And I am getting used to telling my opponents “nice shot!” rather than frantically chasing the ball and tempting the surgery gods.  Humility can go a long ways.

My relationship to tennis, like so many other relationships, has changed and evolved, becoming more labyrinthine than linear.  It is different yet in some ways still the same, which describes much of what we experience in our own stories.  If we are open to the process, we can often find something new in the old, a bit of hope where there was only despair,  and, if we are lucky, a good friend to encourage us to try again.  Tennis is a game of returns.  And it has taught me that the place where we are most needed, where we are most ourselves, is often where we eventually return.