Playing for us

I thought I won the game of tennis after winning my first 4.0 tournament. So when I showed up for the next tournament, I was pretty sure they would just hand me the trophy. The opponent would hit me a couple of good balls, I'd get a sweat in, and catch a quick dinner reservation. And with that attitude, I was handed a pretty embarrassing first-round loss.

When you disrespect something, it will bite you back. Hands down, it doesn't matter if it's tennis, life, or money. Once you disrespect it, it will kick you in the ass. 

What was worse was how I lost, not from a tennis tactical way but from a mindset way. I got frustrated before the match started and let the immature anger soak in my veins like poison from a venomous snake bite. The courts were fast, the lighting was off, and I had lost the battle before even having a chance to pull out my sword. Imagine if a medieval soldier showed up to war with a matcha latte and a bad attitude. I don't think he'd have a head after. 

Even after my poor performance, I thought I could rationalize it as I walked off the court, knowing I tanked out there like a pilot who experiences a little turbulence and decides the best course of action is plowing the plane straight into the ground. But then I saw my girlfriend and knew that dinner reservation wouldn't be the feast I expected. 

She was mad. Actually, scratch that. She was disappointed. 

In my mind, I was the champion just two weeks before. I was the Prince, the one seed. Can't a Prince have a bad day? 

In her mind, what I did was disrespectful to her time, myself, the opponent, and the game of tennis. It was dogshit.

As a single selfish guy, most of my life, I could get away with a bad day. I could tank the plane into the ground and rationalize it selfishly if that's what I wished. I could drive two hours to a tennis tournament in Connecticut, lose 0-6, 0-6, go to the drive-through at Burger King, and pretend it was a good day. That we'll get 'em next time.

I could dress up my ego as pride and give it a pity party parade.

But she was now part of the team—the tennis team, yes, but more importantly, the life team, and I owed it to us not to be a child when a little turbulence hit the base. 

We returned to work the following week, and I did some self-reflection. I began to look for guidance from the biggest warrior in tennis: Rafael Nadal. A warrior on the court but a man off of it, not once did he throw a tantrum on the court, and not once did he not give it his all. I've always been a Djokovic fan, but I am actually more Rafa. 

Scrappy and unorthodox. Fights for every point and dies for every ball. 

That had to be my mantra: to compete like a champion because if I could do that, I'd be one no matter the result. 

The next tournament was a week away, and I would play the same guy I lost to in that embarrassing performance. We hit the court and the gym. But you can't control everything, and that week had its own turbulence, specifically the Saturday before the tournament when our last practice got hijacked by my own life's anxiety. Again, I was tested by distraction, and again, distraction had won, stealing my spirit in the process. 

Then Sunday came, and we drove up to Woodbury Commons before the first match. We usually like to pair a tennis tournament with something fun. While my girlfriend shopped, I called my parents, and when I caught my Dad, I knew something was up. My grandmother was in the hospital, and although she's been sick for some time, it's never really easy. But then he said something that stuck with me. 

"She's going to die. We're all going to die." 

It wasn't said morbidly. It was said matter of factly, and in a strange way, it was comforting.

We are all going to die, so what the fuck was I waiting for to start living? If every moment is truly a blessing, why would I waste a second feeling sorry for myself, especially on a tennis court?

As I bounced the ball, ready to start the first match, I knew one thing. I was prepared to die on that court and chase every ball down like my life depended on it.

And I did. It didn't guarantee perfection, and the natural annoyances of life and tennis occurred. A net cord here, a bad shot there, and even in the final game, I dumped an easy volley into the net. But I stayed locked in like a warrior, and in the end, we won. It was the match the opponent, and I deserved to have just a couple of weeks before. 

In the finals, we kept that same attitude, and we lost 7-9 in an 8-game pro set. 

But the warrior never died, and when I was handed the second-place trophy, I gave it to my girlfriend with a smile. Losing is never fun, but you don't really lose if you give it your all. It's cliche, but it's damn true. 

The ride back was sweet. There were no regrets or anger. I was driving with my sidekick, sitting shotgun. I was not alone anymore, which meant I was no longer playing for myself when I stepped on the court. 

I was playing for time because we don't know when it will run out, but it will. I was playing for the game itself, for the love of it. 

And most importantly, I was playing for us.