Kelly* and I got to talking the other day about tennis.
Shocker, I know, that one of my players wants to talk about tennis. She talked
about how she was feeling like she couldn’t catch a break lately—how every
tournament, she got unlucky in the first round, or didn’t play well, or the weather
was too windy, or she played amazing but the girl she played was even more amazing.
“But you wouldn’t know, since you were, like, amazing in college,” she mutters,
almost under her breath. I stop, scrunching my eyebrows, a deep furrow
developing on my forehead. “Um, yeah, about that…”
So I went on to tell her that even though I accomplished a
lot in college, that accomplishment shines through the fight of challenging
matches, of ten match losing streaks, of fight after fight with coaches and
family, of sweat, blood, tears, and achy muscles. Never, for a moment, think
that a top player hasn’t gone through pain and disappointment. It is that very
disappointment that drives a good player into the battle of making themselves
better, what makes a good player turn into a great player, and what turns a
great player into “amazing.” I told Kelly about my ten match losing streak in
college. I’ll never forget it—junior year, and I felt like the world was
against me. I could not, even through fights and battles and eventually, fight
wounds and battle scars, win a match. I don’t remember how it started—it seems
to me that my lows always match my highs in tennis. I couldn’t tell you what
triggered it either; and a lot of times, junior players also tell me that I don’t
know, I just can’t win. I’m doing everything right, why is everything going
wrong? And usually, my response is keep your chin up, keep working, head down,
feet moving, keep working, keep moving, keep going. But Kelly’s conversation
got me thinking—what on earth kept me moving when I was down? Yes of course my
family and friends and loved ones and coaches told me the same things I know
tell my students, but at the end of the day, I was the one who fought the battles,
I was the one who saw the light at the end of the tunnel, I was the one who on
that 11th match heard that little voice in my own head, my own self,
quietly protesting “No, you will not lose. You will not lose again. You will
not. You will do everything that is in your power to get through this, and you
can do it.”
Minus the fact that I had a little bit of an out of body
experience, what triggered that? What got through the musings of my inner self
after the ninth match that kept kicking me down “You suck, you’re terrible, you
can’t play for your life, why don’t you use quit, you’re useless,” got me to
hear that little voice, that voice of stoic resistance? I always tell kids
focus on what you can control, but when it happened to me, could I focus on
what I could control? Did I follow my own advice? My thoughts in this
conversation spiraled. What on earth can I say to this girl to make her feel
better other than you can do it, I believe in you?
Fight. Fight with your own brain sometimes, fight with all
of your strength, mentally and physically, because believe it or not, if you
fake it, that wall that you felt was impenetrable will eventually fall to your
tenacity, to your willingness to not give up. I remember now—it was me who
asked for more lessons after I had finished practice and fitness and training.
It was me who , through my own stubbornness (yes, I am a Capricorn after all),
said I will try anything, I will do anything, including run to the net at match
point with a serve and volley even though I am terrified by the net, to break
through this, because at the end of the day, it wasn’t about winning or losing
after all, it was about beating my own self-doubt, my own negativity, my own
self, in a way, that got me out to see the light at the end of the tunnel.
*Of course, I changed the name. :)
