"Compete"

It was the second match of my senior tennis season, and we were playing Oberlin College. My dad was one of the five spectators in attendance, not only because he loved watching his daughter, but also because he loved reminding me that he was still on the university wall for his superb baseball skills. Whatever the true reason for making the journey, I was glad for his support. Since he dubbed me "Novocaine Navatsyk" after a four hour marathon match in high school, he was the fan I appreciated most. His unavoidable tendency to coach never failed to motivate. Throughout the match, his intensity encouraged me, and after a tough loss, the pillow like texture of his embrace comforted me.

I had lost a close first set, 5-7, and was down 1-4 in the second*. As we switched sides, I sat on the bench, inwardly pontificating the unfortunate situation that lay before me, as well as behind me. To be fair, my complaints were not unwarranted, and even as I wrote this, I began a ten paragraph rant about the sorry excuse John Carroll tennis was for a varsity sport.

I will spare exhaustive details and give a brief overview of college tennis during my tenure. I experienced four different coaches, and with that came the necessity to prove myself repeatedly. Even when I did accomplish this in my eyes, basic actions like beating an opponent one on one did not prove I was good enough. I worked out according to my own regiment, as none was planned by a coach. While this may have served me well, making me an instant hit in the weight room as I was the only girl doing squats, dead lifts and bench presses alone, I would have appreciated any sense of team solidarity cultivated in the gym. If I wanted to improve my tennis game, I needed to play beyond the hours with our coach, as practices often consisted of standing in a line of ten, hitting one ball every five minutes. The off court bonding of the girls was absent at times, for reasons that were not always the fault of teammates. However, it was difficult in early years to play on a team that seemed disconnected. Beyond that, attempting to act as captain and coach in the absence of structure within the program required maintaining a difficult balance.

I sat on that bench, tired of the seemingly wasted effort, and tired of tennis.

Walking to the deuce side to return serve, my steps were slow as I slumped to take position. I was trying desperately to convince myself I wanted to win. Voices in my head were overwhelming, declaring my college tennis career hopeless, exclaiming I had worked hard for yet another season of mediocrity and excusing my foreseeable loss with the lack of preparation in the off season. Then came another voice. It was simple, and it was strong. "Compete," my dad shouted deeply, as he sauntered along the fence.

With this simple word came so many more rushing through my head. The past three years were not relevant to the next point. More than that, nothing was relevant to the next point. Frustrations, doubts and disappointments had no bearing on whether my opponent's serve would land inside the box. Confusion that surrounded upcoming decisions and mundane everyday worries did not dictate whether my return was a down the line winner or sailed to the fence. On the court, there was only my opponent, the ball and my will to win. The ball did not take pity on me for my struggles, nor did it care about my excuses.

How should I respond? The answer was clear: Compete.

As I took steps creeping from the baseline into the court, I remembered why I loved the game. Once again, I felt the desire to play with the passion I had shown six years before on those same courts. As I swung at each shot, a bit of angst was lifted and replaced with the pure enjoyment I gleaned from tennis. I began singing, "yea buddy, rolling like a big shot," to myself as I danced a jig between points.

I do not think any amount of words can convey the power of sports to someone who has never competed. Tennis is a sport that I absolutely love, and at times, absolutely hate. I get a natural high after beating an apparent Goliath, and my greatest disappointments are matches in which I am conquered. Despite this mix of emotions, tennis has been the one constant in the vacillating pendulum of life.

When I reflect on my ten-plus years of playing, however, it is not the victories that have impacted me most, although those certainly make the celebrations more enjoyable. I go back to a mixed doubles loss in a tiebreak at team tennis nationals, and I go back to an 0 and 0 loss at the state divisional final. I go back to my loss in a third set tiebreak on this particular day, after rallying to win the second. In each instance, I left the court heartbroken, but knowing I had competed without excuse.

I still play tennis in two leagues and during every match, I hear voices. Whether it is the voice of my annoying high school coach telling me to "watch the alleys", the voice of my pro telling me to reach just one more ball after ten hours of tennis in the blistering summer sun, the voice of my father, or the voice of Dorrough, I am driven to leave everything on the court. And after a tough loss, I still crave a comforting hug from my dad.

* I apologize in advance for those reading who do not understand tennis scoring; for the sake of simplicity, just know the higher the number, the more favorable your position