Mind Games

I had watched every match he had ever played, studied the recordings for hours. I knew his game plan probably better than he knew it himself. For example his first serve would be powerful with him aiming it for the back corner of my service box on my forehead side, in the hopes the spin on the ball will kick it out of my reach. Once he realises I have gotten wise to it because I ready myself further over, he will try a serve down the middle to my backhand.

Another example is without a doubt once a rally reaches ten, his next shot will go down the line to force me to scamper across the court and play a lacklustre shot which he will capitalise on by sending the ball back the other way. I know all his tricks but yet I am still standing on this court losing. Everytime I play him I always find myself in this exact position.

Every point I lose is followed by the disapproving tut of my coach that shivers through my body, poisoning my already low confidence further. He said from the very beginning I would never make it but he wouldn’t say no to a paycheck from my parents. Out of the games I had ever played this was the most important. If I was to win today I would get the chance to play at Wimbledon, the Wimbledon. The place all young, aspiring tennis stars want to play at.

My arm flexed, arching across my body and over the opposite shoulder. The perfect forehand, yet somehow it wasn’t. I watched as the ball struck the net, rolled down it and bounced a few times on the ground. Each bounce made my heart drop further and further. My coach shook his head, motioned his hands frantically in a crisscross. That meant I needed to move my feet quicker, how could I move them any quicker than I already was?

The next point was a must win otherwise the set was gone, I would then be two down and it would be a struggle to pull it back. I lowered myself slightly, ready for his serve. My weight already shifted on my right leg in anticipation. My eyes drifted upwards as he flung the ball into the air, his legs bent before flinging him into the air. His arm flashed over his head, connecting with the ball. It whizzed through the air towards the corner of my service box, my feet criss crossed over each other. I planted them in place before the ball had even landed. My arm was poised and ready, the ball bounced up towards me. I swung, feeling the vibration ripple into my hand and up my arm. I ensured to follow through exactly like I had done in practice many times before. The ball darted back over the net, the game was on.

Forehand to forehand the rally went, we both tried to push each other further and further away from the court. Our feet scuttled underneath us in an attempt to return to the centre after every hit. I knew within the next shot or so he would send the ball hurterling to my backhand, I needed to get their first. The ball flew over the net, I planted my feet once again but this time I kept them facing sideways to keep my body closed - this would send the ball forward to his backhand. My grip tightened around the handle and focused on where I wanted to aim. Once the ball had reached me I had swung as usual but this time I gave my wrist an extra fast flick. “Have fun with that top spin.” I thought.

The ball spiralled through the air like a somersaulting gymnast, I was confident this point was all mine. Yet somehow he managed to get to the other side of the court. His racket sliced across his body, as if he was a master samurai. My top spin had been negated, changed to a backspin. I had gone from being on top of the world to sheer panic as the ball crept over the net, I was never going to reach it in time. I bounded from one foot to another, the ball bounced once. My heart raced, I lurched my arm forward hoping it was enough to reach. The ball dropped towards the ground, my racket grinded across the gravelly surface of the clay court. I needed to get there, I stretched harder. My ankle folded over and I tumbled to the ground. The ball bounced a second time, the point was lost.

I still heard over all the cheers and applause for my opponent, the ominous tut. I smacked my hand on the ground, not only was I still not good enough, my ankle was fine so I couldn’t even use that as an excuse for losing. I rolled over onto my back and stared at the sky, there was no cloud in the sky. Bad weather wouldn’t save me from this embarrassment. “How could this get any worse.” I mumbled. A shadow covered me, at first I thought it was my coach coming to help me up but it wasn’t. It was him, my rival. Stood over me, like he knew he was better than me with a smug smile plastered on his face. He reached down towards. “Need a hand.” He gloated. I was tempted to slap his hand away but opted to be a good sport. 

I clasped his hand, he pulled me to my feet. “Thank you.” I said, avoiding eye contact.

“Don’t worry about it. You would do the same for me.”

“Of course.” I lied.

He gestured for me to proceed to the other side of the court. I gave a polite nod, turning I could see my coach shaking his head. My legs were heavy, the knot in my stomach manifested itself. It always formed whenever my coach was about to berate me. With my head stooped low I made my way towards him. My ears were already burning.

“What are you playing at, out there?” My coach scorned me.

I didn’t look up from the ground. “I’m trying my best to stick to the game plan.” 

“Well your best isn’t good enough. I knew I should have never taken you on as a student.” With that he stormed off back to his seat. I stood still dejected. He was right, my best wasn’t good enough, maybe I should just throw in the towel. I felt empty inside, my heart a hollow casket. The passion I once had for tennis was now well and truly dead. I had made my decision, quitting was the best option. I would spare everyone the embarrassment from having to watch me get humiliated further. I took a deep breath and turned to face the umpire.

Before I had a chance to speak, someone called out. “Hey kid, a quick word if you don’t mind.” It was my opponent's coach. “What does he want?” I thought. “Probably wants to mock me before I quit.”

“OK.” I said, trying to make the conversation end quickly.

“I know I’m not your coach and I should be rooting for my guy to win but I can’t stand idly and watch a fantastic player such as yourself be torn down.”

I was speechless, nobody had ever called me a fantastic player before. A warm glow tingled through me, my eyes watered a bit. I felt something I hadn’t felt on the court for sometime, happiness.

“Obviously you can just ignore me.” He continued. “But you should just ignore your coach, the tactic he has given you and just go out and play your game. You look tense out there, reading into every last detail of each play and holding onto it.” He placed his hand onto my shoulder, gripping it. “The last point is in the past, you can’t change it so forget about it. You only need to focus on the current point, that is the only one you can affect. No one else.”

Something changed inside of me, there was a belief I could win. Clarity on who I was as a player, what I had to do to win. I had to play the game against the opponent in front of me, not the player I had watched play or the player I thought was out to ruin me. My eyes drifted up to meet my opponent's coach. “Thank you.” I said.

He smiled back. “No problem, now go out there and have fun.”

My body was no longer tense as I walked away to the service line. I picked up one of the balls, squishing it. I was relaxed but focused, loose but strong but most importantly brave. Brave to believe in myself that I could win. Brave to believe that I may still lose but that would not deter me. My hand opened, flexing out and batted the ball down. Bouncing it up and down. I glanced over to the other side of the court, I no longer saw my rival. I only saw another tennis player, looking to have fun and win. I threw the ball into the air, my legs bent and tensed. I sprung into the air, my arm whipped over my head with venom. The ball pinged over the net, the game was on.