Taking Weekend Tennis Seriously

My feet feel heavy.  Something is weighing them down.  My shoes.  All I want to do is to take my shoes off.  And to stop moving.  And to take gulps of my Gatorade.  And to stop playing.  I really, really want to stop playing.

This. EXCEPT WORSE.

“Stop it,” I tell myself, referring to these thoughts.  I need to win this match.  I need to fight through these adverse conditions.  I need to be the dominant player I know I am and just win. this. match.  And then I’ll no longer be running around with lead shoes on.  And I can take them off.  The goal for today is to win so I can take off my shoes.

My opponent hits me yet another short ball.  I run – if you can call my slow rumbling “running.” I don’t quite make it.  Again.  I helplessly reach out with my racquet.  Déjà vu.  The ball sails harmlessly into the net.  What else is new?

If this was any other season, I would have sprinted and confidently put away that short ball.  But it is not.  It is around 2:30 pm.  In Texas.  In June.  My feet are somewhere behind me.

We rally.  It takes me a second to comprehend where the ball is going and then I sluggishly make my way to that vicinity.  I fling my racquet in some idea of a swing and I flail it at the ball.  The object of the game is to throw my racquet around, however necessary, to put the ball back in play, however ugly.  Really, that’s all tennis is.  Screw correct form.

On the changeovers, I soak my towel and scrub it all over my skin.  I’m essentially washing off my sunscreen.  This is smart.

I feel refreshingly cool from the residual moisture of my toweling.  I take one step towards my side of the court.   I am totally dry.  I play one point.  I am totally soaked with sweat.  I look longingly at my Gatorade.  I glare at my shoes.

I feel sorry for my tennis friends who are watching me.  Well, they’re watching their teammates play beyond me, but they occasionally take notice of my match.  I am playing terribly.  No, wait.  I don’t feel sorry for them.  They are in the shade.  Those lucky b—es.

This is ridiculous.  I played singles during last year’s record-breaking summer.  I’m young.  I’m in one of the best shapes of my life.  I am panting heavily.

I tell myself I just need to get my act together long enough to win the next few games.  That’s it.  And then I’ll be done.  And then I can take off my shoes.  But I’m finding it exceedingly difficult to play.  To even survive.

#firstworldproblems.

Somehow I do win.  An embarrassing win.  I win only because my opponent handled the heat worse than I did.  Like me, she wanted to end the match quickly, but her strategy was to go for her shots, which luckily sailed out.  And near the end when the match got tight, she…okay, I have no idea what she was doing.  But it wasn’t pretty.

It’s early June.  The next time I play for my USTA team, it will be later June.  The sun will be worse.  It will suck.

This is what happens when you’re the singles player on your tennis team.  You play singles.  And it sucks.