Taking Weekend Tennis Seriously

Telling people I’m funnier than the captain they plan on playing for hasn’t been a strong selling point for why they should play on my teams. It’s kinda like when I stressed free cookies when I was in charge of PR/marketing for my high school’s book club.

My sister and I were discussing playing tennis together over the weekend. She took lessons along with my brother and me when we were in elementary school but didn’t do much more than that (while my brother went on to be the number one junior in the state and I…I could hit the ball over the net. Sometimes it landed inside the fence. It being the racquet). I think it would be super for her to pick up the sport so she can be active, get out of the house, and begin her journey into the ultra-competitive, highly political, incredibly frustrating world of weekend adult tennis. Just super.

I think it would be so super that I suggested that after I taught her how to hit the ball (blind leading the…), maybe we could play doubles together in the lowest level league at our local public tennis facility.

This is how that conversation went down, verbatim:

Sister: “Ok, but you just need to be prepared to lose.”

Beat.

Sister: “But, you lose, anyway, right? Isn’t that what you always talk about: losing?”

Sigh. Yes. Yes, it is.

Sometimes I wish I could go back to the simpler times of before team tennis. Back when I was only playing the leagues at my local tennis facility, when I didn’t know about all the different city leagues and tournaments and their cruel, unattainable playoff carrot stick, when I didn’t know seemingly every racquet-wielding, skirt-wearing player within a 30-mile radius, when I didn’t have teammates, when I wasn’t constantly comparing myself to the entire rest of the world. Sure, I was naïve and thought I was pretty darn good, but being blissfully unaware sometimes seems better than acutely knowing where I stand on the tennis court at all times.

See what I did there?

We all probably started out playing weekend adult tennis about the same way: not seriously. We picked up a racquet and thought, “Huh, why not?” Maybe you played when you were younger; maybe you didn’t. But for some reason, you and I picked up tennis racquets when we were adults. We futzed around on some school tennis courts, and the whole concept of being active with a purpose (praying the neon, fluffy ball would go in) was neat. Our competitive juices got flowing, and the next logical step after gathering our courage was to sign up for a league at the local tennis center. Whoa, now.

And that’s about when the descent into darkness begins.

Because now we’re keeping real scores that will be reported to someone. Now there are standings! On a website! Now this means something. And, yet, in the big scheme of the world of weekend adult tennis, it doesn’t. The website’s barely maintained. The records are there only till the next league begins. Nobody knows who wins these things. And we were fine.

As we moved up through the league levels at our local facility (moving up is just a phrase; it’s more like we signed up for “higher” level leagues because they fit our schedules and no one at the tennis facility cares), words like USTA, ratings, Metro*, and TCD* started being bandied about (*substitute your own city-wide leagues for your location; trust me; they exist). We didn’t know what those acronyms were (did you say STDs?), and we didn’t care because we were content with just living our own busy lives and competing in these little leagues as our once a week tennis activity. By ourselves (and our doubles partners). Without teammates (except for our doubles partners).

But by this time, we were hooked. There was the social aspect, of course. But also: trying to win, trying not to lose – what a rush. This became more than a mere game. This determined our mood for the rest of the afternoon/evening/few days. Being active with a purpose. Exhilarating. Those precious few hours when we were gladiators battling a den of lions was what we looked forward to every week.

Or, maybe you just took some beginner’s lessons and group drills.

Whatever we were doing – just drills or battling lions – was all a build-up to this point when our lives would forever change. Someone – an overzealous teaching pro, a crazy captain – asked you to play on his/her tennis team.

Say no.

At least some of us wished we had. But those of us who had a couple more hours a week to spare were intrigued. You’re telling me there’s more than this provincial life where there are more players to compete against, where records and results are kept online forever for all to see? And we could go to playoffs?!

And that’s it. That’s how it begins. Team Tennis. Where our innocence is forever taken away. It’s an intoxicating world full of story lines, ego, purpose, and testosterone. Some of us will become captain-crazy and use our decades of managerial experience for what it turns out we had actually been training for in the corporate world: cajoling a bunch of rag-tag head cases to victory…or at the very least to the correct match site. Some of us will spend a few thousand dollars a year on getting better because those silly numbers next to our names define us. The rest won’t care as much…but they’ll care all the same. It’s hard to ignore all the inherent pressures of a (rather public) group sport. Are our lives better for the exercise or worst for the mental anguish?

Will I play doubles with my sister before she goes to school this fall? Let me check if the league times work…what’s the worst that could happen?

~ Christy Vutam