Taking Weekend Tennis Seriously

I’m watching the Wildcard Doubles draw for the Challenger of Dallas, a $100,000 prized men’s professional tennis tournament, and something dawns on me about tennis doubles.

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There’s something wrong with my tennis head that no Pink/Katy Perry/Sara Bareilles song can help me out of.

I wouldn’t wish this mental anguish on anyone. Anyone. This sucks. Playing scared is no way to play tennis.

How to describe it. Um…

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• There’s nothing like taking a private tennis lesson to humble the rice pudding out of you.
• I very rarely leave a tennis lesson or a drill pleased with my game. I’m totally the Tim Tebow of weekend tennis. I’m awful in practice yet I inexplicably have won in match play (#WhosCarryingMeThisTime). I’m convinced more than ever that I’m rated as I am simply because I’m more athletic than most people who play recreational tennis are. I’m clearly doing tennis wrong. My coaches and I are still stuck on how to hit groundstrokes. And what the right grip is. Ugh, my grip. There’s a mark on my racquet grip that corresponds with a mark on my fist so I know how I’m supposed to hold my racquet. If you watch me closely while I’m playing a match, sometimes you’ll see me glance down at my racquet in mid rally to see if the marks match up.

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I’m constantly amazed by life and how life unfolds. I probably didn’t know you a year ago. I probably was not on your tennis team a year ago. And now here we are. Texting buddies.

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