Have you ever worked out so hard that you slobbered
on yourself? I’ve been reminded what it takes to compete; it takes a lot of
hard work. Like hitting on the ball machine, concentrating so hard and putting
forth so much effort that apparently holding spit in my mouth is no longer my top priority.
But I’ve been reminded how much I love to train to compete, too. In the
mornings I run by the river that is a half a mile from my apartment. It’s the
most natural place near me, so I get a bit of a nature fix. I have never lived
in a city before and my soul has been missing those Rocky Mountain trails. One
day it rained in the middle of my run so I sought shelter under an overhang
that shields rows of cement bleachers from the elements. There were a dozen
people with the same idea, including a man kicking a hacky sack. The middle-aged
Chinese man wore very loud British flag patterned shorts and no shirt,
revealing his potbelly, tanned by the summer sun. He was wearing beat up
converse and had a towel hung around his neck. I asked if I could try,
motioning to the hacky sack, which wasn’t really a hacky sack at all, but four stacked
small rubber discs held together with wire intertwined with rooster feathers,
looking similar to a badminton birdie. He handed it over and I sent up a quick
apology to the PETA gods for using part of an animal for sport. I tried to mimic
the man’s graceful foot motions, but I’m sure I looked more like a three-legged
giraffe trying to break dance. I counted my strokes in Chinese as the man
watched and chuckled.
‘yi, er, san….shit.
yi, shit. I’ve got it now. Going for five. I mean,
wo. Going for wo’
yi, er, shit.’
Thankfully I didn’t get more than three because I
hadn’t learned how to count that high yet. People seeking refuge from the rain
stood around to watch and giggle at the shirtless man and goofy American girl.
Since that day, when I see Hacky Sack Man I stop to practice. I have improved
greatly since the first day. I can count to ten now, too.
Later in the morning we have tennis practice. By the
end of my 7 A.M. run it is already uncomfortably hot outside, so practice is
even hotter. We rub on the sunscreen, add electrolyte powder to our water
bottles, and head outside to warm up….more like heat up. For the next two and a
half hours Howard puts us though whatever practice plan he has cooked up for
the morning.
On one particularly hot morning Flash, Dani, and I
were doing a serve practice before lunch. Our goal was to hit down each of the
16 cones in the service boxes. Five serves in, I knocked down three cones with
one serve. Yeah, you heard me. It was a screamer. Still, it looked like a
left-handed throw next to Dani’s rockets. We all took turns popping cones for
the next 30 minutes. I let out a cheer at every cone pop as if we’d just won an
Olympic event. My competitiveness was on fire that day. Finally, there was only
one cone standing in the far right corner of the deuce box. We were all tired,
hungry, hot, and drenched in sweat. The delicious fumes of the lunch Oldman was
preparing wafted from the outdoor kitchen to our court,tempting us to give up
and leave the last cone standing. But we kept on. Fifteen minutes passed. We
took turns coming close to knocking down the last cone. Flash hit a bomb
inches
to the left. Dani smoked one inches to the right. There wasn’t a square foot of
court without a ball on it, turning the once green and red court into an
electric yellow sea of balls. On our side of the net the ball supply was
dwindling. I only had three left. I had a flashback to the time at the tennis
ranch in Texas when one of the directors put me up against another pro, Luis,
to win a serving game for our team of guests. Luis had popped two cones right
off the bat (or racquet) and I was supposed to answer back with a miracle. That
time, I failed miserably. But this was going to be a different story, I
decided. I looked at the last cone. It stared back, mocking me. I rocked
forward, bounced the ball three times, picked a wedgie, rocked back and brushed
up on the bottom of the ball with my strings, resulting in a beautiful, fast
spinning kick serve heading straight for that orange bastard. A popping sound
resonated the rooftop as the fuzzy neon ball made contact with the orange
plastic. My champion heart soared as I lifted my head to see the cone rocking
back and forth like a Weeble Wobbler. It seemed to dance around for minutes;
hours even, as I watched helplessly from the baseline. But just like a Weeble,
it wobbled but it didn’t fall down. The cone finished rocking and settled
exactly back where it started, upright in the corner of the box. Now, this part
of the story you may believe and you may not. But I swear on my hamster’s grave
(RIP Dimmie. You were taken from us too soon) that it’s true. That cone looked
into my soul with its orange, beady eyes and sent me a very simple but clear
message.
‘Fuck.
You. Darrah.’
Defeated, I coached my tired arm to finish the last
ten minutes of the serve practice until Flash finally assassinated the bastard
with a fast one up the middle. He had it coming. He had it coming.
Not every practice is full of such vengeance and
rich plot. But each one does leave me walking off the court with an exercise
high and a profound sense of accomplishment. Or maybe it’s just heatstroke.
Either way, I dig it because I am so grateful for the game of tennis. It has
taken me to incredible places where I have met some amazing people. These
experiences have further motivated me to pass on the skill and passion that has
been flowing through me since I was a young girl hitting forehands in the
driveway against the garage door. Because of this appreciation, my competitive
nature, and my aptitude for pushing my comfort zone, I am motivated to train
hard to see where else this game can take me. This love and deep-rooted passion
is necessary for all of us training here; otherwise, the blistered feet,
calloused hands, early mornings, and grueling workouts aren’t worth it. But for
love? For passion? I can’t think of a more worthy cause. Can you?
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