An Ode to Rustiness

Dear Tennis,

I was nine years old when I fell in love with you. If I was told that I would devote the next 11 years of my life laboring myself to your sport, I would probably drop my racquet, and then pick it back up. You demanded my rigor and I supplied you my best. A childhood job for which I never worked a day in my life, overtime was a benefit in itself. I lobbed through Wilson, Head, and Babolat, all drilling me to accept the endurance of the tennis machine. Tennis racquets may not easily rust, but their players do. An industry stronger than its players, inconceivable to the idea of corrosion. My athletic drive was manufactured for life, yet I still oxidized in the breath of new talent. In a split step, the game stopped. No man’s land became more than figurative and I was outed in an unready position. Singled-out, I stood there racquet-less and my thoughts created a racket. It was now I who needed restringing.

Without you and within this reflexive rustiness, I’ve been met at deuce. As a freelancer, I became tied between employing my body or mind. Your game of twos doubled my competition. I was gripped by the nature of your arena: two sides beholding two competitors battling to win two sets. Yet among these troubling twos, there was one result: win or lose. Two-fold, the game doubled down as the contest strayed away from physicality. Rather, a greater psychological competitor rallied within me. I had strived to be a fit tycoon. I bought stocks of strength and sold my speed, but impaired my game theory as I monopolized the use of (ball) machines. I coached myself with comparison in each step and sweat. Yet in a game of twos, the physical chore does not compare to the mental mission. I spent days clocked in, but was mentally checked out. I limited my own potential through this mindlessness, a powerful ball stopped by the net. I was labored by a tennis-collared industry. My body was strained but my mind was maimed. I was fired at every point. My unemployment has me strung up. My past competes with my present. I overpowered with might yet strategized in fright, but now all I do is think. Met with deuce, I reexamine how I’m tied. The racquet has been set aside, and I pant before my next play. My mind and soul are now invested in you. Again, I have two points ahead.

In my time away from tennis, I have deliberated much over what it means to me. Its origin lies in the French word tenez, meaning to take or hold. When I am not divided into two, I have seen you as you are. In the absence of playing, the score reads love. Perhaps I devoted myself too much to your score, too much to the essence of sport. I never allowed myself to be nothing, or to love you. Yet as I have not sweated, I have finally won.

For this I say thank you, tennis. Thank you for taking my mind and my soul. You demanded a perfect performance, and I don’t know how I would ace the rest of my life without it. I see all situations through your two-fold court, but I have come to love rallying with challenges. You have served me with an appreciation for absence. You have taught me that intentions in the mind convey success in the physical. When life hits me a flat ball, I anticipate a sudden change in spin. In hours and spirit, you were a job for which I worked relentlessly. Yet I still feel that I have never worked a day in my life. I may find myself at deuce as a rusty player, but perhaps I’ll find an advantage in your love.

Sincerely,
Alexis