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I watch the rain run across the rear, passenger-side window as we leave the THPRD parking lot, each streak eating droplets of water like Pac-Man. Tears accumulate at the bottom of my chin, waiting for the next round of shouting. I wish I could be anywhere but here.

“You NEVER listen to me!” my dad’s voice cracks through the car like thunder. I peek at the dashboard: 82 mph. “How many times have I told you! Place the ball! If you’re not going to listen to me, you should just quit!”

I lean closer to the window, hoping he can’t see me through the rearview. How did this happen again? I promised I’d be better, that I’d listen. I hope he lets me keep playing. I need to play tennis.

We drive the three hours back to Seattle in silence. I’m hungry, but I don’t dare speak up.

A week later, it’s afternoon and the sun is out. I grab my racket and a ball, and start hitting against the brick wall above our garage, as I always do. I’m careful not to break a light, window or vent (again).

Hitting on the wall is calming. It never yells. I will be better, I think to myself. I count how many I can get in a row.

A couple hours later, Dad comes outside. I hold the ball, nervous. He knows I’ve been out here for a long time. He gives me a small smile. “You really want to keep playing?”

I nod sheepishly.

“Okay.”His smile widens. He ruffles my hair playfully and then heads inside.

Beaming, I keep hitting until dinner. Everything is okay.

My love for tennis has compounded since those days hitting on the wall at my childhood home.

The red brick was a consistent, peaceful presence that soothed my sorrows. It also built muscle memory, for which I am forever grateful. When I play today, that muscle memory takes over and, for a brief moment, my mind goes silent.

I forget the roughly 50 times I got berated in the back seat after a loss. I forget the rain running across the window. Instead of freezing in fear, my body warms each time the ball comes back over the net.

For me, tennis is home, my heaven on earth.

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It’s an odd group. Then again, aren’t they all?

Alex is mathematical. He claims the analytics tell you it doesn’t pay to back off the second serve. It’s futile arguing with him. He’ll respond to the tenth decimal point and likely pull the statistical references from his racquet bag. Predictably, he tape measures the height of every net. Less so, he’s the loudest grunter of the group. The thing I admire most about Alex is he loses virtually all the time without noticing. It’s not like he doesn’t care if he loses, like he’s just in it for the fun. That would make sense. This is harder to figure. For all his computational acumen, he just doesn’t seem to realize that, mathematically speaking, he’s the partner you never want to draw.

Then there’s Kyle. Damn him, he’s actually improving. Most of us will have our uncharacteristic glory days but quickly slip back into our finely honed senior citizen mediocrity. Kyle has added a nasty kick serve to an unpredictable array of slices, junk spin and drop shots. This was not supposed to happen. Kyle is cut furthest from the tennis mold. “Quirky” puts it charitably. He plays in standard-issue Old Navy cargo shorts paired with a weighty Goodwill hoodie ready, it seems, for whatever the thermometer reads. He’s got all sorts of crap in his pockets. Notes to himself. A phone. Some gizmo to count his steps. Bird seed wouldn’t surprise me. He plays in a bit of a fog. He’ll stop mid-game and check his appointment calendar. Kyle’s particular irony is this: he really likes to win, and he’ll push the boundaries of over-celebration, but he never actually knows what the score is.

T. J. is, well, everyone knows a T. J. He’s the invisible chess-club kid who found his competitive ninja, middle age, on the tennis court. He mainlines YouTube videos on court positioning. He sneaks in clandestine lessons. He has a library of strategic absolutes; he conferences between points, as if we actually had the ability to execute his three-shots-ahead vision. He’s thin and wiry. He poaches relentlessly and hops around peripatetically at the net. You so want to pass him, or scorch one into his abdominals, but mostly you just succumb. His antics turn your normal swing into a wristy spasm of frustrated ire. With his ascension from pocket-protector dork to one of the guys, he also trash talks actively, if not well.

Me? I’m a mixed blessing. Ever the cheerleader, I’m quickest with an encouraging word, parceling out “great shot” and “no worries” generously, as if they were stocking stuffers. On the other hand, I own the trophy for marginal racket abuse and excess theatrics. If I could only see myself, I’d never want to see myself. I posses a nasty cross-court topspin laser followed by a flag of surrender. Plan Bs are for wimps and overachievers.

Our foursome is actually a crew of seven or so. Dave, Carlos, Andy and Jonesy rotate in. After one match, Dave brought up a recent study comparing the life-extending benefits of various activities. You probably know it. In the eternal darkness of Covid, we clung to any light we could find. It concluded that tennis players outlive more likely aerobic superstars such as runners, swimmers and cyclists by a healthy margin (by about 90 years, in Dave’s highly embellished version). Why? Sociability. It’s the networks, my motley 7:30 a.m. congregation included, that matter.

I use the term “sociability” loosely. I don’t really know these guys. I’m not sure I want to. A few tidbits, on changeovers, slip out and blindside you. Andy was in Vietnam. Dave, who knew, is a retired surgeon. One guy works shifts at Dollar Tree. Somebody’s in recovery from something. They are friends, strangers, curiously anonymous, known mostly by the quirks of their game.

Sometimes, though, I wonder: Do they like me? Do they think I’m any good? I regret to report one lesson the years confirm: life is high school on perpetual loop. The eternal questions endure.

Finally, a confession. The people and incidents portrayed above are real. The names have been changed lest it jeopardize my spot in the rotation. I need these guys. I need this game. Like the longevity study and the old song says: all my livelong days.

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The year is 2014. The soundtracks of the summer are Pure Heroine by Lorde and Channel Orange by Frank Ocean. You’ve just dropped off your resumé at Urban Outfitters and grabbed a disposable camera while you were there. Now you have to walk three miles home in your Adidas Stan Smiths, listening to Pandora on your cracked iPhone 5c, wishing your life was more like the one described in “Super Rich Kids” rather than “Royals.” But it’s okay—the Instagram photo you posted of your best friend lying on a tennis court in full American Apparel has racked up 60 likes. You may not be able to afford private tennis lessons, but the tennis aesthetic matters more to you than having a strong backhand.

\n
\"As the appeal of cosplaying as working class or Ivy League waxes and wanes, so does the tennis aesthetic\"
\n

There’s no questioning the beauty of tennis. The smooth, grippy green court adorned with bold white lines, white leather sneakers, short shorts, sweatbands and Lacoste polos. But the draw of tennis as an aesthetic seems more closely tied to the sport’s association with the elite class—the Upstate, Ivy League, white-collar players who dominated the sport in the 1970s and 1980s—than it does to the minimalist Americana clothing. As the appeal of cosplaying as working class or Ivy League waxes and wanes, so does the tennis aesthetic.

Ivy League style has been taking over Pinterest and TikTok for the last couple of years, probably as a reaction to the Realtree and Carhartt craze that started around 2019 and still refuses to die. As the rise of Affliction tees and torn, bootcut jeans continues, we’re going to need a posh alternative. For this reason, I wouldn’t mind if a healthy obsession with tennis and its elegant wardrobe followed us into 2025.

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New year, new goals, new presidential hellscape.

As we dig into 2025, a fresh USTA season, and a decidedly dangerous administration, I offer a reflection on how winning and losing are more alike than they seem.

The morning after the election, I had a match that drove home the many reasons I love playing tennis—or more specifically, why I love competing in tennis.

My family and I went to bed the night before feeling disheartened, incredulous, angry and wary of what the next four years would hold. We woke up with those same emotions, the election results now irrefutable. But we still had to get dressed, make breakfast, prep the lunches. I got ready for my City League match with conflicting feelings: Was it pointless to go hit a ball when the basic values that hold up society were now threatened? Should I be doing something more useful, like volunteering with the ACLU? In the face of looming autocracy, why did I still want to play tennis?

But every time you step on a tennis court, it's a fresh chance to learn something new about the game, about yourself and about others.

When I marked my availability for the match months earlier, I knew it fell on the day after the election. Depending on the outcome, my state of mind might be suboptimal. But that would never stop me from grabbing another opportunity to test my nerves and determination, take uncomfortable risks, and nudge myself closer to some sort of excellence (while also having fun).

This contest with myself is what’s propelled me onto the court four or five times a week for the past few years. I picked up tennis after getting laid off in 2019. I got hooked, flush with the dopamine rush of hitting the ball cleanly, powerfully. Each incremental gain in proficiency, and each time a tactic or pattern becomes clear, brings serious satisfaction and a little lightbulb flash. Make contact out in front for a groundstroke! Lay your racquet back 45 degrees for a volley! Hit up on the ball when you serve!?

It just keeps building. As you gain match experience, you’re rewarded with a nuanced understanding of the game. You figure out how to hit a decent serve, how to slice, how to best set up your partner in doubles. You learn the value of hitting crosscourt until you have a good reason not to. You become aware of body alignment, footwork, court position, and whatever the hell your opponent is doing on the other side of the net. You figure out your strengths and how to use them against opponents’ weaknesses. You become a competitor.

Of course, you can never achieve your full potential, because as the sage Coach John Wooden says, that would be perfection. It’s worth remembering, especially among tennis players who disproportionately tend to be Type A overachievers, that perfection is not in the cards. But you keep trying nonetheless. You put in the work and start to experience breakthroughs, moments of greatness. You come back from behind to win a set, win a match. You set up your partner for an easy smash. You commit to adjusting a stroke and then, after months of practice, rejoice to find it’s become second nature. You keep learning, and your hunger swells.

The match I played on November 6th was singles—for my team in the Greater Portland City League, a non-profit association formed in 1982 with a mission to promote women’s competitive tennis and develop camaraderie among players. At the time, just 10 years after the passage of Title IX legislation began equalizing girls’ access to sports in school, opportunities for organized women’s tennis were few and far between. Four decades later, nearly 2,000 women compete on 104 teams in 13 City League divisions across the metro area.

Before warming up, my opponent cautioned that she hadn’t slept a wink, too roiled by the red states marching across our screens. I’d been in the same boat in 2016, when the Trump stampede came as a shock. This time around, I’d been optimistic that the United States would finally elect a highly qualified and thoroughly sane woman. But I was also prepared for a different outcome.

I looked across the neighboring courts and took comfort in the predictability of deep green fields bisected by crisp white lines, the familiar thwack of the ball releasing from strings, the low hum of chatter. Look at all these strong, skilled women, diverse in age, background, and life experience but unified in their commitment to playing a demanding sport. Women who, despite juggling vast to-do lists and responsibilities, engage in an endeavour that asks so much of us emotionally, mentally and physically. These women are capable of anything.

We were capable of temporarily setting aside our despair; if you’re thinking about anything other than the point at hand, you’re done for. Despite her lack of sleep, my opponent was consistent, aggressive at the net, and precise with her lobs. I engaged in the battle but soon found myself down 1-4. My serving was solid, though, and I held the next game. Then she held for 5-2. True to the league’s spirit, we traded compliments of “Nice shot!” and “Great serve!” Then I turned up the intensity, going for more at the net, staying in the rally longer to wear her down, and fought back to level it at 5-5. Still, she prevailed, 7-5.

I made some adjustments for the second set: I went to the net, but gradually, so I’d be ready for the lob. I hit more balls on the rise and upped the pace on my forehand. We went back and forth until I was up 5-4—but then I lost a break and she was up 6-5. Agh!

I told myself that I only needed to make one good shot, stay loose, and believe it was possible. Without that, you’ve already lost.

I pushed it to a second-set tiebreak.

I’d had a hell of time with match tiebreaks lately, so my confidence was not high. I repeated my mantras even as I got down a few points. Then I was serving at 3-5 and had the opening for a low, crosscourt forehand on the deuce side—my favorite shot. She went for it but lost her balance and fell, landing on her quad where the ball was tucked in her pocket. Ouch. The tiebreak score was now 4-5.

After a moment, she got to her feet, a bit wobbly.

“Are you OK?” I asked, walking to the net.

“Oof, I’m not sure,” she replied, unsteadily.

“Do you want to take a medical break?”

“I don’t really have time; I have to do some things before my kids get home,” she said. We’d been playing for two and a half hours already.

“It feels … ow,” she said, taking a few steps. “I don’t think I can continue.”

We shook hands. “Great playing,” I said. “I’d hate to have to play you when you’re fully rested.”

Our result put my team just over the hump for a 6-5 team win.

It was a win but not a victory.

Both can be true.

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