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.