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.