The Only Living Girl in the 4.0 Mixer
Kate Stuart
Section / Genre: Essay
Every Thursday at 8:30 p.m., just as the sun casts its most judgmental light onto the rotating Franz breadloaf sign across the street from Portland Tennis Center, a group of 4.0-rated tennis players gathers for what is optimistically referred to as the “4.0 Mixer.” It’s advertised as a friendly, low-stakes opportunity for adults to play mixed doubles, break a sweat, and make new tennis friends. In reality, it’s a barely governed Thunderdome where men named James, Jason and Jayson execute trauma-inducing forehands at women who’ve shown up hoping to have some fun. I am one of those women. Actually, I am the only one. And let me tell you, it’s lonely in the land of the compression-sleeved kings.
Let’s define terms. A rating of “4.0” in tennis language means you’re decent, but not exactly a pro. You were probably on your high school varsity team but you didn’t play in college. Or you just have disposable income for tennis lessons and a lot of free time. Or all of the above. “Mixed doubles” implies co-ed teams, and “mixer” suggests small talk, or at least eye contact. What I’ve actually encountered is a kind of informal reality show called America’s Next Top Tennis Dad, where every week I’m reluctantly cast as “The Woman Who Can’t Possibly Be As Good As Dave.”
There’s a special brand of psychic disorientation that comes from being the only woman in a sea of men who serve like they’re mad at you. The whole thing feels like a very niche Greek myth. I walk onto the court and suddenly I’m tasked with decoding a series of loud sighs, aggressive pointing, and the occasional, whispered, “What side do you want?” I have no idea who these men are off the court. Do they work in tech? Does one of them own a small brewery? Are they good to their dogs? All I know is that something inside them snaps when they see I’m their partner, and suddenly they’re locked in an emotional duel with a ghost named “High School Doubles Loss, 1995.”
Serve hard or die mad? There’s a philosophical question at the heart of the mixer. If a man aces his half-sized opponent during a casual doubles match and no one is around to cheer, does it still count as proving he’s a Big Strong Boy? The answer, apparently, is yes. Almost all of the regulars at the 4.0 mixer have dedicated their tennis careers to acing you so you never actually play a point. So friendly, so low-stakes.
Each week, I progress through a deeply unscientific five-stage emotional cycle:
Denial: This week’s going to be fun!
Anger: Did he just hit an overhead at my face during warm-up?
Bargaining: If I double fault again, maybe I’ll be demoted to 3.5 and escape this purgatory.
Depression: They either hate me or deeply fear me. Possibly both.
Acceptance: Aack! I’ll cry in my car to a podcast about the Cathy comic strip afterwards and call it self-care.
I’ve been coming to PTC’s 4.0 Mixer for many years and it never changes. Sometimes another woman shows up, but I never see her again. Sometimes a man actually speaks to me, but they usually don’t come back either. I am writing this essay to propose a solution. Let’s reserve the 4.0 Mixer for the genuinely chill people, and create a new division for the rest called “Men’s 4.0 Mixer: Rage Edition™”. Requirements: must be able to hit a flat serve 100 mph but cannot, under any circumstances, hold a conversation or smile. That way, everyone gets what they need: for men who need therapy, a place to let loose; for everyone else, a place to not get concussed by a smash off a Babolat Pure Drive in the name of “fun.”
Until then, denial and the rainy season will keep me coming back, week after week, year after year. The only living girl in the 4.0 Mixer. Ducking overheads, navigating fragile egos, and quietly hoping that one day, someone, anyone, just wants to play mixed doubles for fun.