For the first time in ten years, I'm getting back into tennis. This decision to get back into tennis is not one to be taken lightly. As least not for me. It is no less dramatic than choosing to reunite with an ex or reenter the workforce after years at home raising young children. It's a very big deal.
Over the last decade, each attempt to hit the ball I'd grow increasingly frustrated, over-hitting it or whacking it straight into the net. I'd lost my touch, timing, sense of balance, the ball and the court. Discouraged and like a typical love-hate relationship, I'd storm off the court not to return for months, sometimes years, once again swearing off tennis forever. And yet, what I didn't grasp at the time is that my compulsion to play tennis or not play tennis somehow correlated with my ability to connect to my late father. Because tennis was our thing.
The lone girl among three brothers, since age eight or nine, each weekend I faced a choice: shopping with Mom and Grandma (aka: returning last weekend's impulse buys) or tennis with Dad and the boys. I can count on one hand the number of times I chose the mall. Dad would take us to the courts and we'd rally for a few hours, play some points, then go for a well-deserved burger, fries and ice cream. But what I most recall is how we'd crack ourselves up incredulously as our flat-footed father, planted dead-center on the baseline, would somehow manage to have us all running like lunatics on the opposite side of the court without ever once moving his own legs.
To Dad's delight, I went to tennis camp most summers, excelled in local tournaments, and played for my high school team. And that's pretty much as far as it went. I never strove to play for college or was one of those kids that sacrificed every weekend or weekday to train. I guess you could say I was a comfortably settled above-average player.
More than fifteen years have passed since Dad's death, and finally, I realize that tennis is what most connects me to my father, to my youth. It signifies freedom, fun, focus, euphoria. It represents deep conversations and silly exchanges. It evokes happy memories shrouded in childhood bliss. Before divorce. Before bankruptcy. Before sickness. Before death. And now that I'm back into tennis, I feel Dad in my life again, on a regular basis. I feel his presence every time I hit the ball--encouraging me to keep playing, to stay focused, and above all else, to enjoy the game. Dad, a simple man who never cared to analyze things too much, didn't fret much about anything related to me or my future. I had him at tennis--a daughter after his own heart.
I can almost still hear him say, "All else will fall into place, Tutie," (my nickname) "as long as have your tennis." (or something else into which to channel your anxieties, frustrations and energies)
Some days I don't know how I get through, still picking up the pieces from all the tragedies, trying to stay positive and keep our large and loud household running smoothly in the face of so much uncertainty.
But you know what? Somehow I think Dad was right.
Tennis anyone?