There’s a kind of joy that bubbles up from deep inside when effort and passion meet results.
I’m writing this with that kind of joy still tingling in my chest: I’ve finally reached 3.3.
It might look like just a number. But for me, it’s a badge.
A quiet, humble badge that says: you’re on the way, Fer.
Weekday Matches
This last open tournament was played on red clay.
For the first time, I wasn’t thrown into a late-night slot under tired lights.
Nope, I was on the draw as a 3.5, and that little bump up the ladder brought with it real benefits.
Playing during the week, in daylight, with a rhythm that matched my body and mindset… It felt like a different world.
More like my world.
Bold Is the New Safe
I went in with one clear objective: play the way I like.
Pushing. Pressing. Owning the tempo of the game.
I’ve learned that playing bold, even if it means losing, is what brings growth.
And joy.
That emotional loop of adrenaline, risk, and the sweet sound of a clean winner?
That’s why I’m out here.
Match One – Against My Old Self
The first match was against a 4.1.
Funny enough, that was me in January.
Only four months ago.
And now? I could feel the gap.
Not just in technique or fitness, but in clarity.
The way I handled the points, read the game, dictated the pace.
The difference was huge.
It reminded me how far I’ve come in such little time.
Not just as a player, but as a competitor.
Match Two – Reading Minds and Reading Moments
Second round, things got more complex: a 3.4, young, a coach.
Not just a solid player, but someone who knows how to expose your weaknesses.
That's what he did: He fed me spin, tested my movement, probed the backhand.
First few games, I could feel he had a plan. But I stayed stubborn. I kept challenging for control. I refused to retreat.
Then… the complaints started.
The court. The balls. My “lucky” shots. I saw the crack.
That small moment where frustration takes over reason.
I stepped in. Owned the tie-break. First set won.
The second set? A 6–1 close. I kept the fire alive, and he didn’t recover.
His game fell apart piece by piece, while mine finally felt like it was clicking into something solid.
And when it was over, I stood there with that quiet, wide smile of someone who knows:
that wasn’t luck. That was work. That was belief. That was the next step: hello, 3.3.
What This Means
Yes, it’s a category jump. But it’s more than that.
It’s the proof that changing my approach, playing loose, bold, joyful tennis, isn’t just beautiful, it’s effective.
It’s me.
It’s sustainable.
And it’s only the beginning.
For now, I celebrate.
With a smile, a glass of red wine, and maybe a quiet whisper from my younger self:
You still got it, viejo. Let’s keep going.
Vamos.
