It was a bad match.
And there I was afterward, driving home with my bag beside me, feeling far worse than the score should have justified.
Which is always a little absurd, if you think about it. You go out to hit a few yellow balls, and somehow end up questioning your identity, your emotional maturity, and possibly your place in the universe.
Because the truth is, the problem is rarely just the forehand, the missed volley, or the result.
The problem is always deeper.
Tennis has this strange power: it holds up a mirror at exactly the moment you least want to look.
Who are you when you are losing?
Who are you when the player across the net is younger, stronger, and better prepared?
Who are you when you cannot control the outcome, no matter how hard you try?
Who are you when winning is still not enough, because all you can think about is what you did wrong?
These are not really tennis questions.
They are life questions.
A match brings everything to the surface very quickly: your ego, your fears, your need for control, your frustration, the image you have of yourself. And sometimes, in just a couple of hours, tennis reveals more than years of therapy ever could.
Honestly, it is a very efficient sport.
Expensive therapy, but efficient.
When I came back to tennis at 53, I thought I was simply picking up a racket again.
I did not know I was also signing up for a masterclass in humility, self-discovery, and personal growth, with occasional muscle pain included at no extra charge.
At this stage of life, making a decision that brings more truth, more passion, and more life into your days is not a small thing.
It is a good decision.
Maybe one of the best.
