Here's how the whole thing went down. I signed up in like February to play women's singles tennis. This was my first dumb move. I hadn't picked up a racket since the mid-90's (practically), but I was a hell of a player back in my college days. (There is no way for you to verify whether or not I was any good. Just trust me, and pay no attention to the man behind the curtain.) Now, you might be wondering what possessed me to sign up, so I'm going to tell you. You know how I can make a short story long.
I love tennis. I love to play tennis. I love to watch tennis. I love to read about tennis. The top item on my bucket list is to attend all four majors in my lifetime. I love the sound of a ball hitting a racket, or I suppose it's the racket hitting the ball. (That might be kind of a chicken/egg thing.) I love the smell of a newly opened can of tennis balls. I love that SWISH sound of opening a new can. I love the nostalgia of thinking back to my childhood, watching my mom play. I loved it when my brothers would play in tennis tournaments and I could be the ball girl. Yes, I loved chasing my brothers' balls. Don't judge me.
I fell in love with my husband on a tennis court. I didn't actually FIND him there, but when I met and we discussed our mutual love for tennis, I knew I'd found "the one". Our first couple years of marriage were blissful. We moved to Florida and played tennis five days a week. We were young and relatively fit and we met many other South Floridian tennis lovers our age. It was heaven. Well, except for the day that our friend Paul collapsed on the court and had to be rushed to a nearby hospital where they inserted a pacemaker in his 32 year old heart. That day sucked. (Mostly because my serve was off and I couldn't hit a backhand volley to save my life. Oh, and the Paul thing.)
Fast forward about two years and the kids starting popping out of me. When people fall out of your vagina, nothing, and I mean nothing is ever the same again. Our tennis rackets went in the closet, or ball hopper went into storage. The closest I got to a court was when my toddler bonked his head on a rocking chair and I rushed him up to have my mother look at him during one of her (six weekly) league practices. The kid lived. I still didn't pick up a racket. Frowny face.
I digressed a bit. Back to this February. So naturally, when presented with the option to represent my company, I used it as an opportunity to jump back into the game. I knew that if I committed to playing for the team, I would start practicing in about March so that I wouldn't embarrass myself when my actual tournament came around. I wouldn't want to let my team down! I would want to bring home a medal for my fellow co-workers!
The tournament was today. (Insert dramatic music here.)
I started practicing last Saturday night. Somehow March, April, May, and half of June just snuck past me. Oops. Fail. In the past week I practiced a total of about 2 hours and I hit about three shots that I was proud of. That seemed like enough. Bring on the competition!
So today, which, if you haven't checked, is a SATURDAY, I got up at 6am to drive to my match which was located 40 minutes from my house. I'm not much for rising early (any time before 9:45 is early to me), but I figured I could suck it up just this once. I'm not going to complain about this one instance. Did I mention it was early and I had to drive far away? Oh, and it's Saturday--which is a day off for me. A day that I would normally sleep in and NOT drive 40 minutes from home.
I got to the raquet club (which I think is an expensive way to say racket club) and I was gathering my nerves and courage in the parking lot. In some circles I would have said that I was having minor intestinal distress. I texted my boss (who wanted hourly updates) and told her that "my tummy was in knots". Truth be told, I was about to shit my pants. What the hell was I thinking signing up to play singles tennis? I had no serve. I had no ground strokes. Forget going to the net. Oh god, I wasn't even sure I could adequately keep score anymore since ADD is now in vogue so I'd developed a raging case of that over the past ten years. Was there a way that I could back out now? Should I pull up with a strained hammy or fake some sort of gall bladder attack or flare-up of tuberculosis?
No! Suck it up, Sassy! Put your big girl ball panties on and get your fat ass into that indoor club! Intimidate them with your pretty white racket with the pink grip and your dazzling smile! Make eye contact with everyone and act like you want to be here! Maybe you will get lucky and your opponent will start her period in the middle of the third game and have to forfeit! (Happened in high school. No reason to think it won't happen again.)
So I did it. I walked in. I didn't trip. Didn't stub my toe. Didn't hit myself in the head with my racket or accidentally poke my eye while moving my sunglasses to the top of my head. Score one for cool, calm, and collected.
I nonchalantly joked that Serena Williams had arrived. Haha. Nervous laughter (from me only). Then I gave my real name and the company that I was representing.
"Hmmm. Let me see here. Oh dear. Looks like you were supposed to play on June 7th. You've missed your division of the tournament."
"Really? That's strange. OK. Thank you." One hundred eighty degree turn, 200 steps out the door, and within 20 minutes I was at Ray's donut shop. True story.
I'd like to say that I'm disappointed: all that anticipation, all the hype, all the nerves, the tireless practice. All for nothing. All to show up a mere 336 hours late. It feels like Y2K all over again.
So I've disappointed myself. I've let my team down. I'll probably be on probation at work. My chances of being a play-in at Wimbledon this year are seriously in jeopardy at this point. But I will press on, friends. And in about 49 weeks from now, I'm going to put the work in again so that I can be as equally fabulous in next year's challenge. You can count on me! (Well, apparently you can't count on me, but it seemed like the right thing to say.)
Until then, Sassy is just going to keep on keepin' it real. XOXO
