White Shoes vs. Honey Badger in Training

Playing tennis was never exactly a prerequisite, but it seemed inevitable. I'm glad. Some of my most poignant memories are from the tennis court - rather joyous or miserable. Emotions were always inordinately high. It (probably) wasn't even due to some pressure of a family legacy to live up to; no, it was more in my chemical makeup to react strongly to and dwell constantly on competition in general. Tennis just happens to be our game of choice.

I'm not the best one to say where it all began, but I can thank my mom and Aunt Kay. They can surely give credit to Uncle Larry and Uncle Bill, and never forget Aunt Debbie: she will never miss the ball no matter how loud or distracting or eventually quite uncomfortable her "tennis grunt" persists. Karen and Kim were obviously the most successful of us "kids", and Kim's certainly always dated the most talented players. We will always remember playing bocce ball on the beach with Xavier Malisse. Even if most of the general public has absolutely no awareness of him, he is still the most famous person I’ve been in the vicinity of. I can’t believe Kim brought him on our family vacation. He’s beat Roger Federer. Is he from Belgium? His pony-tail is unbelievably slick. He’s the real deal. 

I was never amazingly talented or really even that remarkable of a tennis player. Just like everything about my personality as the youngest member of the family, I stole from everyone who came before me. Excepting the gruntining, I modeled Aunt Debbie’s annoying persistence. I attempted to be cool and collected like my mom, and even pulled that off occasionally. In 8th grade, I studied Karen’s superior talents at her matches for the University of Northern Colorado. I became a tennis player around the time I figured out I could win so long as I refused to make any unforced errors. This resulted in many of my opponents' worst nightmare across the net. I became very proud of my capability to drive girls to tears with the infuriating fact that I refused to miss. 

In high school, my desire to win became more of an obnoxious obsession with my own self-worth than a healthy relish for good competition. I’ve always wished I could be more like my Aunt Kay. Aunt Kay kicks ass. She always has. AKKA. She provided that acronym to help me with my various disturbing, inflated anxieties about participating in tennis matches: What if I lose, and I was supposed to win? I can’t play her again. I won last time, but it was close. I can’t play her again because I might lose. What if I am winning and then I start losing? What then? WHAT WILL EVERYONE THINK IF I LOSE?! I’M A LOSER! 

I got to play #1 singles my junior year of high school. This privilege entailed occasionally playing girls who were on an entirely higher level of ability than me, which was sometimes nice for my anxiety level. If there was no conceivable way that I could win, what did I have to worry about? (I always found something.) For one of these matches Aunt Kay was due to arrive Colorado to see Karen. It was in Broomfield against Maddie-Somebody who was definitely going to beat me. So Aunt Kay and Karen decided this would be a good one to attend. I’m sure Karen was mildly curious how good the girl was, and I certainly would need the moral support. They would meet my mom there from the airport. 

I spent the bus ride over contemplating the humiliation of losing 6-0, 6-0. This was always my major concern when I knew I was in over my head. Losing is one thing, but getting annihilated is embarrassing. Match conditions were perfect, at least. Sunny. Maybe a crisp spring breeze, but nothing to lose my head over. I got off the bus fully prepared to lose with the poise and self-assuredness I had lost so many matches before, and I felt good about it. But when we lined up across our opponents for the ritualistic shaking of hands, I did not see Maddie-Somebody who was definitely going to beat me. I saw my worst nightmare: a JV player. There was no mistaking this. She stood fixed with anticipation - too much anticipation. Smiling at me. Too-white shoes. Racket in ready position. I blinked at her. I wonder if she could see the fear settling in.

Maddie-Somebody was out of state at a tournament playing other girls who would also definitely beat me. She probably scheduled it as soon as she got her high school match lineup and noticed when she would play me. How boring, she must have thought. No use staying in town to kick Longmont's What's Her Name around. I didn't have time to beat myself up about this for too long, though. Too-White-Shoes was raring to go.

"At #1 singles, we have Beth Silkensen!" Uncomfortable applause. What did the Broomfield captain say the other girl's name was? Can't hear. Intense handshake. Except, she is still smiling at me. This is horrible. Why is she so excited? It's because she is a JV player, and she is going to beat me, and that is the worst thing that could possibly happen in my entire life, and she is happy about it. No more, "No pressure, you're supposed to lose, nobody cares." Now it's, "If you lose, you may as well climb into a hole for the rest of your life, or at least until everybody forgets that you lost to a JV player that one time in high school when you were supposed to be a decent tennis player or something."

As it turns out, her name was Beth too. "That's funny, isn't it?" she said on our way to the court [Purgatory]. "I've never met someone named Beth before!" I don't care. Whatever. Shut up. I am so nervous right now. You are my nemesis. Stop being so chatty. "Oh, really? I guess I haven't met many." I always sound so un-nervous when I am about to hyperventilate. Need to exude utter confidence. The reality is, I think I have always had that utter confidence underneath it all. There was really no conceivable way I was going to lose hardly a point to Too-Nice-Beth-With-Too-White-Shoes, let alone a game or a set or the match. I must have Aunt Kay/AKKA in there after all.

Speak of the devil. We were in the middle of the first game. She was serving. I am pretty sure she plopped eight serves into the net in a painfully long ten minute opening game that was briefly interrupted by a raucous fan. The car turned into the parking lot in plain view of Court #1. Window rolled down, eyes peeled. "GO BETH! WHOOOOOOO! Whoo-whoo-WAHOOO!" It was piercing. I loved it. Other Beth got embarrassed. "Oh, sorry, I have, like, some really obnoxious friends." That was probably my opportunity to say, "No, sorry, I have, like, a really obnoxious Aunt Kay." I don't even remember what I said. 

It was the perfect thing to have happened, though. Karen and Aunt Kay were anticipating some major ass-whooping at my expense. Kay shouted from the car maybe to calm my nerves about that, but probably just because she is Aunt Kay. She makes a spectacle of herself. It's her core personality that drew her to laugh at repeated viewings of "Honey Badger" in recent years. Who gives a shit? Not Honey Badger. Not Aunt Kay. And after her presence at my match was alarmingly announced, neither did I. At least, not for the remaining 45 minutes of my 6-0, 6-0 victory. I wonder how long it took them to realize I was not in fact playing last year's state champion.

Tennis is more than something that we all did. There are too many stories about neurotic league teammates and horrifically rude opponents. There are too many lifelong friends we've all made, all because of a silly game with a bright yellow ball and expensive equipment and intense emotional investment. Tennis will always be a part of who we all are. It's a family history.