FAULT!

 Ok so I had to do it again. @_@

 

“Move your feet! Wait for the ball! Time your shot! Follow through!” my coach used to tell me in training, as he returned my forehand shot. Little did I know that those words would resound in my ears every time I stepped on the tennis court. I heard them at my first tennis tournament, at my training sessions, and now, in the final match of my PE tennis class. Whoever won this was to represent the class in the inter-class competition in culmination day. Could it be me? I thought to myself just as I threw a forehand cross-court shot to my opponent which was shortly greeted by the umpire’s voice, “Out!” 

Not good, I thought to myself as I wiped the sweat amassing on my brow. It’s a tie-break and the score’s at 6-1. The dude has five match points. One more point, one more error, one more slip and I’m out for good. Could it still be me?

I started playing tennis at around 10 with my dad as my first coach and my brother as my training partner. We went to train every Sunday at a tennis court nearby. We were just beginners so we started with the basic forehand and backhand drills. Then it happened. Whenever I messed up a shot, whether it was in the stance or the sloppy footwork, my dad would scold me. He’d pummel me with, “move your feet! Wait for the ball! Timing! Follow through!”

Calm down, I wanted to tell him, but I ended up messing up more and more times and consequently, got more and more sermons. Why do I put up with this? I said to myself. Why do I have to put up with these constant bombardments on my playing. I couldn’t understand it at my age back then, so I tried to stay away from it. I started to stay home on some sundays, but eventually I stopped playing altogether, and thought “At last, no more sermons.” But it wasn’t until six years till I finally understood everything.

Maybe it was divine revelation, like how the caveman discovered the use of fire, or maybe I was just bored, but four years after quitting, I gave tennis another go. This time my dad hired a trainer for me. Phew I thought to myself, I’m not going to get anymore of those sermons like when I was a kid. Bzzzzt! Then there it was, it came almost as fast as Andy Roddick’s serve. 

Move your feet!

Wait for the ball!

Time your shot!

Follow through!

Ugh, here it goes all over again, I thought. But instead staying home again, I tried a different approach. I actually tried moving my feet, to the point where I thought it was almost unnecessary. But I did it anyway, driven solely by the fact that I wanted my coach to stop telling me what my dad’s been telling me four years ago.

So day in, day out I did his drills, I hit forehands, backhands, serves, and volleys, and I bore the gleaming, stinging sun on my skin through it all. Two years went by with my training and I’ve still been trying to make my coach quit telling me the same things. But then, something totally caught me by surprise. I joined a tournament. 

My first match was under the 11 o’clock sun, and it was not forgiving. Sweat was falling down my body as fast as rain, and serving with the sun in your eyes was definitely annoying. Close your eyes I thought, maybe you might get lucky. 

“OUT!” The referee shouted. 

Okay, time for plan B. Now, plan B would have helped me a great deal if I only knew what it was. But it’s match point for my opponent; one more slip, one more error and I’m done. The only plan B I could think of was to pray that God might suddenly bestow upon me Roger Federer’s skill. Dream on, I can do this, I thought to myself, or else I’ll get another sermon from coach! But after I saw my forehand shot fly dangerously high, I knew it was over. And my suspicion was affirmed by umpire’s ever familiar call:

“OUT!” 

There it was. So we shook hands then I trudged to the bench, sat down, and dug my face into my towel after a long, deep breath. How did he win? How did I lose? Those were the first two of a thousand thoughts that rushed through my head that time, but my attention was diverted to only one observation. My opponent had a coach too, and I figured it was probable that he got scolded almost as much as me in his training sessions. And then suddenly, somehow, it all hit me, and I finally realized the meaning of all my coach’s words.

  Athletes are hardened through training, like steel is to fire. As some math teachers would say “no pain, no gain.” It’s not through unicorns and butterflies that athletes can dominate in their field. It takes dedication, self-sacrifice, and more importantly, humility. My opponent probably got more sermons than I did, and he probably took it better than I did, too. How could he be so skilled if his coach just pampers and gives him candy for training?

So I’m back at my final match in my tennis class. One point from defeat. Seven points from victory. What could I possibly do? Just play, I thought to myself, that helps. Move your feet. Wait for the ball. Time your shot. Follow through. 

Fifteen minutes and a couple of fist pumps later, I found myself at 7-6, with me serving for the match. I laughed deep down inside, “if only my coach saw me now, and what would he say?” I guess I would tell him how it ended.

I tossed the ball high, just enough to get a good look at it, then sent it deep cross-court. I noticed he got to return it, but it was high, a perfect winning shot. I sprinted towards the ball, the sun still gleaming and singing my skin. I waited for the ball. Timed it. Followed through. Then there it was, we shook hands. Game, set, and match. And after a deep breath and a silent fist pump, I went to sleep that night with the title of class champion, a seven point run to 8-6, from 1-6, how did I do that? 

Just for the record, I never won any tennis tournament, and this was the first time I actually got something to take back home after the game, so you can almost guess as to how happy I was then. I reminisced on all the times my coach shouted out those words, which so filled me with dread. Now I know he was just trying to bring out the best in me, but my pride had translated those words into insults to my playing style, which wasn’t even close to world-class. Now I know better, that I have to swallow my pride in order to walk on the path of self-improvement. And it took me seven years to learn that lesson. Better late than never right? Well, even when life might be up 6-1, and one more error might seem to knock you right out, wouldn’t it be refreshing to hear God say, after it all ends, “Game, set, and match - you win.” 

~ by denisSsSsSs on March 20, 2008.