The Moment

People’s experiences shape their memories and influence future decisions.  Some experiences are defining and memorable in vivid detail, while others we struggle to recount. Sometimes it’s a riddle when the colorful details of moments of satisfaction and jubilation are tangled with less comfortable memories of challenge, struggle and discomfort. At eighteen, I hope my pursuits will offer my memory bank exciting, interesting and insightful fodder for storage and recall, but for now, what immediately comes to mind as a standout experience is winning the Tennis State Doubles Championship at the end of my junior year of high school. Memorable for the experience itself, but even more because it taught me about the memory riddle and that defining moments can have many layers.

             As any athlete can acknowledge, the preparation and training for a tournament share the same significance with playing the sport on game day.   Yet the sense of euphoria and triumph that shot through my body the moment the last match-winning ball was struck: that feeling is in a class by itself. Even larger than that victorious moment is the vivid memory of the challenges I had to face to enable that moment.  I felt I had the physicality of Goliath, but I needed the mental fortitude and confidence of David. Each time I hit the ball, I had to mix these qualities in equal measure. 

Fueling The Furnace

Tennis is an extremely mental sport, and for me controlling and focusing my mental energy in a positive way was always a struggle.   This match was particularly heavy because of the title at stake. On many levels, I needed it. In my mind, winning the title would validate my dedication to tennis and my talent as a player. A title would give me stature. I surmised that even though I was a junior, this was my best shot at winning since I had a partner whose playing style complemented mine and who brought a certain mental toughness to the court, an attitude I was trying to adopt.  However, knowing all this before I stepped onto the court made no difference.  Time and again I swung with a stiff arm and would miss shots or make careless errors. The errors were eating away at my self-belief. Too many of my balls flew into the net or way past the baseline. The frustration was unbearable and made me doubt myself to the point where I began to wonder whether I should leave the court and not embarrass myself further. I had the ability to hit a 125 mph serve and set my partner up, but I was looping it in and turning him into a target for the other team’s return.

My partner said, “I thought we wanted this! I thought we were going to fight for it! They aren’t gonna give it to us. PLAY!!!!” He was a senior, and this was his last chance. The only thing keeping me on the court was my partner counting on me to do my job, and part of this job included preventing my mental inferno from spreading to him.  I heard my family and team on the sidelines rooting for me. I realized they all believed in me, and I had to believe in myself. I had to be strong in all senses of the word. I began to suppress the fire of frustration that was suffocating my game, but despite my efforts I was still left with simmering embers of anger, frustration and agitation. Somehow I figured out how to use this to fuel my serve, my approach shot and my overhead. POWER UP!  I continued the rest of the match determined to prevail and embraced the true reason I was on the court, to have fun.  

Who What Where

         Putting my match anxiety and ensuing frustration to the wayside was only one battle in the war I had to fight to emerge successful.  And yes, I was wounded by the maniacal anger at myself that handicapped me for most of the match, making the countless distractions all the more difficult to shut out. 

          As the crowd cheered, the birds chirped and the sun burned my skin, and I began to get dragged off the court by a variety of things not pertaining to the game itself.  I lost my focus.  I was present off the court, which was not where I needed to be. These distractions had a firm grip on my body and did not want to let go.  Being on the court was a surreal experience, overwhelmingly so.  Any noise or sudden movement seemed to dive-bomb me like a bird of prey.  The only way to avoid the distractions was to completely shut them out, but the lack of middle ground was not helpful either.  I couldn’t use the positive energy and support from the crowd without feeling imposing pressure at the same time. So, I chose not to hear the crowd. The slight shift in my focus made all the difference, and the match slowly started to turn in our favor. 

Afraid of Failure

With the self-imposed importance I placed on this match, I was afraid -- terrified to be honest.  I felt like winning was the only option and that losing would be a resounding failure. I could envision the red “F” stamped on my forehead.  To win, I thought everything had to be flawless, and logically this led me to worry unnecessarily. When are we ever perfect?  What if my best isn’t good enough?  These and other daunting questions continually clouded my mind.  Bearing responsibility for a loss also weighed me down. Anxiety over this match was getting the best of me...restricting me.  The fear I encountered was enveloping me like a full body cast, making it increasingly difficult to play.  My muscles were tight, and I could feel the hairs on the back of my neck stiffen.  My racquet might as well have been an oversized sledgehammer.  I had no control.  Striving for flawlessness made me so stressed, I made more errors as I changed the game I was accustomed to practicing.

             Throughout the match I made desperate attempts to break free from the rigid fear that engulfed me.  There was only one way by which I would be able to chisel away at this cast.  I recounted the short but invaluable quote that my coach often recited: “It is better to play to win than to play not to lose.”  Even though I embraced this sentiment, the fear did not spontaneously dissipate from my mind.  Still, from this point in the match forward I played with a different kind of fear, not fear of losing but rather fear that I would not play to my full potential.  Just this slight shift released enough of my game to allow me to shake off some of my small errors and enabled me to proceed to do whatever it took to win --  even though it might not have been perfect.

The Real Meaning

After the match I began to change.  Rather than maintain my old furnace of emotions, I decided to make some simple modifications.  I was able to take my frustrations and turn them into the intensity and focus needed to be a competitor.  This level-headedness has translated into areas outside of my life as an athlete.  Most importantly, it has allowed me to keep small obstacles in perspective and enabled me to better focus on the big picture. 

         With my transformation into a more balanced and confident competitor also came a heightened sense of focus. I was never an unfocused person, but I found the approach I used on the court that day to block out distractions has helped me function more effectively in other areas as well, such as with my artwork and my academics.  The adjustment in focus is one of the most essential elements of unlocking my potential, which was previously blocked by externalities.  Athletes are continually looking for the upper hand, and for me the advantage was bringing to the court a sharper and stronger state of mind than my opponents did.   My reasoning was that, given the same physical capability as an opponent, my mental strength would give me the edge and allow me to eke out a victory.

         One of the biggest struggles I needed to overcome in order to reach the next level of tennis was to stop fearing my personal imperfections.  Too often I would get down on myself for making mistakes when I really needed to acknowledge the mistakes and make the appropriate adjustments.  Embracing human error took me to the next level.  Although it was a struggle, I finally realized that error is as much part of the game of tennis as the flawless shots.  Of course, I still knew that errors were bad, but I did not let them paralyze me.  Once I was able to do this, I started playing freely and naturally, and the number of errors significantly diminished.       

         Enduring a match that was far from ideal but successful nonetheless taught me many lessons that reshaped my approach to life.  Staring at the trophy, I suddenly realized that experiencing the process was the real prize.  I believe that the obstacles I encountered were put in my path for a reason.  How many times have I heard my parents say, “Life is not easy or fair”? The experience was about meeting a challenge, being resilient and managing adversity. Win or lose, this match would have been a memorable learning experience. Don’t get me wrong, I am proud to have won. But, it was the icing on the cake of life lessons. The experience provoked deep self-thought and reflection. Once all the fanfare over the victory died down, I began to “deconstruct” my attitude during the match. I had to confront my fear of failure -- not just in tennis, but in life. I had to reassign value to experiencing failure because I discovered it can be a pathway to growth. I’m not a social follower, but perhaps deep down I wanted peer group acknowledgement and a way to distinguish myself. I still seek distinction but I now know there are many avenues for this, and each effort does not have to carry the weight of the world and can still be pursued with passion. 

            In retrospect, this tennis match holds very little meaning in the larger scheme of life, but the experience helped me mature.  It introduced me to a type of emotional hardship that was eye-opening and gave me great clarity as I looked ahead to life after varsity tennis. Perfection is hard to find and maybe not all that interesting. The details of challenge and the application of creative approaches to problem solving are now intriguing to me. And mental toughness is one of my best assets -- win or lose.   Perhaps this match made me a realist: not everything works out the way you want all the time, but that is okay.