Some names in the following stories have been changed.

1989, Age 4

Although I can’t recall the time of year or the occasion, I remember walking onto a tennis court for the first time, just me and my dad. I grasped my racquet by the string while my dad carried the rest of our gear, including a small, green hopper of worn-down balls.

I reluctantly stepped onto the aging courts at Clarksville High School — the same courts where my dad learned to play tennis, the same courts where he lead his high school team to much success in the early ‘70s— and gazed upon the sprawling rectangles before me. My first thought was, Where’s the hoop? The only other sport I had played on a “court” was basketball, so my childlike mind assumed tennis would be similar. Thank goodness I was wrong…my basketball skills were dreadful.

Trying to clasp the racquet by the lanyard wasn’t my only problem derived from equal parts ignorance and stubbornness. I was convinced “swinging” was for the birds, as I preferred running towards the ball with my outstretched, forward-locked arm, holding the racquet vertically like a frying pan. Also lost to me was the idea of hitting the ball in and not out. I think this was because the in and out parts of the court were the same color, which led me to the conclusion it’s all the same.

I didn’t think much of tennis on Day One. The sport seemed somewhat brainless as I didn’t see the fun or purpose in hitting a ball back and forth. It also didn’t help that the game involved frighteningly few slam dunks. But I did think tennis balls were pretty neat, and I liked the sound they made when they contacted my strings’ sweet spot with adequate force.

But, most of all, my rudimentary instincts whispered that tennis would somehow be a part of my future. Perhaps it was my family’s history of producing accomplished tennis players, or maybe it was that I could see those courts each morning on the way to school. It’s like an old skiing adage I once heard: You go where you look.

I gazed out the rear window as we drove away in my dad’s 1988 Honda Accord.

I just couldn’t stop looking at those courts.

1993, Age 8

“For now, don’t worry so much about hitting it in. Let’s just focus on getting the ball over the net.”

I’m standing about midway between the service line and the base line. I clutch my kid-sized tennis racquet, which is far too bulky for my scrawny frame. My dad has taught me a thing or two about tennis over the last few years, but I still don’t really know what I’m doing. I’m holding the racquet a quarter of the way up the grip with some sort of improvised continental-eastern hybrid. My sharp tennis polo is opposed by my cooky Mickey Mouse hat, its bill folded nearly at a ninety-degree angle. My knobby knees quiver, although I don’t know why.

I had met Coach Rex once before when my dad scheduled my first tennis lesson. As a Cardinals fan, my dad naturally brought me to the University of Louisville to find a proper tennis coach. I’ve never been the athletic type, having already tried and fizzled at basketball, track, cross-country, and baseball. I wanted to play football, but my mom wouldn’t let me because of my exceptionally fleeting size — and that was a wise decision in retrospect.

Rex started the lesson by gently feeding me balls and observing my ability to make contact with them. He scrutinized the manner in which I used my legs, how closely I followed the ball with my eyes, how far I rotated my body, and how far I followed through with my swing. His findings: I didn’t use my legs just enough to remain standing, I didn’t keep my eyes on the ball, my body remained motionless as a brick, and my follow through was nonexistent.

“Keep your eye on the ball, Alex. All the way until it hits your strings.”

I continue flailing the racquet, the balls arcing in rainbow-like paths as they veer off to the left and right.

“Alex, try to hit the ball in the middle of the strings. Focus.”

And with that, the next ball gracefully bounces off my strings and gently soars ten feet over the middle of the net, landing cross-court and about four inches inside the service line.

Rex dramatically clunks his racquet to the ground and gives my tennis career its first round of applause. My crater-deep dimples reveal themselves as I smile ear-to-ear. Rex likely uses this gimmick whenever a new student hits their first quality shot, but that didn’t matter. It was exhilarating, and I was hooked.

That was my first of 378 private lessons with Rex over the next nine years. Including group clinics and summer camps, I spent over two-thousand hours learning from Rex and other tennis pros at U of L who transcended from coaches to family.

“This is Steve,” Rex remarked, his right hand on the shoulder of his assistant coach. “Sometimes he’s going to fill in for me when I’m not available for your weekly lesson. You’ll see him here all the time — he gets to know all my players.”

Tired from the end of my first lesson, I look up at Steve and I can’t quite believe what I see. Standing at least six-foot-eight, his voice is deeper than the Wizard of Oz’s, and his chiseled physique gives him the appearance of a larger-than-life granite statue. His dark skin is offset by his glistening white teeth, and his backwards baseball cap gives him an element of cool that I hadn’t yet associated with the world of tennis.

“Glad to meet you, buddy,” Steve remarked, looking me square in the eye as his gargantuan hand enveloped mine.

The drive home was a daze as my mind raced around two ideas I had just absorbed. One, tennis is uncommonly rewarding. And two, tennis is very, very cool.

There’s also a chance I’ve finally discovered a sport I can be good at.

1997, Age 12

It’s not an optimal day for a tennis match. It’s cool but not cold, and the wind is forceful enough to affect my shots, lobs in particular. At least it’s not overly sunny.

My middle school tennis team is playing against a school from Harrison County, our third match of the season. They largely lack raw talent, but their players have greater athleticism and they’re better conditioned. They can’t hit quality ground strokes or serves, but they can run us into the ground with their tremendous display of hustle. It’s unusual to see tennis players dive for balls at Wimbledon, much less at age twelve.

I’ve gravitated towards singles rather than doubles, and I’m number two on my team’s depth chart. I’m finding it difficult to exploit my opponent’s weaknesses because of his sheer energy. He’s slightly overweight and shorter than me — surprising since I’m roughly as tall as R2-D2 — but he’s quick as lightning. OK, that could be an overstatement. Quick as a deer.

This kid is almost my exact opposite. I’m skinny, slow, and not very strong, but I have excellent technique and above-average knowledge of singles strategy. In contrast, my opponent is stocky, quick, and strong as a bull. My ball placement is canceled out by his astonishingly quick reactions.

This match is a stalemate, and my head is getting to me.

We’re playing a pro-set, which means the match is decided by a single set to eight games. Our score is tied 6–6 after over ninety minutes of play, enough time for a normal 2-out-of-3 sets match. Tennis is notably mental, more than most other sports, except maybe golf. Most points at this ability level are lost due to unforced errors. If you don’t keep your head in the game, your game will go bye-bye.

I’m serving, and the game goes to deuce. I win the next point, but I double-fault on the following play. Back to deuce. And another. And another. And twelve more. It’s now my ad on our twenty-first deuce, and I have an easy opportunity to blast a down-the-line forehand passing shot after my opponent foolishly rushes the net after short, crosscourt approach shot.

I prepare for the shot, I swing, and I whiff. Nothing but air. Worst of all, I miss in front of my entire team, since this is the last remaining match.

In an unprecedented act of frustration, I freeze, raise my head to the heavens, close my eyes, and drop my racquet to the court’s surface.

I find myself in a similar situation three deuces later. I pull my opponent wide to his right after a great slice serve, and he returns my serve down-the-line to my backhand. For unknown reasons, he doesn’t anticipate a deep crosscourt backhand, giving me an opportunity to finally seize the game and bring the score to 7–6. I dismally over-think the shot and swing too hard and too early, and the ball flies nearly vertically after smacking the outer edge of my racquet’s frame. And for the second time that match, I drop my racquet.

I’m better than this kid, I tell myself. He has no skill. He’s just a stronger kid who doesn’t really know anything about tennis. I swear if I don’t win —

My internal dialogue comes to a grinding halt as my dad, who is also the team’s coach, walks onto the court, approaches me, and utters, “Throw your racquet again and you’re gonna forfeit the match.”

I don’t know how to react, and I say nothing as my dad steps back towards the stands. But I know what I was thinking. I didn’t throw my racquet, I dropped it. It’s not the same thing!

I didn’t “throw” my racquet again, but I lost the match. My opponent didn’t defeat me; I defeated myself. The match’s outcome was sealed the moment my racquet bounced off the green court beneath my feet. I may not have thrown my racquet in the traditional sense, but I outwardly expressed the same frustration in a way that energized my opponent — mental Gatorade — and showed my team that I had given up.

I felt sick to my stomach once I realized what I had done. I had never thrown my racquet before, and I didn’t want to be that guy who throws his racquet when things don’t go his way. I didn’t want to look myself in the mirror. I knew Rex and Steve would be disappointed, which deepened my anguish.

I promised myself I’d never throw my racquet again, and I swore I’d never again let emotions drive my outward behavior.

2001, Age 16

It’s a Saturday, and I’ve never had to play tennis in such mid-day heat. School night matches are usually much cooler simply because of the time of day they’re played. Today is a double-whammy due to the unusually high temperature and the fact that this tournament is an all-day affair.

Sixteen schools from throughout Indiana have gathered at William Henry Harrison High School in Evansville for their annual invitational. I’m the top player on my high school team, so I’m playing in the #1 singles tournament. The competition is sure to be formidable. We normally don’t play against the other schools who are here today, which makes it difficult to analyze our opponents prior to match play. It seems I’ve taken for granted competing against the same teams time and again.

Not much I can do about that now. Ready or not, here we come.

My first match is a breeze. I win in straight sets 6–0, 6–2.

My second-round match couldn’t be more different.

The court for my first match was shaded almost entirely by one of the school’s buildings — the gym, I speculate — dropping the temperature at least fifteen degrees, maybe twenty. My second match is in direct sunlight in the 96-degree heat and 95 percent humidity, which chokes the oxygen from my lungs. I can’t recall the heat index; I’m fairly certain my brain has erased that memory in the name of human evolution. But regardless of the numbers, the heat I’m experiencing won’t be comparable to any other life experience until I visit the desert of Iraq in eight years.

My opponent plays for the host school, and I break down his play style as best as I can during our warm up. He has exceptional fundamentals; he no doubt plays year-round, like me. Slightly weaker backhand — nothing unusual there. Excellent volleys. Can’t hit an overhead to save his life — I’ll keep that in mind. First serve is horrible. Second serve is amazingly consistent.

He’s definitely not bad, but I’m better. I’m going to win this match.

I have very few problems in the first set, winning 6–3 in solid fashion. The air is toasty, but I’m hydrated. It’s amazing what the body can tolerate with adequate water and electrolytes.

I’m strolling through the second set, and victory is within my grasp. I’m winning 4–1, and I’m already mentally preparing for the semi-finals. Phrased differently: I’m losing my focus on the task at hand.

My luck drops like a Looney Tunes anvil. Each game lasts longer and longer with multiple deuces each. The heat is building — or maybe it just feels that way — and the long games force us to play greater durations between water breaks.

The set score reaches 6–6, and therefore a tiebreaker will determine this set’s outcome. Thirty minutes ago this match was all downhill. Now I’m in real jeopardy of losing this set, and my physical energy is draining much quicker than it can be replenished. Deep down, I’m convinced I’ll lose this match if my opponent forces a third set.

I have no choice. I must win this tiebreaker.

The first few points are grueling. With each rally, the importance of winning the next point increases, but my physical capabilities drop at least equally. Focus on the this point. No matter how much this sucks, playing another set will suck boundlessly worse. The worse I feel now, the better chance I have of winning. Embrace the suck. Stay tough.

The tiebreaker score is 6–6. I get a match point opportunity, but I shank a backhand into the net. Tiebreaker score 7–7. Then 8–8. Then 9–9.

Using my last modicum of exertion, I finally win the tiebreaker 15–13. I’ve won the match, and a sense of relief pours over my body like rain.

That second-round match was the most physically grueling competition of my tennis career. The immediate effect was inconsequential, but the end result couldn’t have been more meaningful to the team.

I went on to win the semi-finals in split sets, 6–2, 4–6, 6–3, and I won the finals in two tough sets, 6–4, 7–5.

Unbeknownst to me, my team was depending on me to win my tournament. Because of my victory, my team was crowned invitational champion.

I jotted a mental note to myself that day, filing it in the don’t ever forget section of my memory.

Don’t ever give up…you may not know what’s at stake.

Two weeks pass, and my punishing match in Evansville already feels like a far-off memory.

It’s October, and the rich, green leaves on the trees surrounding the high school’s tennis courts have begun turning succulent shades of amber and cream. The crisp autumn air is a refreshing shift from summer’s swelter. It’s first-rate tennis weather as long as the wind remains calm.

My racquet’s frame cracked after the Evansville invitational, so I’ve been demoing new racquets for the last ten or so days. I finally made my selection, and today’s match will be the first with my new racquet: a Prince Triple-Threat Graphite. It’s my first “player’s racquet,” which are designed for advanced students of the sport. Any time you see professionals on TV, they’re using player’s racquets. Needless to say, this is a significant rite of passage in my tennis career.

I wish I could say I won my first match with that racquet, but the truth is I don’t remember. My memory of that afternoon is overshadowed by an event of even greater significance. On that momentous afternoon, I met Jennifer.

The sister of one of my teammates and the cousin of another, I had previously met her in passing numerous times. But today, I truly met her for the first time.

After the conclusion of my match, I sat on an aluminum park bench next to court #2 to cheer on my teammates who were still playing. At that moment, Jennifer— either in an act of chance or by fate — took a seat on the same bench. I said hello, and we made small talk about classes we had together. I made a few jokes about our tool of a geometry teacher, and she lambasted me for having never seen Monty Python and The Holy Grail.

The hours whizzed by like a hummingbird, and I had never been so somber for a tennis match to end.

I’d been on many dates with girls by that age, and I had had a few girlfriends, too. I knew what a crush felt like, but I knew this was different. The emotions Jennifer made me feel were unlike anything I had ever experienced, and I was left in stark captivation for what I knew to be true.

That night as I lay in bed, powerless to sleep, I knew with certainty that one day I would marry Jennifer.

Too bad she had a boyfriend.

2002, Age 17

A cool breeze shivers my spine. Leaves gently crunch beneath by shoes as I make my way towards the gate to court number one. The knowledge of my impending circumstance whitens my knuckles as a carry my tennis bag. A tear might find its way down my cheek if not for the adrenaline in my veins.

It’s my fourth and final year of high school tennis, and I’m about to play Silver Creek High School’s #1 singles player for the sectional championship. I’ve played Braden in this same match the three years prior, and he’s easily defeated me on each occasion. It’s not a case of bad luck. He’s not my kryptonite. He’s better than me, pure and simple. I’m 0–7 against Braden in high school and 0–11 since I took my first lesson from Rex eight years ago.

I’m a realist — my odds aren’t good. I do my best to maintain positivity, but my pragmatic side confesses an unavoidable reality: I’m about to play my last high school tennis match.

I don’t want the match to begin. The sooner it starts, the sooner it will be over.

I loathe the technique Indiana uses to seed high school tennis teams in the post-season tournament. They assume the laziest possible approach: the bracket is identical year-after-year. This preposterous strategy benefits nobody except the copy machine. I’m certain if the state performed proper seeding I could individually go much farther in the tournament — my team as a whole, too. I doubt I’d make it to state or even semis, but I could probably make it to the final 16 or 8. But because my team is continually matched against Silver Creek in the second round, I’ve never made it past sectionals, and history is likely to repeat itself.

I feel for Graceland High School, for their predicament is the same as ours. They’ve always been our first round opponent, and we’ve always thrashed them like a steamroller squishing a dung beetle. It’s not their players’ fault; Graceland doesn’t place much value in its athletics program, and their coach has limited roster options because of the school’s meager enrollment.

Braden and I take the court closest to the bleachers, a common tradition in tennis. We warm up, rallying back and forth. This is usually the time to analyze an opponent, breaking down their strengths and weaknesses. But today this is an act of futility; I know Braden’s play style forwards and backwards. He hits consistently, and his shots always land deep with plenty of topspin. He doesn’t attack the net very often, but he doesn’t have to. Braden has an unforced error about as often as there are Olympics.

Something occurs to me during our pre-match hit-around: Braden probably feels the same as me, but opposite. He knows he’s going to win this match. His victory is as guaranteed as the morning dew on the Ohio River valley. If I’m lucky, hubris could be Braden’s downfall.

I win the racquet spin, and I elect to serve first. Here goes nothing.

I toss the bright yellow ball for the first serve and let swing with the racquet— ace. At least 105 miles per hour. I imagine Kurt Russell in the film Miracle giving me a pep talk. If you ace Braden, keep the ball. It doesn’t happen often.

I serve some of the best serves of my life, and I win the first game. 1–0.

I think about what Rex always taught me. Focus on the point you’re playing. Whether you’re winning or losing, don’t think about the past. Let nothing get to your head.

The second game plays out equally in my favor. I’m winning 15–40, and I crash an authoritative forehand return down-the-line for a winner. 2–0.

I try my hardest not to imagine defeating Braden for the first time in my career during at the most vital of moments. Focus on the point you’re playing.

Many players would become nervous and mentally falter at such times, but not Braden. He’s as level-headed as any opponent I’ve ever faced. Much credit is due to Braden in this area. He fights the good fight and wins the next two games. 2–2.

I feel fate tapping on my shoulder. Focusing on the point I’m playing is becoming increasingly difficult as control of the match slips away. 2–6. Down one set to zero.

The next set — the last of my high school career — is a familiar story. My net dominance is overwhelmed by Braden’s unrelenting consistency. I lose the second set 1–6. Game, set, match.

I approach the net and shake hands with my opponent. I hold back tears for the conclusion of my competitive tennis career, as I’ve decided to enroll at a university with too strong of a tennis program for my skill level. I take comfort knowing Braden won the match on a winner and not as a result of an error on my part.

Few players’ last match is a victory. I force myself to savor the moment, even in defeat.

I sneak one of our balls into my tennis bag. The host team’s coach doesn’t ask where it is, and I’m sure he doesn’t care.

I write “Last HS Tennis Match” on the ball in black marker. Today that ball can be found in my home office. I often grasp it with my right hand, feeling its contours and smelling the soft felt, questioning my decision not to play college tennis. The ball loses more of its unmistakable scent with each passing year, and with it a sense of pride and an increased feeling of regret.

The ball perpetually rests over my left shoulder on the bookcase, like an eye continuing to accuse.

It was around this time that Steve passed away. He was diagnosed with pancreatic cancer and lived only a few short months. He left behind his wife, Julie, and two young kids. He was 36 years old.

Steve was a tennis pro during the day and further supported his family by working at night at the UPS hub at Louisville International Airport. I recall when he told me about his second job, to which I asked, “When do you ever sleep?” He looked at me with tired eyes and replied, “Sometimes I take my kids to the playground after school and I rest on a bench while they play with friends.”

What a mentally strong, ardent, and devoted father he was. This, I thought to myself, is what a real man does; he takes care of his family, even at the expense of his own comfort.

Steve is greatly missed. I think of him often.

2009, Age 24

Racquet in hand, I walk across an open meadow towards a lone tennis court under a clear blue sky. Try as I may, my legs are too heavy to move. I can scarcely lift my feet off the ground, and my efforts become increasingly difficult with each stride. The court becomes smaller in my field of vision, somehow distancing itself from my body. I begin sinking into the soil, grasping for breath as the court becomes a mere speck on the horizon. I cling to one last breath before I succumb to the Earth’s darkness…

I abruptly awaken to a horn’s piercing howl, like I’m about to be struck by a speeding fire truck. I struggle to remember where I am as my senses awaken. What’s all this crap I’m wearing? And then I remember. Only four hours ago I hitched a ride on a Blackhawk helicopter to southern Iraq to assume command of my company’s platoon at Forward Operating Base Basra. I arrived at my platoon’s compound at around eleven o’clock at night, and I had hunkered down for a few hours of rest in my guys’ dirt floor tent, still wearing full combat gear. The only item I removed was my boots.

It then occurs to me what had ended my rest: the base’s indirect fire alarm. I had been woken up by an insurgent mortar attack.

I grab my M-16 rifle and run with my soldiers to the rebar-reinforced concrete bunker twenty meters from our tent’s flap. It’s November, and the moisture from the Persian Gulf creates potent rain showers this time of year. The area between our tent and the bunker is filled with eight inches of thick mud, formed from the purest, finest sand these eyes have ever seen. It’s slippery as an oil slick, and I’m barefoot with at least 70 pounds of gear on my back.

Boom! The mortars begin contacting the ground inside the base’s perimeter. Boom! They’re getting closer. Boom! Boom! It’s difficult to discern whether the rounds are still getting nearer; I suppose loud can only get so loud.

I’m battling to get myself to the bunker, sprinting through what feels like knee-high sauerkraut. My progress is so minuscule I feel like the bunker is actually getting farther from me. I sink deeper into the mud, fighting for each step. I finally catch a lucky break and successfully execute two or three continuous non-difficult strides.

I remember thinking to myself for the briefest of moments, “The right side of my face feels kinda warm,” and the next thing I remember is laying face-down in the slick, smooth mud, five or six feet from where I last stood. Maybe this will be good for my skin. It’s funny the weird thoughts that cross soldiers’ minds in times of danger. It’s our biology’s form of denial.

Oh my God, I think to myself, I just got hit by a mortar. I found out later the shell struck eight to ten feet from my position, but it was close enough to hurl my body into the air. I’m immediately rolled over and surrounded by a handful of my guys. Some are talking to me — although I can’t hear them — while others are checking me for wounds. Judging by their facial expressions, I figure I must be in one piece.

Right then, a pain sliced through my left knee like the teeth of a bear trap. Wincing from the unbearable pain, I glance downwards fully expecting to see a bloody, gory stump of a leg. Luckily for me, everything seems to be intact…on the outside, anyway.

“We don’t know what’s wrong with your knee, LT.” Army doctors are worthless. They get paid the same regardless of how many patients they heal. “Just suck it up and take some pain pills.”

“You’re not going to figure out how I hurt my knee?” This is beyond ridiculous. My knee has hurt nonstop for six days since the mortar attack, and this quack isn’t going to diagnose my knee because it’s not “cost effective.”

The doc gives me an inordinate amount of Percocet, instructing me to take twenty milligrams four times daily. That dosage would be questionable for a horse, much less a human being. It’s an act of laziness — he doesn’t want to deal with me again.

I begrudgingly grab my pain pills off the table and trot out the door to begin the walk back to my platoon’s living area, just under a mile southwest of the troop clinic.

What irony. I go to the clinic to get my injured knee examined, and not only do they kick me out the proverbial door, they also make me walk — is that a cat!?

What an opportunity! Just before my arrival in Basra the base commander authorized the shooting of all feral cats on sight. Rumor has it they’re rabid, or one of them bit the general, or something. Who cares? I get to shoot a cat!

I flip my selector switch off safe and raise my weapon. I aim down its iron sights and follow my target as it moves from my left to right. I exhale in preparation to fire, but my fun is interrupted.

As I follow the cat through my sights, the animal crosses in front of a small cluster of port-o-pots. Four local nationals are servicing the latrines, and they’re directly in my line of sight. I have no choice but to put my weapon back on safe and lower the muzzle. I’ll have my fun another day.

At that moment, I see something rather odd — extraordinarily strange, in fact. The four Iraqi men cleaning and pumping the pots are carrying tennis racquets, and they’re covered in all matter of excrement and filth. What a disgrace to a wonderful sport!

I approach the four men to inquire about their racquets, and of course they don’t speak English. I do my best to ask what on Earth they’re using the racquets for, and it becomes clear they’re using them to scoop discarded trash from the port-o-pots’ waste receptacles since they can’t be vacuumed out.

This strange occurrence provides me with a bleak realization. How will my injury effect my ability to play tennis once I leave the Army? The doctor seems to think it’s a permanent issue, and it’s certainly affecting my ability to walk. How can I run to a ball and swing a racquet if I can barely move under my own power?

I shake my head and hope for a miracle.

Two years before I went to Iraq, Jennifer and I began a romantic relationship.

We remained close friends for the remainder of our high school days, and we even called each other best friends. We were inseparable — but we never dated. Through my copious attempts to win her over, I unwittingly got stuck in the friend zone. Any time I made light reference to being something more than just friends, I received the proverbial response of I don’t want to damage our friendship.

That’s garbage, I always thought to myself. But I was more than willing to take what I could get.

We remained friends after graduation, but it was a long-distance friendship. I went to college in Cincinnati while she attended a university in Indianapolis, and we drifted apart as the years passed. But, as fate would have it, she sent me an email — completely out of the blue — midway though my senior year. I hadn’t spoken to her in years, and I was overjoyed to hear from her. We agreed to get together while we were home for Christmas and catch up on lost time.

One thing led to another, and finally, after a prolonged seven years, I escaped the dreaded friend zone. It truly felt like the realization of destiny.

Two years later, shortly before my unit deployed to southern Iraq, sitting on the same park bench at the tennis courts where we had met as teenagers, I asked Jennifer to marry me. No words were spoken; her warm embrace and tears in her eyes said everything.

You may think we would live happily ever after, but the life of young people in love but separated by war is no fairy tale. Jennifer failed to keep her fidelity while I was gone, and our future wedding was called off. The last time I ever spoke to her was the phone call when we ended our relationship.

2013, Age 28

Today is a good day. It’s Thanksgiving morning, and I’m home to eat turkey with my family for the first time in years. I separated from military service three years ago, and I’m still not quite sure what I want to be when I grow up. But after living in seven states in the last thirteen years — Indiana, Ohio, Maryland, Georgia (twice), Louisiana (twice), Illinois, and Missouri — my life finally feels like it’s hitting stride and the chaos of my mid-20s is beginning to settle.

The big family meal is this afternoon. For now, I have something equally important to do.

It’s time to play tennis.

I don’t spend much time on the court these days. My job requires frequent travel — Texas, London, Anchorage, among other far-flung locations — and my frequent inter-state relocations grant less than desirable circumstances for finding a quality hitting partner.

But today provides an excellent playing opportunity. My 15-year-old cousin, Keith, has become quite the tennis player as of recent, and he and I are going to his high school’s courts for some early morning rallies and a pro-set. Maybe best two out three sets, but that will mostly depend on how out of shape I am and how badly my knee hurts.

Oh yes, my knee. My injury from the first of many insurgent attacks I endured with my soldiers in Iraq. The Army never delivered a solid diagnosis, mostly because they didn’t try. The good news is that my knee hasn’t bothered me in a long time, and it’s been at least a year since I’ve felt real pain. My best guess is that the pain has subsided as my lifestyle has become increasingly sedentary.

I pick up Keith and together we drive to the courts. It’s an unusually warm Thanksgiving. High in the upper 60s, partly cloudy, no wind. Excellent tennis weather.

It feels great stepping onto the courts, which are in excellent condition. Jeffersonville High School’s tennis facilities underwent significant upgrades a year or two ago, which included resurfacing the courts. It’s a familiar environment; I’ve played here countless times over the years. In fact, the court we’ve selected is the exact same court where I won my first tournament when I was 14. (OK, it was the “losers bracket,” but I’m counting it.)

We start warming up, and I instinctively begin evaluating Keith’s strengths and vulnerabilities. I’m here this morning to have fun, and winning is definitely not a priority, but I enjoy observing my cousin’s style of play. He reminds me a bit of myself at that age. He’s skinny and not very athletic, but he displays sterling fundamentals and hits the ball deep with consistent topspin. His backhand is slightly weaker than his forehand, but the difference is subtle enough that tennis novices may not notice.

We warm up with ground strokes first and then transition to volleys. Keith hits a few warm-up serves, and then I approach the base line for a few of my own. I decide not to serve very powerfully. Today I’d rather serve consistently than with unnecessary force.

I bounce the ball three times — as I’ve done for more than twenty years — toss the ball, bend my knees while simultaneously coiling my torso, and jump towards the ball on its descent, striking it with my arm fully extended. I place beautiful topspin on the ball and follow through into the court. And that’s when I feel an astonishingly sharp pain roar through my right shoulder.

I initially shake off the pain, chalking it up to getting older and being out of shape. I gently swing my right arm in a circle and give it a slight stretch. I cautiously hit another serve, and it becomes clear this is no ordinary “getting old” pain. This is a legitimate injury.

Thanks to my shoulder, the morning I had anxiously awaited for weeks has been cut short. I take Keith home and drive back to my parents’ house, contemplating my situation in near silence. With my broken body, how am I supposed to keep playing tennis? Perhaps I’m too quick to worry. After all, I don’t have any idea what I’ve done to my shoulder. It could be as minor as a sprain or dreadful as a tear. My gut tells me it’s something in-between, but I’m emotionally sunk due to the trivial activity that caused the injury. How am I supposed to play at full strength and speed if I can’t make it through warm-ups without getting hurt?

Am I that old already? I’m confident that the Army put a lot of “city miles” on my muscles and bones, but I shouldn’t be this fragile at 28…right?

“This isn’t uncommon at your age,” says Dr. McGehee, my orthopedic surgeon. He doesn’t plainly say, “You’re old and you need to take it easy,” but he more-less declares I’ve reached the point in my life — both from age and prior military service — where injuries can present themselves from less and less strenuous activity.

Luckily for me, my shoulder isn’t overly torn up. I have bicep tendonitis and I’ve strained a rotator cuff, both of which will require physical therapy, but surgery shouldn’t be necessary.

Fixing my shoulder may be my most immediate burden, but it’s a short-term obstacle. The real issue is my fragile body. My knee is once again in perpetual pain from what happened in Basra, and I’m increasingly susceptible to further injury from the natural aging process. I can’t hit fifty serves without dislocating my shoulder at least once. I have no choice but to ice my elbows and ankles if I play tennis for more than an hour. I’m forced to wear such a variety of joint braces and athletic tape I look like a hybrid of human and Michelin Man.

I know I can’t quit tennis, much like how a woodpecker can’t simply stop poking holes in trees because my beak hurts. Tennis is in my bones, and to deny my own biology is to reject the very ingredient that makes me human.

2016, Age 30

“For now, don’t worry so much about hitting it in. Let’s just focus on hitting the ball over the net.” I feed another ball to Brock, and his choppy swing sends it soaring deep and far to my right. “That’s OK, Brock, lets try a few more.”

They say for everything there is a season. My days of competitive tennis are a far-removed memory, but I can’t bring myself to put down the racquet. I may no longer be able to compete, but I can share my love of tennis with young people.

Yes, for everything there is a season. And for me, it’s high school tennis season.

I coach the boys’ and girls’ teams, varsity and junior varsity, for a small, private high school near where my wife and I live in Nashville. Our team has some excellent players, and our roster possesses outstanding depth. I make sure to spend time with my players at all levels, from the advanced kids to the true beginners. Brock is one of those novices, and I’ve pulled him aside for a few minutes to work on his backhand ground stroke.

Tennis season in Tennessee is in the spring semester, from January through April. I hope to teach lessons and clinics for kids in the area once the season is over, just like Rex did for me. And once I get enough coaching time to meet the prerequisites, I’ll become a certified tennis pro through the Professional Tennis Association — possibly as soon as this summer. Maybe, with some luck, I’ll be able to turn my passion into a career.

My life has been full of twists and turns, and I’ve learned that most forks in the road to destiny are only visible in the rear-view mirror. I’ve made the most of the talents I’ve been given, but as tennis would have it, we don’t always get to decide what’s around the corner.

I never expected Steve to pass away while he was still my coach. But being the first person for whom I’ve truly grieved, I learned from Steve the fragility of life and the value of friendship. I didn’t foresee my relationship with Jennifer ending, but had we not broken up I would have never met my wife, Stacey — the love of my life — six months after I left the Army. (And if you think my proposal to Jennifer was cute, well, I proposed to Stacey at sunset in Rome by our open hotel room window overlooking the Roman Forum.) I never imagined I’d come home from the desert of Iraq as a disabled veteran, but sometimes gifts are given to us in disguise. I may not have considered making the move to coaching had I remained perfectly able-bodied.

I was a tennis player and a soldier, and maybe those two personas aren’t so different. But now I’m a coach, and it’s not about me anymore. It’s about them, the next generation of kids who play, breathe, sleep, and dream tennis. I don’t see myself as trying to develop the next Billie Jean King or Pete Sampras. I’m molding the next tennis coach to pass on their love of the game.

Perhaps ten or twenty years from now, one of my players will coach a new generation of young minds, passing on their love of tennis in the same way I shared mine with them. And though one day I’ll be gone, maybe this is how I can live forever.