Life After Tennis
There was an Instagram ad on my Newsfeed (or whatever you call the photos you scroll through on Insta — Does anyone know?). I can’t remember the brand, but it had something to do with successfully wearing contact lenses while having an active lifestyle. I don’t wear contacts, and only wear glasses for eye fatigue from reading and typing on the computer so much (not quite the active lifestyle the advertised contact lenses would thrive in), but this ad caught my eye because I recognized the athlete who was using the product in the ad.
The tennis player’s name was Madison Keys, and I knew her from playing tournaments as a Junior. I had actually played against her when I was about 15 in a semi-final match in Costa Rica. I had won the first set in a tie-breaker, for those of you who don’t know, that score looks like this: 7–6. It was a match full of power and agility. It was a fun match. The matches with tough, but honest opponents always were.
After the first set, however, Keys retired due to an issue with her knees, and I moved onto the finals. Most of the time, I summarize this story to friends, coworkers, and hell, even passerbys by simply saying, “I beat Madison Keys.” It just rolls off the tongue better than “I won the first set, and then she retired due to injury, so technically speaking, I sort of won, right?”
It’s been well over four years since I’ve played a competitive tennis match. That’s a long time to give up my dream to be a professional tennis player. It was a dream that had consumed my entire childhood. From ages 0–4, I remember, vaguely, nothing. (The memory of holding tightly onto my mother’s nipple being a real memory is debatable.) From 4–8, I remember my first crush (Hi, Sam), Kindergarten, rollerblading, how cool and unreachable my older sisters were, and getting hit by a car. From the ages of 9–21, I remember tennis.
Last night, I had a dream that my tennis coach in college — Go Gaels — had asked me to be on the team again. The excitement of competing, the endurance challenges on my physical and mental abilities, and the slight chance that I might be able to make a career out of tennis on a professional level made my mouth water.
However, just as the nostalgia of tennis filled my mouth, so did my dislike towards my college coach. I remembered the lies told. The unnecessary pressure and the equality between players that never had a chance to exist under her leadership. The tough losses somehow prompted her to bring up her divorce, and the time she had to spend away from her family because of us…Meanwhile, me and the rest of my sweaty, defeated teammates were trying to figure out what her first marriage had to do with our loss against Arizona.
I turned her down in my dream with satisfaction. However, I woke up wondering how long it would take me to beat Madison Keys again if I started training today.
That’s a question coming from a 25-year-old woman who rewarded herself with a fresh baked cake after jog-walking 1.12 miles last night. (I mention this, because i’m still hella proud about that 1.12 miles.)
Professional tennis still feels so possible. Seeing friends continue on that path tears me in two. Could I be there? Should I be there? And then I remember I’m not there. And it was because when I looked at myself in the mirror when it was go-time and asked myself if this was what I really wanted — what I wanted to spend my days trying to achieve…I knew the answer was no.
But some days, it’s hard for me to accept that answer. On some days, “yes” sounds so much better.
God knows I worked hard when I was on the tennis courts. On the tennis court, there were few times where I felt outside of my depth. Honestly, very few. Sometimes I got my ass kicked and it hurt, but I still felt so close. (Call it idiot’s denial, I call it resilience.) Off the tennis courts, in the gym, running up hills, jumping over cones, back squatting, I felt I came out on top nearly every single time. (Two occasions come to mind where I came up short on the track and in the gym, and they will probably always be in my mind somewhere until I die.)
But when I wasn’t hitting forehands inside out, when I wasn’t running sprints, I was tuning out the little fuzzy green balls. And some girls didn’t have that off switch. I liked tennis…when it revolved around me. I realized there were some girls out there who were tennis, and it revolved around them.
When I was off the courts after the fourth, fifth, sixth hour, I was ready to write about a boy I had met from Canada that I had become infatuated with. Sometimes I couldn’t choose between reading and writing, so I would write about my beloved crush on Nikolai and then stay up into the early hours of the morning reading a book about a boy named Lucas who just wanted to be loved and understood. If my father or coach had caught me up late with a book, that would basically mean instant death.
…but I couldn’t stop.
That was me. Other girls were ready to watch videos of opponents for a deeper analysis or re-read the process of how rankings worked and what matches and tournaments were more bang for their buck. They were looking for a way to get ahead on court and off. And that just wasn’t me.
Today, 25-year-old Jade sits on her Costco couch. This morning, I worked out with my boyfriend before eating waffles. While waiting for the waffles to cook, we brainstormed what we would call our hypothetical Breakfast Cafe. Waffles & Co., The Waffle Wedded Waffle, and The Whisk, to name a few. Afterwards, David bathed his dogs, and I blow dried them as they came out of the shower.
The afternoon came to a close when we brought Chipotle and KFC to our home to devour while watching a movie. It was my turn to pick. (The Adjustment Bureau, if you’re wondering.)
And that was my day.
Sometimes I wish David could have seen what I was like in a real competitive match. How I moved. How I felt. How I screamed my ass off when I hit the forehands of my life. You can’t really fist pump and scream “C’mon!” from the top of your lungs just because you’ve made the perfect golden, brown waffle… (Or can you?) When I said as much today, telling him how I wished he could have seen me play, he responded by telling me he loved watching me coach kids up at the park every week. David did drive up after work here and there just to watch me work with some of my “young grasshoppas” as I call them. It would probably be the closest he’d ever get to seeing Jade, The Tennis Player (as I used to be known in the family as).
…And that would have to be okay.
My life is much different than it was when I was playing tennis. Traveling is much, much fewer and far between. Working out isn’t a routine, it’s some kind of concept I wrestle with in bed until it may or may not become a reality. Dogs take up much more of my life than I would have thought possible.
I miss the tennis days. Some days it even hurts.
But one thing about those days hasn’t changed. And that is, right now, at the end of the day, I’m typing away, writing about a fantasy Waffle House with my boyfriend and a tennis career that never happened… and just beside me is Calypso by David Sedaris, a book that I will be reading late into the night when I should very much be asleep.
One noticeable difference: There’s no punishment if I get caught.
