Southerland 1

Julia Southerland

Dr. Fallon

ENGL-291

10 April 2016

How I Got Thrown Off My High-Horse

At 15 years old, starting my tennis competition career after years of childhood training,

my partner and I won the Mixed Doubles Maryland State Tennis Championship without one

loss. Just 11 months after, I was poised to begin the journey again as a singles player. With a

winning record from my regular season, I felt ready to take on the challenge of going 2-2, this

time alone on the court. I dominated through the first few rounds of the county tournament to

earn my place on the center court where I would play my county semi-final match.

As my opponent and I warmed up, I noticed a slight strain in my left calf muscle, and

continued to stretch it in fear of getting cramp. On the other side of the court, I could see the

fresh bounce in my opponent, who I had coined earlier in the year as Legs. She had straight dark

hair that was tied back so tight it pulled her skin back exposing strong cheekbones. She was at

least 5’10” with thin long legs like a fleshy stork and a constant angry look on her face, with the

attitude to match.

I had the patience of a toddler on the court and always wanted to win as fast as possible.

My game was quick, flat, and powerful. I could hit a two handed backhand down the line faster

than most kids could serve, but if the ball is lobbed back forcing me to make impact above my

waist, I had a problem. Unfortunately again, Legs’ strategy involved reaching every single ball

with her stork like strides and lobbing it back with topspin so it popped up high after the first

Southerland 2

bounce. In the game of “who’s going to screw up first,” I was losing. She became a wall that

got every ball back deep into the court forcing me onto defense, and my errors became abundant.

Every opportunity I got to end the point I took. I slammed a forehand down the line that

actually passed her, but unlucky for me it hit the line. I saw her roll her eyes bitterly and gesture

oddly with her right hand. She did it so quickly that no one could really tell whether she was call-

ing the ball in or out. I decided to myself that it was my point, knowing the ball hit the line and

was in, but I expected trouble. I went to serve and called the score, 30-15, to which she quickly

protested.

“What’s the problem?” I said carefully.

“It’s 15 serving 30 that shot was out, I raised my finger1” she barked back, flipping her pony tail

and re-setting her return stance. I stood dumbfounded, I threw my hands up completely helpless

as I looked to the audience. Many faces were grim, downturned lips with shifting eyes, while

Legs’ pack of wolves howled and cheered with aggressive notions to “move on!” and “get over

it!” sparsely scattered throughout the noise.

Legs had a way of calling balls “out” when she either couldn’t get to it or screwed up her

return shot of it. In tennis, the lines are called by whoever is receiving the shot. The game of

tennis heavily relies on the honesty and integrity of its players. Regular season matches against

her were heated because her parents diligently cheered as she called balls “out.” My parents and

teammates rolling their eyes and cursing under their breath. I was constantly calling line judges,

something I rarely did with any other player.

I couldn’t believe that during the semi-final match she was going to start shit with me. I

bounced the ball a few times at my serving position contemplating my next move, and turned to

1 If a player raises their finger in tennis like one might to call a waiter, that is an indicator that the ball just hit was out.

Southerland 3

see my high-school coach had just come back with a registered line judge. I let out a deep sigh

of relief as I nodded towards my coach and the judge as he took his place by the net. I relished in

the wide mouth gasp from Legs as she squawked to herself, stomped a stork leg and spun to her

parents as they exposed disappointment in getting caught.

Every point dragged on, my legs turning into sweaty boulders as I begged every shot I

took to be the last, only to hit the wall again and have it come back. Physically I was spent, I

didn’t have anything left in me other than the drive to destroy this girl who had caused me so

much grief. She had won the first set 7-5, and I was serving in the second set 3-4, going into the

third hour of our match. I set my routine, shuffled my feet into position and bounced the ball

three times. I managed to knock out a decent serve, but it came back short. I stumbled forward

in an attempt to reach the ball before the second bounce, but suddenly it felt like someone shot

an arrow through my calf. My lower left leg froze, my knee collapsed as the ball made impact

with my racquet and plummeted down into the net.

I cried out as the pain overwhelmed me. I buckled underneath myself and grabbed des-

perately at my leg. My parents and coaches ran out to me as my calf twitched violently and un-

controllably, inducing more screaming. The crowd began whispering amongst themselves words

of worry, or words of relief. I would be lying if I didn’t hear excitement come from my oppo-

nents crowd members. Tears began to free flow from my eyes as I saw the game slip between

my fingers. All the energy I had left bled from my imaginary wound and left me numb. I was

given my 5 minutes of medical time out, where I somberly ate half a banana and drank gatorade

while grimacing through a painful calf massage. I had been defeated before I went back onto the

court, and my performance mirrored that.

Southerland 4

The pain in my leg from the cramp was nothing compared to the pain in my heart when I

saw Legs rejoice with friends and family that she had beaten me. She now stood upon a pedestal

above me, a pedestal in my mind that read, “winner.” When the pressure was felt, she became a

winner and I choked. I fought more tears, turning my eyes up towards the sky in an effort to keep

my shame inside. How could she rejoice and be triumphant when she did nothing to win this

match? If I hadn’t had played that really tough match earlier that day, I wouldn’t have cramped.

The judge helped, but he missed all the first calls she screwed up. What kind of player was I to

let a devious athlete win?

I went to practice and training for regionals with half the energy I used to, wasting time

thinking about past mistakes and future mistakes. All my previous tennis accomplishments, even

times that I had beaten Legs in regular season, were seemingly useless to me if I couldn’t harness

my talent and use it when competition deemed it necessary. 3rd place was 1st and 2nd places

ugly little sister. You can tell someone, “Hey! I got 3rd place in that tennis tournament!” you

might get a reaction like, “Ah dang so close!” or if you're lucky, “Oh wow I bet it was a tough

match!” Very backhanded if you ask me. Though I was inconsistent and distant in my matches, I

somehow made my mark as the ugly little sister again in Regionals and my second 3rd place win

would give me a spot in the State tournament.

Three days before the State tournament began, I came to training practice as my newly

embittered self and plopped dramatically into a chair as I waited for the rest of group. I felt a

hand grip my shoulder and turned to see my trainer looking down at me with his flashy smile.

“Julia, come with me I need company to get coffee.” He said quickly as he gestured towards the

coffee shop at the other end of the gym.

“Should I bring my stuff?” I said, stupidly.

Southerland 5

He threw his head back for a quick laugh and began walking off without a word, prompt-

ing me to shuffle my tennis gear to the ground and nervously follow him. His skin was a leath-

ery russet color from years of Pacific sun playing tennis, not to mention his amazingly fit

physique for a man his age. I had been working with him for less than a year, and we had little

interaction off the tennis court. My trainer was born and lived in the Philippines for most of his

life, where he held the title of #1 mens singles player for multiple years. He was now in his for-

ties and had been in the U.S. for a decade or so. You needed thick skin to handle his training

methods, but knowing what he was capable of as a player made you stick through it. If anyone

was lazy at practice, everyone would know. He would stop all the drills on every court and yell

at said lazy person so everyone could hear. His voice was sharp and demanding. He accentuated

each consonant like a hammer to a gong and said what he meant, no matter the consequence.

Just looking at him was intimidating, because you know he could kick your ass twice around the

court.

As we arrived to the coffee shop he ordered himself a small coffee and an old-fashioned

glazed donut. I sat at a table behind the counter as I waited for him to return with his coffee and

donut, which when he did, I respectfully got up with a smile to follow him back, masking my

confusion as to why he had invited me. He motioned firmly for me to sit back down. I felt as if

someone had dropped an ice cube down the back of my shirt. Was I in trouble? Did I say some-

thing rude last time? Maybe that one girl heard what I had said about her serving form…

“Your father told me about the cramp you got in counties, that is too bad.” He stated af-

ter wetting his lips with coffee and ripping a leg off his donut. “Do not let actions break you

down mentally, because your mind is the only thing you have control over. You are going to

start playing a lot of good players, great players. If you lose, you lose. Don’t make excuses, Ju-

Southerland 6

lia. You like to do this.” He mashed the donut in his mouth and said, through crumbs, “If you

cannot find something to learn from that defeat then I have taught you nothing.” He stood up

quickly as his eyes wandered off and caught the view of other kids in our group heading towards

the courts. He took his free hand and gripped my shoulder, giving me a powerful squeeze as he

walked passed, prompting me to bite my lip in yet another attempt to hold in my shame.

I thought about what he said to me many times over the next few days. Was I really al-

ways making excuses? I felt that was a harsh statement, I mean, I was cramping. She also plays

the exact game I'm terrible at playing. Not to mention the heat! I remembered all my lost

matches and all the reasons I told myself I lost. I’d say I stayed up too late the night before, or

the girl had a way of serving that prevented me from having any offense on the return. I refused

to admit to myself that someone could be better than me. I was always good enough, just some-

thing, out of my control, got in the way. I thought of David Foster Wallace’s essay “A derivative

sport in tornado alley,” where certain issues began to weigh on his mental ability to play the

game. He says, “I began, very quickly, to resent my physical place in the great schema, and this

resentment and bitterness, a kind of slow root-rot, is a big reason why I never qualified for the

sectional championships again after 1977…” (Wallace 14) My roots began drowning in an

overwatered plot with days full of clouds and no sun in sight. I started to despise the game itself.

My opponent from the first round of States and I came from different regions, and I had

never seen or met her before. She seemed very nice, sporting a Mona Lisa smile with a loose

dirty blonde ponytail. She was closer to my height and her muscles were painted with the

memory of a seasoned athlete. I did my best strategically to plan, but when her first serve of the

game zipped down into the back corner of the service box and skid past my racquet, my heart

sank. She wheeled her racquet in smooth, circular swings and placed the ball from corner to cor-

Southerland 7

ner with the precision of a surgeon. Within 30 minutes she had won the first set. I stood help-

lessly disarmed on my side of the court, pulling out all the shelves in my brain to find any strat-

egy or trick I had stored away that could save me. Nothing worked. Every shot I sent to her ric-

ocheted back with more power and more spin, and the massacre ensued.

I didn’t win one game in that match. The score was 6-0, 6-0. A double bagel. You can’t

get a worse score than that, literally. I shook her hand at the end and felt the sudden urge to

speak and couldn’t hold back, “That was awesome, you’re awesome.” I sputtered out breath-

lessly, and added a quick laugh in the end for effect. She laughed and thanked me, her eyes dart-

ing anxiously away, prompting me to believe that she actually was human after her superhuman

performance.

I embraced my family and chugged water as my father and I went over aspects of the

match to work on in the future. I stood there physically but my mind was drawn away as I heard

Legs’ mother yelling in the distance. There was some sort of argument happening on the court

which of course didn’t surprise me, but I was very curious as to what it was. “Julia,” my dad said

as he noticed me ignoring him. “Oh sorry, I see some drama. Nothing unusual there,” I smirked,

curious to see the grief she caused others. He nodded and sighed, adding, “She always has an

excuse for every bad shot.”

I stepped aside briefly to call my trainer and tell him about the match, which he always

wanted us to do. He didn’t answer, as usual, but wanted a voicemail. “Hey, Joseph, I wanted to

let you know I lost in the first round. I’ve never seen the girl before but she—“ I stopped. Did I

really want to admit to the bagel-ing? I mean, double bagel-ing. I took a deep breath as I felt

pressure push up in my cheeks as tears forced their way to my eyes. I cleared my throat and

gulped gaudily as I desperately looked for words to say.

Southerland 8

When Roger Federer didn’t make the Wimbledon finals for the first time in 8 years, he

had been taken from his usual winning spot and knocked down substantially. He said, “The im-

portant thing is that you learn from defeats like this. You take the right decisions after that and

that you don't panic…You just lay out all those things in the table and you take the right decision

for next time. Sometimes you have to accept that a guy played better on the day than you”

(Sarkar). I took another deep breath, starting to stutter through words as I realized my voicemail

had been silent for at least 10 seconds now. I managed to get out, “She just played better than

me.” Ending the call, I returned my focus to my father who was eager to help. I gave him my

full attention, watching him squat down, pat on his knees, and swirl his hands with an imaginary

racquet explaining his theory on my issues with backhand topspin.

All the girls I have played set a mold of themselves in my mind. Certain players stick out

farther than others, and some stand tall above me on pedestals of success. Today another player

earned a pedestal in my mind. My first and only singles states opponent stood upon a solid

freckled granite platform next to Legs. Though they both stood upon pedestals above me, Legs’

faltered dangerously upon a rock that sported deep cracks and a brittle foundation. I felt it could

shatter any day. I know that I need to be patient in the construction of my platform, to ensure

what I stand upon is solid and reliable.

Southerland 9

Works Cited

Sarkar, Pritha. "Federer Back to Reclaim His Wimbledon Crown." Reuters. Thomson Reuters,

19 June 2011. Web. 04 Apr. 2016.

<http://www.reuters.com/article/us-tennis-wimbledon-federer-idUSTRE75I0EO20110619>.

Wallace, David Foster. A Supposedly Fun Thing I'll Never Do Again: Essays and Arguments.

Boston: Little, Brown, 1997. Print.