Tennis and I
My Instagram post caption
From the series of chronological videos, you may notice that I am moving more slowly and with less agility.
In the past ten weeks, as the weather has improved, I have played tennis 32 times. Each of these sessions carries a growing weight. As a game of preparation and reaction—not usually one of collaboration since I’ve only played singles—tennis feels different these days. Each turn, each swing, resonates more deeply as I play for two. My usual carefree rallies have transformed into a dance of balance and grace with my partner in crime, where every back and forth communicates a new promise. Join me on this journey as we rally through a season of mindful and hopeful expectation. 🎾👒 #PlayingForTwo
Mom arrived in Princeton a few days ago. When I told her I was going to the tennis court nearby with Wayne, my husband for “a short rally,” she was concerned: “What if the ball hits your belly?”
Ha, that’s a new type of risk factor I never thought about. Playing one of the most adult-friendly and non-body-clashing sports (other than golf), I’ve thought about all possible dangers: tripping, falling, bruising my ankle, straining my back, pressure on the knees, wrist injury if done wrong, or getting heatstroke. But being hurt by a ball on the belly? That’s a new one. It’s a hard one actually, being hit by a traveling ball by the opponent. It’s not entirely impossible, but it’s only likely when one’s volleying next to the net with great force. And I am not usually a volleyer. I am a baseliner.
But indeed, my belly is getting more attention lately, especially on the neighborhood tennis court. I never thought I could play tennis with a belly the size of a basketball. But here I am; one day it’s fine, and the next day it’s fine too.
The Apple Watch plays an important part in the process. It’s so exciting to record every workout. I get to check my heart rate every time I feel a little out of breath and happily find it in the 120 range. I usually wrap up the hitting session after about 25 minutes so that the workout is moderate and I get to go home and pee before it frustrates me. Only recently, I found a hack to strap my iPhone to the net to make some recordings, which can also be remotely controlled by the Watch. As I made a rough count on the Strava app just now, I saw that since March 13, when we first saw the hope of a warm day, I have logged 32 sessions of tennis. That’s more than I’ve ever played in a long time!
Tennis is only fun for me when there is enough back and forth between the players. And in my current situation, it is only safe when both sides practice the art and science of control. I see myself as a master at playing the small court, the part within the serve lines. And I appreciate Wayne for being such an advocate in the same field. In the small-court warm-ups, sometimes we play up to 30 back-and-forths in one rally, and it makes me so, so happy. There are no more than three people in this world with whom I have done this, so I am intentionally grateful.
I also learned to settle with returning a shot after two bounces and sometimes even let go before trying to run toward the ball. But I remember to give kudos to the opponent for their winner’s aim. They usually call out “My bad!!” as soon as they see the ball flying to a corner far away from where I stand, which is the most considerate gesture. For me though, I normally expect myself to predict and control where my intended shots go, and I only yelp for my shots that toured away from the direction in my head. After an appropriate number of back-and-forths, I occasionally take the opportunity to attempt a winner shot. It is also usually respected and cheered by my partner, which gives me even more confidence.
As much joy as tennis has brought me, I remain the risk-averse kid I've always been—I haven't initiated any of the past 30+ tennis sessions. It's been Wayne (surprise?). Around 4 pm on a non-raining day, Wayne would text me from the next room or come by my desk to ask if I’d like to go for "some tennis." I thought I'd say yes in a heartbeat, considering I had just played tennis the day before, but I actually needed the angel and devil in my head to conduct a short debate titled "Is It Safe? And How About We Just Stay Home?" Thankfully, the angel usually wins—the one who believes I'd feel better after a dose of tennis. And I do.
Yes, exercising is challenging, but it makes me feel better afterward. However, not all exercises are created equal. The tennis court in our neighborhood is only a 13-minute walk away—and walking is touted as "a great workout" for someone with a bun in the oven. Nevertheless, we never fail to pull the car out of the garage and take the 3-minute drive to the court. In my defense, I have to pee every 30 minutes, so the quick drive back and forth from the court, with no loo nearby, gives me peace of mind. For my risk-averse brain, less walking also means less chance of accidental tripping (and yes, I have tripped and been scared for days). I also won't get "too chilly" or "sunburned" during the walk. Honestly, I must really enjoy tennis to dismiss a breezy walk so easily.
Yesterday, as Wayne and I finished our half-hour tennis session and walked out of the court to our car, a gray-haired old couple in summery polo outfits walked towards us. I’ve seen them before.
“It’s amazing that you are still playing. How far along are you?”
“I am due in a month.”
“Wow! Must be a healthy baby you have.”
I was internally crying. That’s everything I can wish for.
