Watching Tennis

Watching a bright yellow ball go back and forth over a tightly stretched net was hypnotic. As the athletes on TV sprinted, struck, strained to their utmost, I gazed at my screen in a trance, relaxed and soothed by the expert manipulation of their rackets. Such was my life for much of the just-finished US Open tennis tournament, when I returned to watching tennis after an absence of many years. I found the calm analysis of Darren Cahill (in a polished Aussie accent), Chris Evert, even a maturing John McEnroe, like a lullaby, with delightful punctuation of quiet during long rallies. So much better than news, reality shows, or action movies.

At the dentist last Thursday, I overheard the receptionist saying, "Rats! I forgot to tape Serena's match. When can we leave?"

I said, "I'm watching that, too! I don't think she actually starts until 4, you have time."

She chucked sheepishly, "I don't even play tennis," to which I responded, "Neither do I."

Tennis was a passion for me in middle school and high school. In middle school I would play for hours with my friend Jenny - we were evenly matched and enjoyed long rallies. Occasionally I would try to play against Kimi, who actually worked at tennis, and I was astonished by how fast her balls would come back over the net.  In high school I played with friends or with my brother, John, though I stopped playing John when I realized he could beat me consistently.

Part of my enjoyment over the last two weeks came from recognition of the great athletes who are still at the top of the sport fifteen or twenty years: Venus and Serena Williams, Rafael Nadal, Roger Federer.  My middle-aged self applauded the finesse and fitness of these thirty-somethings as they kept up with much younger players. Sad to see, but easy to understand, when the heat and the torrid pace of the tournament took out first Roger and then Rafa.

Serena's final match also made me sad. I could understand why the referee would tell Serena's coach not to coach from the stands, because that is a rule, but why dock Serena a penalty and skip the warning, which usually comes first?  And then I could understand how Serena got caught up in the accusation of cheating, which is how she interpreted the penalty, because she has a young daughter who will someday watch the match and wonder what happened. When the match spiraled away, you could only be sad for Serena, and for the winner, Naomi Osaka, whose previously stated dream was to play Serena in the US Open final.  During the awards ceremony, when Osaka blinked back tears and looked uncertainly around the podium, wondering what to do with the trophy and how much to embrace her victory, I could taste the bitterness that we all feel when the reality does not even faintly match up to the dream.

Tennis, just like life, marches on. My TV watching schedule is now wide open, but I won't soon be able to return to routine programming. Perhaps table tennis has a tournament coming soon to an ESPN affiliate near you.