When I stood on a tennis court for the first time, I had never felt more out of place. My limbs flailed every time I lunged for the ball, the racket alien in my hands. Being taller than half the kids only made me feel more exposed, especially since everyone else seemed to move with effortless coordination. That afternoon planted the seed for years of shame and resentment toward anything that required athleticism. As I sulked on the ride home, humiliated, eight-year-old me was certain I’d hate tennis for life.
For most of my life, I believed I wasn’t built for physical activity. Clumsy and uncoordinated, I told myself I simply wasn’t a “sports person.” Frankly, I preferred it that way. I never enjoyed sports as much as a good book, and distance learning only made my tendency to hole up at home worse. The more time I spent curled up on my couch, the more I fulfilled the “unathletic” label I’d given myself, and the less willing I was to challenge it. So when I returned to tennis again after the pandemic, I came with the mindset of someone who had already lost to herself. Even as I attended class after class, growing familiar with the thud of the ball, I played without a purpose, only because my parents wanted me to.
People always commented on my height, which invariably led to questions like “Do you play any sports?” I’d smile sheepishly and mumble that I played tennis “recreationally,” the word bitter on my tongue. Every time tennis reminded me of my lack of athletic ability, my hatred toward it deepened. Eventually, I stopped mentioning it altogether, and tennis became a carefully kept secret — I defaulted to the “unathletic” label like armor, though it was really insecurity disguised as indifference. I even began to feel a twisted sense of pride, because my dislike of sports made me different.
Therefore, though I played tennis for several years, I rarely treated it seriously. When I tried out for Kennedy’s tennis team, my attempt was half-hearted. Upon hearing my peers discuss technical terms that I’d never heard of in my life, whatever courage I’d gathered dissipated. Instead of trusting my experience, I convinced myself that it wasn’t worth putting effort into a sport I barely even knew. That dismissive attitude, along with years of uncommitted practices, kept me from making the team that day, reinforcing what I already believed about my abilities.
In a desperate attempt to avoid another failure at high school tryouts, which I originally did for sports credit only, I took last-minute private lessons in China the summer before freshman year, expecting to endure even more tedious rallies. However, being away from familiar faces and constant comparisons was just what I needed to shift my mindset.
I remember the first lesson vividly, my initial nervousness dissipating as I worked on correcting my sloppy form, which had built up over years of careless swinging. My coach gave precise advice, repeating key phrases until my movements became second nature. Under the sweltering heat, my playing rapidly improved, and for the first time, I felt a genuine spark of pride.
Over the course of those few weeks, I focused simply on getting better with no strings attached. When I hit a clean winner, strings buzzing satisfyingly on contact, I couldn’t help but pump my fist in exhilaration, finally starting to understand what the hype for sports was all about. Nothing felt more thrilling than knowing the ball would go exactly where I wanted it to. Yet a small part of me still resisted, whispering that I wasn’t supposed to enjoy this — it felt like I was losing a part of my identity that was tied to hating sports.
Despite my doubts, I ended up making the junior varsity team. Throughout that season, with the support of new friends on the team, I learned to find joy in something I thought I would never. Taking two hours every day to concentrate on nothing but the ball cleared my mind.
Of course, I still lost. Miserably, too. There were sets where I was defeated 6-1 or 6-2. But this time around, I looked at my losses differently — at least I was enjoying every point I played. Each perfectly placed shot filled me with joy, knowing my efforts had paid off, and gradually I forgot about my compulsion to hate tennis. Even when I made mistakes, instead of succumbing to my hopelessness, I actively tried to change so that I could return the same shot next time.
I may not be the best or most dedicated tennis player, but after seven years, it’s become a steady presence in my life, and I’m finally able to embrace it with pride. Somewhere along the way, I started loving the sport. The adrenaline that pumped through my veins every time was proof enough. For a while, that felt like betraying myself, since I thought being a self-proclaimed “bookworm” meant I had to hate sports. But I came to realize that there isn’t just one “right” hobby or way to enjoy yourself — just because I started to like tennis didn’t mean I loved reading any less.
Once I stopped feeling guilty for enjoying it, I began to see tennis differently. I’ve never been driven by a desire for victory — I usually go with the flow, avoiding conflict whenever I can — but tennis has revealed a side of myself that cares, that wants to improve. The game to me now is less about technical ability or innate talent, and more about letting go and having fun.
At last, my sport isn’t something I feel embarrassed about. I used to think disliking tennis was written into my DNA, but now I know I don’t need to be the most skilled or talented to enjoy it. I can see myself playing for years to come, something ten-year-old me never would have imagined. The court feels like home now. With a racket in one hand and a ball in the other, I feel grounded, the rhythm of each swing familiar and steady — a stark contrast to how awkward and overwhelming everything used to be. Tennis is finally mine to enjoy.
