This year, on something of a whim, I decided to learn how to play tennis. I had no grand ambitions. No dreams of Wimbledon glory or even winning a club tournament. I simply thought it might be a civilized way to break a sweat. Something about the whites, cute skirts, the etiquette, the quiet violence of the sport appealed to me.
I assumed I’d learn how to serve, how to volley, how to hit a backhand with some semblance of grace. What I didn’t expect was to get a crash course in resilience, adaptability, and the dubious art of not spiralling into a puddle of self-doubt every time I missed a shot.
Progress, Not Panache
At first, I was abysmal. Think of someone trying to swat a fly with a pool noodle—my timing was off, my footwork was non-existent, and my backhand had all the menace of a handshake. I was winded, and irrationally furious that I wasn’t a natural.
And yet, something curious happened. I kept showing up. Kept swinging. And somewhere between the flubbed serves and the countless lost points, I started to improve. Not dramatically. Not even particularly impressively. But slowly, almost imperceptibly, things got better.
Which, it turns out, is how most worthwhile things work. Writing, business, relationships. They rarely reward the impatient. They favour the persistent. Glamour is overrated. Progress, though, is magic.
Adapt or Get Steamrolled
Every opponent in tennis is a fresh disaster. Some hit like machines. Others moonball you into madness. One particularly ruthless retiree had me running like a labradoodle chasing squirrels (Heather, if you're reading this, game on!). The game forces you to adapt on the fly, to switch tactics, to stay mentally nimble even when your body wants to collapse in protest.
It’s not unlike life, which has a habit of ignoring your plans and offering you a surprise instead. The trick, on the court and off, is to adjust. Sulking is inefficient. Flexibility beats frustration.
Keep Your Head (and Racket) Up
Perhaps the greatest challenge of all is not letting your last mistake sabotage your next move. Tennis is a game of seconds and inches, and one bad point can lead to an existential crisis if you’re not careful. I’ve had to train myself to hit reset faster than my sweat dries - because dwelling is a luxury the court doesn't allow.
That skill - staying present, managing pressure, refusing to indulge the spiral - has crept into other corners of my life. I’m marginally less neurotic at work, marginally more graceful under fire, marginally quicker to laugh at myself, and marginally better at letting things go.
Discomfort is the Entry Fee
Tennis hurts. Your legs ache. Your ego takes a beating. There’s always someone on the next court who plays better and dresses better and somehow doesn’t sweat.
And yet, there’s joy in the soreness. A kind of pride in enduring. Growth, as I’ve come to accept with no small amount of grumbling, requires discomfort. You don’t get stronger sitting out the hard bits.
It’s Not Just a Game
What began as a recreational experiment has become something far more valuable. I’ve learned to be kinder to myself in failure, more adaptive under pressure, and more committed to showing up, both on and off the court.
I’m still no Federer. But I’m a little more patient, a little less reactive, and just deluded enough to believe I might one day win a match without throwing my racket (figuratively, of course).
Further Reading for the Court and Beyond
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Mindset by Carol Dweck — On the astonishing power of believing you can get better
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The Inner Game of Tennis by W. Timothy Gallwey — Technically about tennis, but really about life