There is a nationwide organization in the country called the United States Tennis Association which hosts monthly tournaments at different locations in “districts” all around the country. The majority of kids who play these tournaments are kids who are either forced to by their parents, want to make playing tennis a living, or play 3-4 hours a day, 6 days a week. I, in fact, am none of these things, however the first time I participated in one of these tournaments, I played a kid who happened to be all three.

This particular event took place around January of 2013. It was right before Christmas break, I had just finished playing a match when one of my coaches came up to me and said, “I’d really like you to try a USTA tournament coming up this January, Mike, I think it would be a really good challenge for you, although I have to warn you that even winning one match will be a really big accomplishment at your level.” I had no idea what I was getting myself into.
Fast forward two weeks and I was driving out to Rockford, getting prepared for my match at the MVP rec center in the center of “downtown” Rockford. I remember the snow obscuring everything like fog until we crossed the bridge and the overwhelmingly huge warehouse slammed into view (a great metaphor by the way, of what I was getting myself into).

Getting out of the car, I remember being stress free and quickly jogging through the large doors into the lobby where I saw the dozens of kids in there warmup jackets and track pants stretching, looking at their phones, or talking quietly to one another.

I signed in and sat down and started to get ready to get out there and play. I waited. And waited. And waited, until it had been close to 40 minutes, and as those 2400 seconds inched by, my anxiety festered into a knot in my stomach that I had never felt before something as easy and trivial as a simple tennis match. The professionalism and cockiness of the kids around me attacked my carefree state of mind and transformed it into a mess of nervousness and an inability to concentrate.

“You're up” yelled the overweight Hawaiian man to the room, snapping me back to reality. I slowly got up looked down at the shoe laces I had tied and retied 6 times before walking over to the check-in table. A shorter, skinny kid wearing Beats and a green Adidas jacket came up and said his name to the man without so much as glancing at him. The man rattled off the format of the match while struggling to open up the sleeve of balls. Beats kid rolled his eyes. Finally he got it and handed them to “Schultz” who proceeded by exhaling loudly and muttering “finally” to himself.

The walk down to the court confirmed to me my anxiety in that this wasn’t going to be a friendly and good spirited match. When I tried to talk to the kid who’s name I just then learned was Cole, he provided quick answers and shut down any form of small talk.
The next two hours or so was a blur of aces, cheap calls, and shouting on his part, and passiveness, head shaking, and silent frustration on my own. I barely put up a fight in what was my first USTA match. 2-6, 2-6. After the final point, he gathered his things and walked off without so much as a handshake.

Eight months went by before I would have my chance at evening the record. Eight months of conditioning, grinding, recollecting, and anticipation.

The day finally came. The day I had been waiting for for almost a year, the moment that I could redeem myself from what could’ve been a great start to the year. The day that I was going to beat Cole.

It was early August, one week before high school tryouts and (unwisely, in hindsight) I was not thinking about them at all. I was only thinking about how after months of conditioning and practice I was going to beat this kid. Instead of driving to some random rec center in the middle of Rockford during a blizzard, this time I had home field advantage. The outdoor clay courts at Ramblewood.

I had been there all morning stretching, hitting, and relaxing in the sun before all the kids came for a USTA tournament that Ramblewood was hosting. I had won my first two matches and now I was matched up against the kid again however this time it was a finals match to decide the winner of the tournament.

I was squinting, trying to read a text on my phone in the blazing, rising sun when I saw the black Escalade pull into the parking lot. A slightly taller, equally as cocky looking kid stepped out with his racquet bag and a cooler that looked ridiculously huge compared to his tiny frame.

I watched the kid walk towards the courts and sign in in what seemed almost to be slow motion. He turned towards me and I stood up and started walking to our designated court that I had been looking at and pondering for the past hour and a half.

There would be no small talk this time.
No passiveness.
No aces.
No head shaking.
No loss.