7:30 am:
Wake up. Pee (Bathroom Visit #1). Retrieve essentials: one peppermint pill (nothing screams “amateur athlete” like IBS), two ibuprofen (preemptive pain management), a banana, and water to wash it all down.
Return to bed like an old lady tucking in for the night, not a forty-three year old about to start her day. Confirm tissues on the nightstand in case nervous tears spontaneously erupt. Even though I’m in my second season, match day still brings jitters. I didn’t play as a kid. More accurately, my main sports experience was gym class, where I mostly tried to avoid getting hit during dodgeball.
7:40 am:
Skim headlines for a glimpse of the news, but not too much. No need to spiral before the day officially begins. Scroll Instagram Stories because #dopaminedopaminedopamine. Almost time for Bathroom Visit #2. Ask my husband if he needs it first. I’ll be a while.
8:00 am:
Arrange bathroom accoutrements.
Squatty Potty? Check.
Laptop? Check.
Phone? Check.
Open laptop and put on distraction television to settle my nerves: Real Housewives of Beverly Hills. Those women know how to commit. I read once that a lengthy sit may increase hemorrhoid risk, but 45 minutes hits the spot for finding my inner calm.
8:45 am:
Check the drive time to the club. Google Maps says 19 minutes without traffic, but maybe today there will be traffic, even though there is never any traffic. The match starts at 10:30 sharp, so a 9:30 departure feels safe.
I’m always the first to arrive. My coach notices. “You’re here early,” he says every time, like it’s news instead of the most reliable thing he can count on.
8:55 am:
Suit up. As a kid I begged for tennis lessons, but my parents said no. Decades later, here I am, donning my tennis costume like I snuck into a party where I don’t belong.
Our team colors are navy and pink, but no one wears all pink but me. When I went shopping, navy was nowhere to be found. So every Friday, I show up as Tennis Barbie.
9:05 am:
Candle time. For my birthday, my husband gave me “Ball Boy” and declared it our pre-match ritual: light the candle, say affirmations, get centered. Supposedly it smells like “freshly uncanned tennis balls, vacation sunscreen, cotton sweatbands, and cucumber sandwiches.” Honestly though, it just smells like candle to me.
Once it's lit I get his coaching reminders:
“What happens if you dump the ball into the net?”
“Treat the next ball like the first ball.”
“What if you hit an ace?”
“First ball.”
“What if your partner’s on fire and you’re spinning in circles like the Roomba when it gets stuck in cords?”
“First ball.”
He gives me a look that says, Make it count. Equal parts threat and pep talk. Adrenaline spikes as I remind myself: I chose this. I’ve loved this game since my first swing. Thirty years later, the fear of failure looms, but the fear of not trying would be worse.
9:10 am:
Nature calls. (Bathroom Visit #3 for anyone keeping score.) Fifteen minutes of New York Housewives. Then I lace up my Filas and head out.
9:25 am:
Bag check:
Two rackets? Check. (I will never break a string with my swing, but it can’t hurt to be overprepared.)
Tennis elbow brace? Check. (A glamorous orthopedic accessory to complete my ensemble.)
ZBars? Check. (Emergency fuel. I don’t snack, but what if today I need an extra boost?)
Water bottle? Check. (Straw hasn’t been washed in a week, but I can’t risk arriving late to clean it now.)
Lucky pink headband I’m convinced is responsible for my first five wins? Check.
Phone for Google Maps, emergency calls, panic texts to my husband? Check check check.
9:30 am:
In the car, I play Boss Night. (Album or band? Still don’t know, but I blast it every week while driving to tennis.) The first track, “Poor Scouser Tommy,” starts, and the rest follow. All soccer (football) songs. I don’t follow soccer (football), but at some point this became my hype music. Can’t change it now.
With 23 minutes to the club (See? Traffic in the tunnel!) I crank the volume. I’m starting to feel ill, but beneath the nerves, I try to remember this is something I’ve wanted since childhood. (Swallow back tears. Good thing I stuffed wads of tissues in both pockets.)
9:55 am:
Arrive 35 minutes early but sit in my car for ten minutes to play it cool. Entering the club, Coach greets me.
“You’re here early.” Clockwork.
I wait for the rest of my team, hopping up and down to warm up my tendinosis-suffering ankles and do a couple pigeon poses for my tennis-induced sciatica. Not exactly a spring chicken. Before stepping onto the court, I wrap my arm and pray to the tennis gods I don’t do anything stupid.
10:15 am:
Our opponents sign in. I immediately check if we’ve played them before. Then I check the score from our last match. And their overall record. After that, I give them dirty looks when their backs are turned. My partner and I exchange a few, “F&%k yeahs!” while everyone else mingles like we’re at a ladies luncheon.
10:30 am:
The buzzer rings. My heartbeat surges.
“Good luck!” I say to my teammates as I head on court, pretending to sound confident. My partner and I say fake friendly hellos to our opponents. Then we warm-up, where I attempt my best performance as Calm Person while internally panicking that I’ve forgotten how to hit the ball.
10:45 am:
We spin for serve. They start. As we head to our positions, I say, “Let’s have fun, ladies!”
I plant myself in place, knees bent, ready. Take a deep breath and whisper, “First ball,” to myself as she tosses for serve. Despite the urge to run, there’s nowhere else I’d rather be.
Randi Stern lives in Boston with her husband and obsesses over tennis in her spare time. Her work has appeared in Little Old Lady Comedy and Literally Literary Magazine.
