The match had dragged on for an hour and a half already. The game was a first-to-two set format, each set composed of four games. On paper, this short-set game would appear rather undemanding—but it felt like the sun itself was waiting for the game to conclude before setting.
3:16 PM: All the other games were far over, and this one was the one that was going to determine the 1st and 2nd placements. Not only that, this was one chance at redemption—my opponent had already beaten me once before this match, while also taking the first set. My calves are burning, and every sip of Gatorade seems to be filling a void of energy—bringing me seconds of clarity; otherwise, the only thing that has occupied my comprehension is the fading spirit to surge ahead and the score—down one set to love, tied three to three, down thirty to forty.
I’m not sure if I am still maintaining proper form, but I immediately clear my mind. Up until now, I hadn’t realized that when I think, I am actually distracting myself with the vicissitudes of reality. I need to focus.
I toss the ball into the air slightly in front of my head. The serve felt automatic—slight drift forward, feeling cold atmosphere through my sweat-drenched shirt, then whipping through the ball at instinct. When waiting for the overly familiar sound of the return, I am already moving to the baseline.
I almost filter out the thwack of the ball when my opponent makes contact due to the sheer habituation, but sure enough, the ball flies back over the net, should-high. My body has already coiled, and before my racket drops, I rip a flat forehand down the line. It skimmed the court and dove—too quick for a return.
3:21 PM: deuce.
Anything can happen. Maybe in the long run, this moment will be forgotten, but I don’t want the possible regret of missing an opportunity to become a nagging reminder. But deep within, I know this moment is the result of many practices and an accumulation of the sweat I’ve devoted to this match.
Sweat stings my eyes. I can feel my muscles tense as soon as I raise my arm to toss the ball. The ball hung a snippet too low—I felt it the instant it left my fingers. Maybe I should’ve just redone my throw, but I didn’t want to risk the time for me to grasp the importance of the point. The ball comes into view—I swing with caution, brushing the side of the ball slightly.
He defended with his backhand, stepping in. I split-step lat, lungs burning, but still able to read the short ball. Just as the ball grazes the court, slightly rotate my hip, while this time, cautiously slice the ball over the net. The ball has just enough backspin to catch my opponent off guard, and when I slide back to the service line, he lobs it high and up to the sun. My risk assessment lapses once again, and this time, I slam the ball to the left corner—and before I can recover back to the net, I have already won the game.
3:26 PM: tied at one set, tiedbreaker to ten: love all.
Sitting on the cold plastic bench, I stare into the now smoky sky—dark blue with grey clouds. As hints of red and orange meet the distance, I take another whig of Gatorade.
The set is alive, and so am I—I take heavy steps back to the baseline—knowing that this tiebreaker would determine the victor.
