I know, strange title.
Here’s the deal… I love to watch tennis. Love it. I find it exciting and I literally will be biting my nails while watching because of how nervous I get wondering who is going to miss that ball. I love when they hit it so hard they grunt, or scream, because it’s so funny and I can’t help but think “how embarrassing!!!” when they’re they only ones doing it in a match. Hello Venus Williams. I love the speed, the coordination, I even love the outfits. My arms twitch when I anticipate a ball being slammed in the opposite direction. I whisper a yell of “yessss!” when it goes the way I was hoping. When someone has a near miss I groan with the crowd. I love to watch tennis.
What I don’t love is what it reminds me of. While watching it this morning on our all tennis all the time channel, I was haunted with memories. I’m reminded that my dad loved tennis more than my mom. That he always thought he was good enough to be a pro so he spent his time nurturing that instead of his family and in the end he lost both. I’m reminded of the summer when I was 9 and my sister was 7 when we spent a month with him and he took us to a tennis club where he said he was a trainer (because he said he was that good). I remember him leaving us at an outdoor olympic size swimming pool while he went to play tennis. I remember thinking that at 9 years old I was a good enough swimmer to dive into the deep end, swim 12 feet to the bottom, and make it back again without needing to come up for air. I remember my chest burning with the need for air and how I thought I was at the top and taking in a HUGE breath of air….only to find the air was still water and I nearly drowned. To this day I don’t know how I made it up and out of that pool. Logically I shouldn’t have. Thank you Jesus. What I do know is I went gagging and spitting to find my dad, and he was playing tennis with a blonde woman.
Tennis haunts me.
But dang it, I still watch it.