Love 40

Love means nothing.

Zip, zilch, zero, or “l’oeuf” as the French would say.

Actually the French haven’t called “nothing” a “l’oeuf”, or “egg”, since the origins of scoring in tennis. And they still don’t; only American tennis refers to zero as “Love” (sounds like l’oeuf”) when scoring a game, and it is also said to come from the English phrase “neither for love nor for money”, indicating nothing.

Tennis scoring always seemed confusing. And did not seem important as long as I could ask someone, who knew how scoring worked, which player was winning.

When I started to play for points was when I memorized scoring and learned by heart the pain of “love”. And, for the first year, the reality of “Love – 40” or “40 – Love”, depending on who was serving first (me having “Love”, or “nothing”, my opponent having “40”, a win).

But I have never felt heartbroken over tennis. In fact, I never feel more powerful than when I am holding 10.3 ounces of German engineering in my hands.

When I pick up my tennis racquet, I am reminded of how often I tried to learn the game, how frequently the game convinced me I had the hand eye coordination of a naked mole rat, how easily I quit trying time and again. I am also reminded that it was a few years ago when the sport gave me another chance, I learned the art of sticking with something (and a few other valuable life lessons), and wound up finding one of the greatest loves of my life.

Tennis found me at a low point: I was jobless, in a strange town with no friends or family, my husband working long days with an hour-and-half commute at each end. I was lonely and worried that everything was always going to be horrible going forward. My confidence was shot and by not living in my pedestrial-oriented NYC—where you could walk for hours and watch people, losing yourself in the sights, sounds, and smells (especially the smells)—I was driving everywhere in a suburb, for even the most mundane chores such as mailing a letter, and it began to show in my waistline.

So one morning, instead of driving home from the dry cleaners and losing myself in an endless loop of LifeTime television, I drove into the Tennis Club I passed so often, and signed up for a summer-long ladies clinic.

I had ventured into the world of ‘trying’ tennis many times: as a teenager, in my twenties, in private lessons, one-on-ones with my husband who has a couple of decades of experience at the sport. None of it ever stuck, and tennis fell in with the times I tried skateboarding,  rollerblading, and skiing—better to observe than participate.

This time, this desperate, fearful, stone’s throw away from turning 40 time, I threw myself into tennis as one clings to a life preserver as waves crash over your head. I wanted something to work, to meet people, to be good at something.

Why it worked is quite simple: I participated in my tennis class in the opposite way I had done everything else before. I paid complete attention to the teacher, not doubting a word and followed his instructions implicitly. I chatted up every other classmate as if they were the most important person there (and they were). I did not show off or pretend to know more than I did. I pushed myself past the physical “issues”: sweat slipping down my forehead and stinging my eyes, cramps stabbing at my calves, forcing down the nausea that rose up as I tried to run to the ball faster, light-headedness from not stopping to drink water because you did not want the others to know you needed it, and gasping for breath after each swing and hit at the ball.

Tennis showed me a physical side to myself that no other activity I had pursued before—running, swimming, dance, horseback riding, bicycling—ever did. I wasn’t just “fit”, I was truly healthy, and my body wasn’t just “in shape” it looked like something I had seen but never believed would wear: athletic.

I’d like to say I got good at tennis that first summer.

What I did get good at was learning to humble myself for the things that matter in my life. Tennis became one of those things even though I was still pretty lousy at it. I definitely was able to hit the ball and run faster and learned different strokes and techniques.  But it was clear I needed more than a summer to play tennis with any skill and with the finesse it deserved.

I’d like to say I threw myself into tennis after that summer, an absolute devotee, with lessons and video study and all my heart and head.

What did happen is that we moved back to New York City, I got a job and was too busy to play  tennis.

But a wonderful thing happened: I became pretty miserable again. I was surprised that I couldn’t simply feel delighted and content with a job and being back in my hometown. And that’s when I saw the sign: Tennis Clinic.

One of the blessings of tennis is that it demands your complete attention. It takes you out of your head. You simply must focus on the ball and get into each stroke or you will play a horrible game. Tennis requires your whole body, and some calculation, but not really anything from your brain. I found it to be a sweet escape from my thinking, a release from wondering why, as I was approaching 40 (an age where at least television and movies show everyone pretty much has their life in order), I had no career to speak of, I was estranged from my family, had no children, no passions.  Tennis said, “Just stay here now and play” and that was exactly what I needed.

So without thinking, I signed up for the first available clinic. Then signed up for two more, playing three nights a week. I convinced my husband to sign up too. We subscribed to the tennis channel, read tennis magazines and talked serves and volleys at every opportunity.

I was really quite bad at tennis for most of the clinics. I still usually missed the ball completely. I often tripped over anything possible: the ball, my own feet. I even managed to lose hold of the racquet on a few occasions and throw it across the court while attempting to hit the ball.

What I never did was walk off the court, or allow my embarrassment to deter me from continuing.

Eventually I got decent enough that I got moved into the advanced group, others in my class complimented my progress, and my husband and I were able to play together. (Another gift from tennis was finding another thing to share and love with my spouse and to play together has added a magnificent dimension to our marriage.) After a few vacations to the Mecca of tennis (Florida), I got good enough to play for points, and learned to keep score. I have actually won a few games. Never a match. And still end most of my games with “Love” (okay “zero” but “love” does sound better, maybe the French were onto something).

What I improved on this time around was that I took notes (I’m a great forgetter) and began to treat tennis the way I would any relationship that matters. I realized I had to spend time with it and keep at it: there could be no breaks of a week or more, I had to play no matter how busy I believed I was. I would not become complacent or take the game or my improvement for granted. I approach each game by trying to be a little better than the last time, give it more than the time before.

Some of the notes I took about tennis have applied greatly to my life outside of tennis:

• Keep your eye on the ball: focus on the task at hand, not the one or dozens of other things that are coming your way. Yes, after you hit the ball you need to see what your opponent will do, but you only get one moment to focus on the ball you have to hit, so don’t lose sight of it.

• Keep your head down: if you keep looking up to see what your opponent is doing or what is happening outside the court or where the ball might land, you will change your posture and the ball will fly out of your control (usually pop up and out); so by trying to look ahead and project or predict more than what is at hand (once again, the thing you are supposed to focus on) you lose perspective and miss the obvious thing right in front of your face.

• When all is not going well, slow down: A natural response to adversity is to use adrenaline and plow forth. But the opposite is only effective. If you’ve ever seen a chicken with it’s head cut off, you’d know why speeding up is a bad idea. When I mis-hit in tennis I usually hit harder and faster, run more and attack more. And the result is: I suck more. I only succeed in becoming a faster version of me who is mis-hitting and playing poorly. When I break down the game to slower, more deliberate actions: focus on the hit, watch my feet and how I am standing, watch where the ball is going, I get better and only then can I afford to get back into to a faster pace.

• Breathe (and loudly if you must): One instructor told me that I was holding my breath while hitting the ball and may be partly why I was running out of steam so soon. He asked me to try taking in a breath as my opponent was hitting the ball to me, and grunting a breath out as I hit the ball. (according to a recent study, grunters often defeat their opponents, though this is more likely due to how distracting this is to their opponents). The funny thing is that while you are breathing and grunting you cannot think or worry.

• Have a mantra: Focusing on a brightly-colored ball may seem easy, but as the game wears on, your brain wants to go to its happy place and lie down. Let’s face it, who hasn’t felt this after a long meeting at work, dinner with the in-laws, etc.? This is perfectly normal and exactly how I would start a game well but then lose focus—no matter how I stared down that fuzzy yellow ball—and play lousy even though I wasn’t physically tired. One instructor told me to come up with something I could repeat to myself (to my brain) that would keep me engaged, on track. He suggested I ‘talk through the ball’, as in: hit, bounce, swing. When I get fuzzy brained during play, I whip this mantra out and it engages my head so my body can play the game.

• Smile: your brain is essentially stupid. It doesn’t know that you are playing badly until you let it know by getting angry when you miss and sulking when you lose. Plaster a smile on your face and your brain will think all is okay, and eventually…all will be okay. You may not win, but your brain doesn’t need to know that, it just wants to have fun, which is why you are playing a game, which brings me to the final lesson:

• Don’t take the game (yourself) too seriously: It is a game. You play it because you want to not be at the PTA meeting, in front of the TV, cooking for eight. If you are playing badly, then learn what went wrong and try and correct it the next time. If you lose, laugh because you were challenged, tried hard and still lost but you didn’t lose at life, just a game—a very safe place to lose.

The most amazing thing about my tennis game is that I have not quit, never abandoned it for something easier or more interesting or of-the-moment. I have thrown tantrums, dashed my racquet to the ground, stormed off, yelled at the ball, cursed and hit myself in the head with my racquet, spewed hateful comments under my breath at my instructors, and have thought the nastiest things upon hearing helpful suggestions from husband across the court. But I have not ever thought of stopping playing tennis.

It has been one of least-rewarding things I have stuck with (at least in terms of success or fame): I don’t entertain the idea of going pro or even playing on an amateur team or club, and I will never earn money from it (though I did win a backpack the USTA Florida’s Facebook page for writing about the importance of tennis in my life).

And yet, aside from my marriage, tennis is one of the most rewarding relationships and saving graces of my life. Tennis demands so much and only rewards me with fun and fitness, which seem so undervalued in a time when people have tantrums because their local Walmart closed. But even when I start and frequently finish a game scoreless, I still feel more satisfied than any pat on the back I received at work or any compliment from a relative. So you start the game with nothing (Love) and sometimes end the game with nothing (Love); but I have learned that at least if I try and face the challenge, I still manage to have a good time.

For me, a better way to think about tennis (and life), regardless of how many or few points I score, or how many successes or failures I count, is not “Love means nothing”, but rather: “Everything begins with Love”.