What tennis taught me about trauma responses - some thoughts about the game as the US Open is coming to an end.

(socialize sports)

When I first started started taking group tennis lessons, I would be consumed with anguish when the coach said, “OK, we’re going to finish this basket of balls.” Then he started feeding them. I would look at the basket of balls on the coach’s side of the net and feel utter despair. I would get in line, but worry that he would run out of balls when my turn came. I loved hitting the ball. I loved the green/yellow roundness of it. I loved the satisfying thwack of getting ball in the middle of my racquet. But because I wanted it so badly, I thought some one was going to take it away from me.

I knew what this was about: if there was something I loved or needed as a kid, there was never enough of it. As the oldest, I always felt as if Mom had literally run out of love for me. But my parents, coming from childhoods of shortage and deprivation were sadists about our alleged suburban lives. I remember the look of pleasure and contempt Dad had on his face when I showed enthusiasm or pleasure about something he didn’t care about.

I never took tennis lessons as a kid. I had as a good a chance of finding myself on the moon as on a tennis court.

After the baby lessons where the coach feeds a group of adults balls from a basket, he started rallying with us. We each got to play until we missed a ball. I missed many balls.

One coach asked me, “Can you see the ball coming? Keep your eye on the ball.”

I realized I wasn’t really seeing the ball because I was so scared of a projectile heading towards me (I did have things thrown at me and blows land on my head and body) that I did the blurred eye, detached frozen thing that children when they’re scared and I would swing late, or not at all. I could hit a ball if it was hit to me at the anticipated place and I could hit it without really seeing it. But the contact with the ball was so satisfying, I just wanted more, so I started looking at the ball. It didn’t hit me. I didn’t die of shame.

Some days, coming off the court, I would be consumed by self loathing, my neck and shoulder muscles were a frozen block of unhappiness.

But I went back to playing, day after day, year after year. In California, courts and court time is easily accessible. I told myself not to be scared. I told myself there were enough balls in the basket. Lessons are expensive, but I can afford them now.

I love the fearlessness of the athlete. Fearlessness is a quality that must be nurtured. When Coco Gauff said, “My father always believed in me,” I realized that was where her nineteen year old poise and courage came from: I used to be consumed by jealousy when I saw fathers sweet with their daughters. Today, I feel awe.

There were so many things I didn’t know about the game when my son and I started learning tennis. I was a terrible horrible tennis Mom, — that’s for another post, but I was noob tennis player. My son continues to play and find joy in tennis. I guess it wasn’t a complete disaster!