I have thought a lot about the consequences of saying yes to things. It started when I was reading—okay, lurking—in a mom forum where a younger woman asked the question that most only feel brave enough to ask on the internet: Do you regret having children?
I read paragraphs and paragraphs of mothers scattered along the spectrum that ranged from “I found out the hard way that kids are not for me” all the way to, “I would birth 1000 babies if I could.” Everyone poured little drops of their heart out, and let them sail into the virtual world where those drops were met with both harsh and supportive responses.
A woman I look up to admitted once that it wasn’t until she learned to grieve the life she lived before kids, that she was able to truly move on and enjoy her life as a mother. Strangely enough, I could relate beyond having children.
I often tell people in short conversations when they inquire about how my tennis days ended simply that I fractured my spine. “I fractured my spine my senior year of college, and that was it for me.” But that’s the short version.
The long version is that I didn’t get to have a birthday party on my birthday because the tournament that qualified me for nationals happened every year on my birthday. So it went by, and depending on how I performed, I would have a happy or not-so-happy birthday party a week later. Some Christmases I was lucky enough to get to choose if I would practice in the morning before my other sisters woke up or practice in the afternoon after presents had been opened. The unlucky Christmases were spent without any family at all. There was another international qualifying tournament over Christmas and New years in Mexico. My parents sent me there alone at fourteen years old. My sisters emailed me the activities that passed—including the best gifts. I read the emails between my morning and afternoon trainings.
My dad didn’t believe in breaks. He believed in being number one. And when he found out that the Williams sisters were tucked in by their father whispering they would be number one in the world, that’s how I was tucked into bed as well…Well, when my parents were there to tuck me in.
When I decided to go to take a full scholarship and play college tennis, my dad was so upset he stopped speaking to me. Unlike with sports like football or basketball, it was rare for tennis players to play college tennis and go on to play pro. That was true. My dad saw it as me giving up on our dream. I had a few reasons I decided to go that route. Perhaps I’ll go into them another day. I remember the argument when I told my dad I accepted an offer from a D1 school. And I remember walking out the front door after our argument. I walked the neighborhood all night until the sun returned on those red, Southern Utah mountains.
My dad was probably afraid that college tennis wasn’t up to par with pro tennis. The training wouldn’t be hard enough. They might even give me a day off. Who knew? He was convinced that my performance would deteriorate due to a less competitive environment.
He wasn’t wrong.
I did discover days off (though they were few and far between at this level as well). I also discovered that my English classes felt like a formal book club. I learned about social gatherings. Parties, kegs, beer pong. I didn’t like those things at all. But I also fell in love with things I had never had the opportunity to be introduced to. Coffee shops on top of rolling hills. Building impromptu igloos on the way from a Communications class. Boys. My dad monitored my phone closely. Before college, he timed me when I was out with a boy. (I’m actually not kidding.) It was kind of crazy going out with a boy and eating dinner and knowing my dad had no idea. He wouldn’t be able to say I was on a date for 5 hours but only practiced 3 the next day.
I discovered that I fell in love with everything and everyone fast.
My first year in college, my parents got divorced. While my parents were in the process of separating, I won 22 matches in a row. A record winning streak! It was much easier to think about tennis than what was going on at home. When I asked to be moved up in positions (I was playing 6 at the time), my coach laughed and said, “Why would I move you up when you’re winning?” That was the beginning of learning a whole new lesson. Unfortunately, I didn’t know what advocating for myself was back then. I also didn’t understand politics in sports. I didn’t understand a lot.
My junior year was the closest I had come to quitting school. By then I had had knee issues, back issues, and shoulder issues. I complained to my coach often that my back was in immense pain. We did extra warm ups and cool downs for my back during competition, but there was no break to be had. By my senior year, I was serving underhand because it hurt too much to serve overhand, and I was too afraid to lose my scholarship with the next girl waiting in line, so I shut up and dealt with it. It wasn’t until we finished the season, and I had signed off on the school being responsible for any injuries I had had (I had no idea what I was signing) that I had an MRI and discovered my spine was fractured. When I went back to the school, they shrugged. They weren’t responsible for me and couldn’t help support anything. I recall crying that day. I graduated with a fractured spine, no covered recovery plan, and no clue.
During school, I was playing pro tournaments in the summers when college was out. They’re really amateur tournaments. (You can’t take the prize money if you’re playing in college with a full scholarship.) I did not play that summer after graduation. The doctor’s orders were minimal possible movement. That meant no running, no yoga, nothing. 12 weeks, the longest—by far— I had ever taken off.
I traveled. I ate lots of different food. I read books. I wrote a lot of words. I spent a lot of time in San Francisco, Berkeley, and surrounding areas. I spent lots of time with my then boyfriend. He had graduated a year before me, and I had seen him go from running tens of miles in a day to hardly making the commute back driving to our little apartment after work. He was not meant to be still, and his body wasn’t responding well to the sudden stop in activity. I have more to say about it. About him. But I’ll leave it there.
After my 12 weeks, I thought about holding my racket. I thought about warm ups, and I thought about hitting a forehand and backhand. I thought about competing. And I realized I didn’t care. I didn’t care at all. I didn’t miss it. I did yearn for a fuzzy green ball in my hand. I yearned to sit and drink a coffee and read a book in peace. I knew my competition. I had lived with other tennis players, traveled with them, bunked with them. I knew that in their free time, they watched recordings of their competition to get an edge. I knew that in my free time, I liked to take BART into the city and wander through the Bay Area fog.
I had once told my dad that I didn’t want to play tennis back in my junior days. This was before college. I constantly cried for no reason when I was on court. We would be at a different tournament in a different state or country. My dad would throw balls my direction, and I hit them all. Then we would pick them up, and suddenly I would start crying. I wouldn’t even know why I was crying. And he would say, “You’re such a spoiled little brat.” And then I would cry harder. Then I told him I wanted to quit. And he said, “You can’t. Your family has sacrificed too much now.” And then went on with the day.
Sometimes I think he’s right. It’s been at least four or five years since I’ve hit a ball seriously. Still, at least a few times a week, I dream of tennis. Sometimes my college coach is threatening to take my scholarship if I don’t come back to play tennis that weekend for a tournament they’re shorthanded for (even though I now have a full-time job and baby). Sometimes I’m searching for Court 8, where my opponent is waiting for me, but I can’t find the court and get lost on the shores of Croatia. Other times, sometimes I’m just hitting. Just rallying. Forehand. Backhand. Forehand. And then BOOM. I catch a ball late, I try to make the swing work and sit up in bed, realizing I’ve backhanded the back of my husband’s shoulder.
“...Ow.” he says.
I see girls—I guess we’re women now—but I see the women I grew up playing with. We played the same tournaments since we were 10. Lots of them are still competing now, still playing now. Some have names a lot of tennis fanatics would gush over. I’ve beaten some of them (and my junior tennis self will always hold onto that ha!) Who’s to say I would ever be good enough to hang with them now, but that question pulls at the heart. Do I regret quitting? Do I regret not seeing the dream through? What’s a fractured spine when Nadal’s basically played 100 French Opens while having his 150th knee surgery?
No. No, I don’t regret quitting competitive tennis. But just like when you choose to have a baby, you choose not to do something else. Some days when I’m sitting in my office and looking at a spreadsheet, I think… Well, I’d rather be sprinting my lungs out on the court. Hell yeah, I do. When you choose not to be a professional athlete, you choose to be somewhat…average? Mediocre?
My dad no longer makes sure that “You will be number one in the world,” is the last thing I hear before I fall asleep. In fact, we don’t speak at all.
Choosing not to have him around comes with its own consequences I face every day.
And being a mom, having a kid and leaving that other life behind? I guess, talking about tennis, and my relationship with my dad, I’m figuring out that what I’m trying to say is that the question stands across your life. Every chapter of the book of your life, you’re choosing what that chapter’s about. And in the same way, you’re choosing what that chapter isn’t about. If this is the chapter of your career or the chapter of love, that’s okay. If a chapter was about everything…That would just be a terrible book.
(I want to add too, sometimes, life chooses the chapter for you too. Lord, do me and my husband understand that. The chapter where he had to learn to walk again? Not what he would have planned on. And it meant the chapter where he graduated from college had to wait too…I digress.)
I guess I should end this with something inspiring now. How about, let the chapters of your book be rich with adventure. Oh God that’s gross. Let me tone it down a little: In this book of life, may you take it one chapter at a time—even if you’re not in the chapter you want to be reading. Still cliché, I know. But I mean it all the same.
Someday, when your kid is old enough to hold a racquet, you'll pick yours up again, too. And it'll feel natural, and good, and there will be no pressure. And then, whether your kid decides to play for fun or for more, you'll be able to do all the things right that were done wrong to you. That will make it easier to let go of so much of it.
Damn that's beautiful and heart-breaking. I have a little girl and I'm going to make sure I don't get caught up in whatever sport or talent she ends up interested in to the degree that your dad did. Thanks for sharing.