Thoughts on Tennis
do you like the game you play?
I don’t know how I feel about tennis.
It is not on the list of my favourite sports. I don’t follow any of its narratives. I don’t choose to watch it on TV (as it serves up an existential state of mind). And, I am not sure if I like playing it. Despite all this, it was the sport that I was most “good” at as a teenager (which is not saying much-see above).
A few years back I picked up a racquet again, to see if my body remembered being “good” at swinging it. It kind of did (the serve even better for some reason). But once a competitive game started, the mind remembered worse. The same thoughts that ran through my head as a 14 year old on Addis’ clay courts came back now on Cape Town’s hard courts. A jump back in time with every long, wide or into the net shot and the mental anguish that followed. Like being chased by the threat of making a mistake. At 14, and at 40. Sport is timeless.
I am still not sure how I feel about tennis. Maybe because I play it.
There was a tennis tournament at the Addis Hilton Hotel when I was 10 or 11. I was very excited, had detailed daydreams of winning the whole thing. I had the green Prince racquet and all the gear, the wristbands and the water bottle, even made a bandana to look Agassi-ish. All of that. It was my first tournament and I was ready to reveal my thus far unseen tennis talent.
And I lost. In the first round. Badly. I don’t think I won a single game over the two sets. My opponent was the complete opposite of me, less “gear”, way more skill. It did not make sense to me. I was meant to win. But shots went long or into the net or I just did not get to them. As the loss became inevitable, my mind refused. It would shake off every lost point to think “I will the next game”, until there were no more games left to win.
Afterwards, I cried. No. More like wailed. For the rest of the afternoon. Thinking if I moaned long and loud enough - the result would somehow reverse itself. Or I would get a second chance. Or at least show how upset I was that I was not instantly good! But of course, there were no consolations. I was not special. I had to learn to take the L(s). I was not hiding a natural Goran Ivanišević within.
Apologies, had a nostalgia block and this took me over a year to get to. Also, don't mind @the_maj10 providing unrelated commentary.
When we got to Addis Ababa in 1991, there was a place called the Yugoslav Friendship Club (Yugo Club for short). It was probably those mid 20th century socialist non-aligned ties between the two countries that led to its existence. It had a community hall for events-parties-barbecues, a garden, and a solitary tennis court of orange clay. Late afternoon, post school, the family, we would get in our white Toyota Corolla and make our way down Bole road and turn left before the airport to play.
The resident coach was Ato Tesfaye. He was a crafty wise veteran of a tennis player. The kind that stands still but can make you run side to side forever. All while keeping a smile. He even spoke some Serbo-Croatian and would often serve some “local” expressions to go along with his winning points. I loved going there to play with him. He made it fun, though I think I spent more time conversing as opposed to hitting the ball. And looking forward to the end of the lesson, for that cold coca-cola.
Our time at the Yugo club was fleeting.
All the lessons and the mixed doubles…
…Ethiopia had a change of government.
Playing under lights, sliding towards the net to get that drop shot …
…socialism worldwide lost its flavour.
Watching the court get watered, the lines swept…
…and when Bosnia left the fraternity of Yugoslavia, we stopped going to the club.
Sipping on that cold coke in a bottle.
The Yugoslavs within themselves (wherever they were in the world) ceased their friendships.
I went to play tennis somewhere else and there were no more lessons from Ato Tesfaye.