I hired a personal trainer named Mason. He gave me a worksheet with a front and a back that we kept in a filing cabinet by the water fountain inside the gym—I had my own folder with my name on it. The front of the sheet was upper body, and the back was lower body. I used a golf pencil. We focused on the main muscle groups—back, chest, shoulders, biceps, triceps, quads, hamstrings, glutes, calves. I hired a tennis coach named Joachim, a Norwegian-Swede mix. He had me working on slapping rather than driving the ball. He told me to hit it like a penguin. I hired a masseuse named Vasanta. She worked on my neck muscles and underneath my armpits. I made smoothies at home with power greens, pitted dates, blueberries, almond milk, vanilla-flavored plant-based protein powder, and cacao nibs. I purchased some polos, some grommets, some string savers, head and lead tape, athletic boxer briefs, jock-itch cream, moisture-control sports socks, antifungal foot spray, callus and corn shaver, some tea-tree foot scrub. I purchased books with titles such as Champion Mindset and Mental Toughness in Tennis. I applied zinc oxide to the bridge of my nose. I stood in front of the mirror and repeated positive affirmations. I kept a journal. I charged everything to the secret credit card I kept behind my driver’s license in my Montblanc wallet.
I charged everything to the secret credit card I kept behind my driver’s license in my Montblanc wallet.
There’s that feeling you get when things are on. You feel it when you lace your shoes—not too tight, not too loose. Just perfect. You feel it on the drive over—green-light city. Cruising. Your neck and shoulders feel relaxed, back aligned. You’re handed not one but two warm towels at the front desk. The front desk is happy to see you. You step onto the court, and nothing feels tight. You skip some rope, jog a lap maybe. When you bend down to touch your toes, it doesn’t feel strained. Then, in the warm-up, you feel like you have all the time in the world when you start at the short court. Your shoulders automatically turn and you bring your racquet back. Your racquet meets the ball in an effortless loop—you aren’t gripping the racquet too hard. Your feet dance around and you have an abundance of energy. You’re seeing the ball. It’s as big as a volleyball. You can’t miss. And when you move to the backcourt behind the baseline, the feeling continues. The court is your canvas and you’re just painting, painting, painting, beautiful looping paint strokes back and forth.
The court is your canvas and you’re just painting, painting, painting, beautiful looping paint strokes back and forth.
Slowly, you start to ratchet up the speed and you’re still not missing. Mid-rally, you chip a ball and come in behind it, and your volleys are perfect. No backswing—just shoulder turn and a gentle jab. You’re like Edberg up there. Rafter. McEnroe. Style and grace. The lobs come soon after and your overhead is flawless—120 mph with a spaghetti arm. Textbook. Classic. Then the serves. You progress at a measured pace. You warm up slow, but your placement is flawless. Lines and corners of the box—every single serve. Your ball toss is smooth—the ball doesn’t rotate once. It goes straight up. Your knees are bending, your back is torquing, and your motion is constant. When the match finally begins, you’re alert as a bird. You’re as calm as a sloth. You’re as fast as a pronghorn when your speed is tested. You’re a master chef. Every ball you hit is a different spice—a slice, a drive, a heavy ball, a drop shot. You get the early lead and you don’t let go. You almost feel badly about it. Your opponent is frustrated, frazzled, flummoxed. There have been some outbursts. They’re crumbling. You’re speeding ahead. And soon, you’re shaking their hand at the net. They’re soaked and you’re not. You could play for two more hours.
You could beat Roger Federer.
