This is part 2 of 40 Love. If you haven’t yet read part 1, please do so before continuing on.
Parkdale garden // “I always thought that I had a hard time being a beginner, and that I didn’t actually like the process of learning new things, like, that I want to be good at stuff right from the get-go, but I do like new things. I do!” My father chews his salad, nodding. I’m having lunch with him and my stepmom in our shared backyard. My father is smiling. A lifelong athlete, this is pleasing to him. “I had all these ideas about how I’m uncoordinated, and how I can’t play sports, but I can. Like, I am. And I’m not the worst! Like, I’m not great. But, Jeff says I’m steadily improving.” My cheeks flush.
They are sweet and supportive, asking questions and supplying the requisite “wows”. My father even says, “Maybe I’ll get some shoes and a racquet and we can hit the ball around sometime.” (He does, and we do.) It’s contagious - this rush of coming to love something that is not a person, song, or book - something kinetic and untamed, challenging in a great number of ways but built on the simplicity of playing, and playing again.
University of Toronto Athletic Centre // When I was eleven (the year of MMMBop: 1997) I did a two week sports camp at U of T. A child who wrote rhyming poems, made plays with elaborate blocking, and wove friendship bracelets on a homemade loom, I had received praise for my comedic chops while playing an Egyptian tyrant in a school play in Grade Two and thus solidified that my talents lay in the artistic domain. My best friend Julia was going to do sports camp and so, “did I want to?” I did. I would. I should. Soccer in the morning, tennis in the afternoon. It was only two weeks. It would be good for me! Even then, as a child, I was tuned to personal growth.
I was a poser. I was objectively terrible at both sports, but I had a decent time when I could get past the embarrassment of not having the talent I observed in my peers. The sound of my running shoes on the track in the Athletic Centre, that thrilling pop of the tennis ball as it hit the sweet spot of a racket (not mine), all of these attractive university students in their Lycra and basketball shorts. I was orbiting a planet that was fascinating to me, but I wasn’t landed on it.
The beginning of the second week. I had a pronounced T-shirt tan from soccer on the sprawling outdoor field, had not clued into the idea of a training bra, and my crush was secured. Owen. He was funny, smart, had freckles across his nose. 4 inches shorter than me, I did not give a single care.
We all lined up to do a forehand drill, just behind the service line. When it was my turn, I hit a ball, and one of the counsellors – broad shouldered, rectangular glasses – smirked, “Are you sure you’re left handed?” Another kid laughed. Thank holy God that was not Owen. My cheeks burned.
I laughed at the joke, but I was humiliated. This external proclamation of my incompetence confirmed that sports weren’t for me, and I should stick with what I was good at. Writing stories. Feeling feelings. My father and I went to the Sorauren courts a few times soon after camp was done, but that faded. I didn’t pick up my racket again until that Saturday in June with Jeff.
Howard Park Tennis Club // It’s the beginning of August now, and it’s 9:34 p.m. The cicadas sing their verdant arias. It is hot, but not soupy. We’ve tried to play here at night before (the public courts don’t have lights), but they’ve typically been full. Some of the private clubs in the city allow outsiders to play during off-hours, but members have precedent. Tonight, it’s shockingly quiet. I raise my eyebrows, and Jeff leads the way as we approach the upper courts. All four are vacant. The club is empty. It’s the National Bank Open, and Jeff’s assessment is that members are there, watching the pros play.
Encircled by the lush trees of High Park, waxing moon not yet peeking over the uppermost leaves, we play and play. Darting from court to court just because we can, I am struck by the fact that amidst all of the world’s injustices and horrors, I’m lucky enough to get to run around this tennis court, chasing balls, wailing them at the man I love. Finding my footing for real. We laugh a lot. At one point I say, “this must be the most beautiful tennis court in the whole wide world!” Jeff scoffs.
My ill-fated psychological make-up gears towards overthinking. Tennis soothes me. And yet, it’s a cerebral and considered sport. With complete focus on the fuzzy orb of neon green barrelling towards me, I experience hypnotic absorption. Picking up the ball, over-and-over, and practising the interplaying physiological methodologies leads to a calm that I am unaccustomed to. It’s at once a confrontation of my own interiority and a reckoning with that of my opponent. It is pugilistic. But, the more I play, the more I see gradual progression.
Sorauren Park tennis courts // In September, at dusk, I finally win one of our matches. Jeff assures me that he is not “going easy on me”, and that “a win is a win”. I do a victory dance as the chain-link court door clinks closed, and gloat for days. One of the trees on the park path is turning yellow. It is getting colder, but I am confident that we will play until there is snow. I’m wrong. This was our last game of my first season. Maybe our last game ever. Soon, more trees follow suit, and Jeff and I break up.
The fall is rainy and I miss Jeff, and tennis, so much that my stomach hurts. I watch YouTube videos late at night of Serena teaching basics, and reread WhatsApp messages between Jeff and I.
In other arenas of my life (parenting, work) it is difficult to plot growth. There is no clear course. Life lobs balls towards the baseline and then just when I think I’ve figured out the pattern, that I can anticipate what’s coming next, the ball is gently tapped, landing right against my side of the net. Sometimes I make it in time, and often I don’t, but maybe it doesn’t actually matter. Maybe what matters is the joy of taking the racket from its bag, stepping onto the court, and getting into position.
June’s five things
Listening: to lemme b a wave by my bestie catq. I was fortunate enough to sing background vocals on the song. See if you can hear where I was attempting whale calls.
Healing: I was hit by a car on my bike mid month, suffering a concussion, whiplash, and other more minor injuries. A key part of my recovery? Two, 30-minute meditations a day. I start with a guided meditation in the morning and then do a silent sit before bed. Highly recommend, regardless of the state of your brain.
Loving: A listener since their launch earlier this year, Other People’s Pockets is a podcast where guests get “radically transparent about their personal finances in order to learn more about who we are.” This week’s interview with writer and death doula Laura Lyster-Mensh was a fav.
Making: Creamsicle (brain hug) smoothies.
Offering: Bloom: 21 days of timed writing practice, a new program I’m facilitating where a community of writers move our pens, hearts and imaginations for 21 consecutive days. We are seven days in, and it is rocking my world. If you are interested in participating in future iterations please let me know, and I will add you to my list.
Thank you for being here. If you are called, please pass on five things to a long lost lover. If you share a screenshot on Instagram, don’t forget to tag me @sasharsw. 🎾