Coming Up Short

Last weekend was the Midwest Sectional Tournament for mixed doubles. My team, a team from Livonia, had started this journey months ago in January. For some of us, like our captain, Archie, the dream was much older than that.

I don't know when, exactly, I started to believe in the talent of this team. Maybe it was when we won the winter playoffs back in April. My partner and I played on the first court and loss. And because other teammates had elected to use the red score cards to record their score rather than the black that Fred and I used, I assumed we lost the match. It wasn't until later that our individual loss meant so little as I found out that our team had advanced to the next stage, playing the winner of the summer league in September.

Maybe I started to believe when we beat the summer league winners, a highly selective and scouted team from my home club, players who, year after year, appear in the final stages of the playoffs. The win for SE Michigan champions was dramatic and despite my partner being injured and not playing, we were able to overcome the slight bump and forge ahead to states.

Maybe I started to believe when we went to states and in three matches, manged to win all three courts each time. We advanced to Sectionals without dropping a match.

Sectionals in Indiana was a little intimidating. We had to go without one of our starting women and one of our starting men. Lineups were jumbled a bit and we put our best foot forward, winning the first match against Illinois.

The real competition came from Indiana, a team who boasted all morning about their plans to go to Nationals. They had their trip all planned out. Sectionals to them was just a formality. For us, we wanted to prove ourselves, to earn a right to compete for the National Championship in Vegas. Although we lost the match, my partner and I had to play a team that had not lost a match all year. On paper, they looked more intimidating than anyone we'd ever played, and yet, we won.

Our team came up short at the very end. In order to advance we had to take all three courts. For Indiana to advance, they needed us to take two courts. And for our opponents, the quietly advancing Ohio, all they needed was to simply win the match. And they did.

Of course, we wish them luck. Part of me is not the gracious loser I pretended to be after watching our chance slip away. I wanted to go to Vegas. I wanted to compete for that championship. And the hardest thing to swallow is knowing that we were good enough, that we were a capable team. The hardest thing to swallow is that we simply came up short.

Coming up short on a Sunday leaves you with a hangover on Monday. Even a five hour drive home was not enough to kill the buzz and the disappointment of the weekend. But, I move on. Our team moves on.

Today was a day of training. And hitting and working toward the next goal. In three trips to Indiana, I'd never come as close as I had to advancing to Nationals and you know what? I want it. I am going to work for it. And I hope my team works for it as well.

Thank you, Team Livonia. It was a wonderful ride, but that journey is over and its time to plan for the next one.

Stay tuned...

KS

Mixed Doubles State Champions!

The road was long!

This is my mixed doubles team and this past weekend, they won the State Championships for Michigan.

The road, for me, began last August when I was playing doubles in a tournament in Detroit. Archie, the captain of this Livonia team, asked me what mixed doubles team I played for. I had never played mixed doubles before, mostly because no one had ever asked me. And also, because I had done some drills with guys and had found several of their habits annoying. Like when they took the balls from me and decided they would serve first without consulting me. Or when they ran around like Speedy Gonzalez, hitting balls both on their side and mine. And then after a fifteen ball rally decided that the ball that was really out of their reach was mine.

There's a look. An incredulous look that they give the woman, like, why didn't you get that ball? Maybe, because I didn't know you had a fifteen ball limit! Maybe because you ran on my side for the last thirty balls, so I just assumed you'd run over here to get that one!

So, against my leeriness, I went to play my first match with these guys in January. And I continued to play and practice with them throughout the winter. When we played the winter playoffs and won, I truly began to believe in myself as a tennis player. My partner, Fred, was so cool. Always calm, he encouraged me to trust my shots even when they weren't falling and I was bailing on them.

As nice as it was to win the winter championships and then the district finals and then last weekend, the state finals, what I've enjoyed most was the camaraderie and support I found in this group. They've come to see my hockey games. They've come to see my summer doubles matches. They call to see how I am playing when I am playing on other teams, results that have nothing to do with the mixed doubles and our goals for that team.

Most of you know what a hard time I've had since I lost my dad ten years ago. And I've never had a grandfather. It's been a truly wonderful feeling to look up from the ice and see them all in the stands supporting me. I have a huge extended family.

Good luck at Sectionals, Team Livonia. And readers, stay tuned...

KS

The Fragility of Confidence

Labor Day weekend, I played in the Romeo Peach Festival Tennis Tournament. My entry was a last minute decision. I have spent the summer playing tennis and neglecting my Mark and although I haven't heard even the slightest hint of a complaint from him, I really did not want to abandon him the entire four day holiday weekend. But when I read the entry form and realized the entire draw was to be played out on one day, I decided to go for it.

Although the tournament was just for fun, a traditional event in the Labor Day activities scheduled, I desperately needed to play and play well. Not for points, but for the much needed repair of my much damaged tennis ego.

Two days after I returned from the Saint Joseph's Open, Mark and I hit the courts. This was the summer I was going to teach him to play, but because of my busy schedule and a foot injury he incurred the first time we went out in May, the lessons were going slow, to say the least. We spent some time on the court with me becoming frustrated at my inability to teach him the difference between a home-run swing and a proper forehand. (Or any forehand where his ball would land in the fenced area of the tennis court.) We took a break and I tried a different approach; having Mark drop the ball with one hand and swinging through with the other hand. After a few tries, he got it. Completely! I was so impressed. We finished out a hopper of balls and then tried once again to rally. Never have I felt so conflicted; so proud of him, on one hand for the consistency of his forehands, which were complete with spin and depth, yet, so completely devastated by the fact, I was the one who could not keep more than a couple of balls in play.

There are times, as a player, you think about quitting. For me, my mind usually knows that I am better than the poor performance of an isolated match. My mind knows that it is not possible to win every single time you step onto a court or to be able to execute a game plan perfectly every time you opt to use it. But sometimes, despite a summer season of remarkable success, my heart doubts the logic of my mind, "Maybe you aren't as good as your thought. Maybe you suck. Maybe 32 wins in one season was a fluke."

I watch players on television from all sports, thump their chest when they do the unthinkable, the unbelievable.

And I understand.

Success on the court, on the field, on the ice, isn't always about what your mind knows. Or what you've practiced doing thousands of times. It isn't what people expect of you or even what you expect of yourself.

Success, many times, depends on the confidence located in your heart.

Its easy to watch our favorite athletes and criticize. "Hossa didn't try hard enough to score a goal.", "If Granderson really wanted to, he could hit better.", "Detroit Pistons...What the hell?" Perhaps, this is because in our heads, in our minds, we comprehend the abilities of our sport heroes. We logically understand, that though every time we swing a bat, the best we ever do is push the ball past Fat Joe, whose pre-game meal consisted of the three brats he grabbed from the concession stand on his way to right field, the place for every team's 'Fat Joe' to minimize the damage. We understand in our minds that if we were ever in a pinch and needed to grab Jim's grandma to have her pinch hit, that she, too, with eighty-seven year old arms and her glaucoma in both eyes could bat a ball past Fat Joe.

What we don't understand, the factor that we fail to account for, is the fragility of confidence. Marian Hossa, a brilliant player who gave Red Wing fans fits in the 2008 Stanley Cup Finals, failed to return the favor to his former team in 2009. And during most of the finals, you could see the doubt in his eyes. Despite what his mind told him, what his stats told him, his damaged confidence made him question his abilities.

From time to time, this happens to all of us. And I question how to get through it. This time, I chose to play a tournament for fun, to see how much tennis I could play in one day. Testing my endurance, the limits of my fitness is always fulfilling to me.

So, on Sunday, I played three matches over the course of six and a half hours with less than thirty minutes rest total. I played a three-set match against a woman, who on paper, is a better player than me. And I prevailed. And for my last match, a two hour marathon during which I could feel the cramps nipping at my heels, I played through fatigue and hunger. I played through twenty-shot rallies, scrambling from side to side. Some of these points I won and some I lost. But with every won point, I could feel the barometer of my confidence meter rising. The familiarity of shots came back to me. My serve, always a big weapon for me, had taken a hiatus during the month of August, but out of the blue, when I wasn't even looking for it, returned.

At the end of the day, I was exhausted, but my confidence was back...

For now...

Stay tuned...

Journal

I spent the past week preparing for the mixed doubles championship match that will be held September 13th. I haven't played a lot of doubles all summer long, so the first practice with my team, I felt a little rusty.

The weird thing is, I really credit much of my summer success to my winter mixed doubles team. This was the first year I played mixed doubles. I've always shied away from it because, one, there are times, when, *gasp* I hate doubles.

Playing team sports like hockey and soccer and then playing and enjoying the individual sport of tennis, I've appreciate the ease that comes with clicking with teammates in a sport like hockey or soccer. There can be a lot of line juggling in hockey to find that perfect line which just seems to click on the ice. I know where my right wing is or which way she cuts. Or on the guys team, I know when I need to get back and cover for my defense. I know which one of my linemates will cover me if I start a break out.

But in tennis, it is just you and one other person. And if you don't mesh, it's a miserable best of two sets.

I am an aggressive player. I love to be at the net and I love volleying. Sometimes, I've found, women aren't into playing kick-ass doubles. I don't remember names. And when I do, I make a conscious effort to forget the introductions. For the next hour or so, the two people on the other side of the net don't need names or stories or pets or children who did the cutest thing in school today. I am there to kick your ass. And kicking your ass doesn't require me knowing your bio.

I've played with partners who, given the chance, would have laid out a change-of-sides spread, complete with tea and those little cream cheese sandwiches served at an old lady's church social. I've played with partners who, unbeknown to me, have gone out and got their teaching pro credentials and feel the need to tell me what to do every minute of the game. They instruct me according to the do-as-I-say-not-as-I-do teaching manual. (You know, "Just put the ball in" Meanwhile they are trying their best to launch balls into space.

I expected to find in mixed doubles guys who took the balls to serve first without discussing it, assuming because I am a girl I would have a weaker serve. Or guys who would run a Boston Marathon to get to every ball, chivalrously, of course, so I wouldn't have to tire myself out hitting any balls. Or guys, who wanted to tell me what to do at every stage of the match.

But in my team, I found a partner that I enjoy playing with very much. I could miss five shots in a row, and my partner, knowing that he's seen me make that same shot a million times, will simply tell me to keep going for it. The shot will come.

I need that kind of partner, one who has faith in my abilities. Playing with my partner gave me confidence to keep going for my shots in my singles matches when, alone, it's harder to believe in yourself.

At any cost, the past week and the next week, the focus is on my championship match. I've played a few hours of doubles. Hit with the usual suspects. And hit the gym. Hopefully, we will advance to the state championships.

Stay tuned...

Officiating

I've been officiating local junior tournaments. At first, I thought it would be a good way to give back to the game, but now that I am in my second year of doing it, I really enjoy being able to watch some of the area's top juniors compete.



Although the days can be long, especially as it was last Friday when the unpredictability of Michigan weather sent us inside to indoor facilities even though the tournament was supposed to be a clay court tournament. At the end of Friday night, knees and back a little sore, I went home and hoped for a better tomorrow. Although the tournament was open to all age groups, absent were the Boys 16s and 18s. Since the high school seasons switched here in MI (the boys now play in the fall and the girls in the spring), tournaments like this, late in the summer usually do not include the better high school boys. So, a little disappointed, I spent most of Friday night correcting rule oversights by competitors in the Boys and Girls 10s. Forgetting scores, serving to the wrong side, generally not paying attention to what is happening on the court, are all things that require constant addressing with these groups. As an official, I believe it is important to give just as much attention to these matches as the other, more experienced, players, but watching a fifty-plus moonball rally is not my idea of good tennis. I admire these young players though. I can't tell you how many times I am told to "keep the ball" in play and these players, some six or seven years old, can do it better than most.



But driving home Friday night, all I could think was if some of the matches were that slow on hard court, it is going to be slower on clay.



On Saturday as the draws dwindled toward finalists, both in the main and back draws, the quality of tennis did improve. My favorite player was a young woman in the Girls 18 division who has inspired me to learn to slide. The older boys do it all the time, even on hard court. But with the boys' draw being so young, I didn't get to see much sliding that was done on purpose. (An eight-year old boy slid into the net at one point. Another little one slid/fell/tripped on his way to the bench for a drink of water.) But this teen-aged girl rocked at sliding.

The tournament was held at the Birmingham Athletic Club in Bloomfield Hills with a few matches being put on courts next door at the Oakland Hills Country Club. Even though there was a tournament happening, there were courts available to members of the clubs. It was kind of sad to see that the effects of the economy left so many courts empty. Many times when you hear broadcasters of professional tennis talking during the clay season, mentioning how kids need to play more on clay and how it helps their game by developing better footwork and generally allowing them to be exposed to a surface that Americans tend to not succeed on. A lot of the better players in this tournament were playing simply because this was one of the few, if not, only, clay tournaments available locally to the juniors of this area.

Overall the tournament was decent and, as always, I was inspired to play better, to practice harder, to do well.

Stay tuned...