Second serve
Almost four decades ago, I took to the field at Boroko East International Primary School in Port Moresby for that year’s first training session of the school cricket team. I was entering fifth grade and young to be in the first eleven, but, man, I could already envisage donning the baggy green cap one day (actually, I looked everywhere to buy one, never realizing they’re not for sale—you’re presented with one when you make the Australian test team, and these days only really get a new one if your existing one wears out).
Since it was the first session and all, we were high on enthusiasm but a little, er, short on equipment. But no matter. I had my wicketkeeping gloves and figured I could handle things without pads, until a ball struck a crack in the concrete pitch and stayed low, smashing into my shin. That one hurt. A few balls later, a ball hit the same crack but reared upward, whacking me in the head. I hit the deck.
Then I quit. Then and there.
Truth was, I already had a mistress. I’d begun playing at the Port Moresby Tennis Club, where my brother took lessons. And if I wasn’t fully converted before copping a couple of cricket-ball shiners, I was fully baptized at that moment. Tennis became my religion, and I had the zealousness of any true convert. I ate, drank, and slept the sport. Every day my parents would take me to the club, and every day I played for as long as the setting sun and threadbare tennis balls would let me.
Before long, I won the club’s men’s D-grade singles title (!), which landed me a trophy that remains—even now—kinda crazily beautiful. And the progression continued: junior tournaments locally, playing outside my age group, lessons, practice, lessons, more practice. And in 1984, I traveled to Brisbane for a big tournament and was thrashed 9-0 (we often played single sets like that as juniors) by a kid about my size but on another planet in terms of talent. More on him later.
Yet, I wasn’t discouraged. After moving to Alice Springs, the obsession intensified. Issues of Tennis magazine were read until the pages wore out; tournaments on TV scrutinized like the Zapruder film; and I even got a copy of Martina Navratilova’s Tennis My Way and convinced my parents I really needed to be on the Pritikin diet to hit the next level. School became nothing more than the place I went to in between being at the tennis center.
In 1987, my father got a job opportunity in Indonesia, in a place where there were no schools for me. So, it was a fork in the road: follow my brother to boarding school in Adelaide, or head to Brisbane to be part of the Queensland School Tennis Program. At the time, it wasn’t a serious choice.
I quickly became best friends with a guy in the program—the same guy who’d three years earlier whipped my butt. While I’d now grab a game or three, Pat Rafter was still light years ahead of me talent-wise. But his style of game—serve and volley, like mine, because we’d all been inspired by Pat Cash—didn’t really suit his small stature, and his otherworldly talent often wasn’t able to compensate.
Still, he stuck with it. I didn’t. Midway through my senior year at high school, I reached that point shared by around 99.9% of amateur athletes—the moment when you have to ask yourself if you believe you not only have the talent to make it as a professional, but are willing to make the sacrifices necessary to get there.
On both counts, I was a “no.” Tennis had become a pressure cooker rather than fun, and I definitely wasn’t going to flog a dead horse over, say, going to parties on the weekend and meeting girls. Besides, I shared Pat’s small stature, topping out at 5’10” on a good day, which limited my reach and my ability to serve big. Both are kinda important to a serve-volley approach.
Or, I should say, I once shared Pat’s small stature. After we graduated high school and he began battling in satellite tournaments, we all noticed Pat making a mark for himself. Something had clicked. And the next time we caught up with him, we knew why: he’d sprouted a solid five or so inches, and was now registering at maybe 6’2”. Suddenly, his body matched his game and allowed his talent to flourish. So, yeah, he wound up ranked number one in the world, won two US Opens, and was runner up at Wimbledon (in a match we all know he should have won. Argh!).
Two things to note here. First, writing that in a single sentence completely underplays the immense work, dedication, and sacrifice involved in achieving that level of success. Pat had the talent and will; I and millions of other decent junior players didn’t. Second, remember that when you look at the US Open finals this weekend. And especially remember the hundreds of professionals who aren’t on your TV screen; the ones who don’t get comped hotel rooms and private jets and earn appearance fees (like many sports, the more money you make in tennis, the less you pay for). It’s a tough, tough road for the vast majority of players.
For a long time, I regarded my tennis career as unequivocally positive. I excelled at a difficult sport, made great friends, and ended up with a decent story about the path not taken (as if it was a path I was capable of taking). As the years pass, though, I see it a little differently. Quitting tennis was the first time I failed at something I really, really, really wanted. And while I can intellectually justify the reasons for that—and figure I turned out OK anyway—I do think it made me the kind of person who plays it safe.
For the past three-plus decades, I’ve embraced sure bets. After all, why go out on a limb only to fall? Much better to take jobs you know you’ll excel at or, if you find the going rough, retreat to what you find comfortable and easy. But while that caution limits the downside, it also limits the potential upside. At 50, I’m increasingly of the opinion a better recasting of my tennis life would be, “I gave it a shot, didn’t get there, who cares?” Everyone gets a second serve.