All I'd Become

by Lindsey

When I stand alone and feel the wind whistle through the valley, when I watch the golden coin dip below the horizon, when I ask myself that all-important question—Would I do it all over again?—I still, after all these unending years, do not have an answer.

Because I was never ready to offer my heart, thin and raw and red, on a platter. When you asked if I wanted professional lessons, I cried and cried and you said What on earth are you crying for? and I said I don’t want to waste your money. I was nine. So exceedingly fragile.

Tennis is a beautiful game, but I’m not sure I was ever meant to love it. The solitude both cursed and cradled me. The elegance broke and bolstered me.

There were moments when I’d forget you were standing on the sidelines. Moments when it was just me, with a perfectly smooth sea of green and blue before me, with the trees whispering over the fence tops, with my opponent standing on the other side, and I would feel the pride swell within me. Of all I’d done. Of all I’d become. There was a glory to this life that I couldn’t deny. And it had nothing to do with the trophies.

But there were nights when I wanted to exit this existence, as well. When your rage galloped through me unbridled, when your fury flayed me alive, when you treated me with unspeakable callousness. Not even like I was a pupil. Not even like I was your daughter.

You need to know that each time your temper snapped, a little piece of my love for you died.

Never to return.

Tremendous losses, left and right. How to Be a Friend. How to Go to a Party. How to Talk to Boys. I watched them decay. I shut the coffin when they breathed their final breaths.

The hives, excruciating and unavoidable.

Excuse after excuse. Sorry, I have practice. Maybe another time. There were no other times. There was only ever more practice.

Sobbing into the roar of the shower.

Doctor’s offices, when I’m short of breath for years. (They said It might just be the nerves and I said But I’m not nervous, and if you can even fucking believe it, I actually felt I was telling the truth.) EKGs. Treadmill tests. Inhalers. WebMD.

Nothing was wrong with me. I can see that now.

Skipping breakfast before matches.

Trembling hands.

Legs weak and wobbly, like Gumby, like a foal, like earthquakes.

Frantic glances to where you sat on the sidelines. Examining your every move. Hands on knees: Content. Crossed arms: Resigned. Standing, pacing, hands on hips: Irate beyond belief.

Did you know that some of the worst and best moments in my life come from this sport called tennis? Did you know that a racket and a ball and a few rules could do such a thing?

But you have to know—I need you to know…

That I remember the red water jug. The three teams, all exquisite in their own ways. Yucaipa and Long Beach and Northridge and San Diego and Rancho Peñasquitos and Irvine and Lakewood and Palo Alto and Florida and Kansas. The sweat. The ponytails. The blue grips. The raging sunsets, and sandy beach towns, and hotels, some disgusting, some divine. The music, too heavenly for this world. The tournament directors calling my last name. Opponents, so rude, but I understood why. Souplantation in so many cities. Seeing the world with you. Your smiles, red and golden and brilliant like the breaking dawn. The hugs you gave that erased nearly all the pain. The laughter that could last until the end of my days. The steel. The wit. The cunning. The courage.

Goddamn, did it give me courage.

Would I do it all over again? What an outrageously absurd question to ask.

***

Lindsey

Lindsey is a Californian writer and Adjunct Professor. After receiving her undergraduate degree in Creative Writing from the University of California, Riverside, she went on to receive a graduate degree in Education. She was the 2021 recipient of the Maurya Simon Poetry Award, and her work has appeared in Your Impossible Voice, Route 7 Review, and the RCLS Literacy Services Anthology. She is forever chasing the freedom of the written word.