“You are… from Singapore?”
She nodded her head gently, big doe eyes peering at me. The corners of her lips tilted up into a faint smile. Her hair was swept up into a loose bun, held by her Burberry sunglasses. The nails, carefully done, a strong bright red. A striking contrast to her beautiful porcelain skin.
I smiled warily, hesitant to start a conversation with a tennis parent under the cool of this deep shade. There was something deceptive about the obscure shadows of the players’ lounge where we waited. It was almost as if the cool tiles under our shoes, the deep, looping arches of the ceiling above, provided more than relief to the numbing sun outside. A relief that made the human spirit that much bolder—where ambiguous intentions were made more comfortable, insinuating questions, more acceptable.
The sad reality is, rarely anyone strikes conversations just for the sake of “being nice” at tennis tournaments. Not unless they have something specific to ask. Do you want to hit? Are you looking for a doubles partner? At least that’s how it works on the pro circuit.
“Yes. I am from Singapore.” I slowly smiled back. “And you are from….”
She turned to speak sharply to her daughter. They exchanged quick words in their mother tongue.
“…Iran?” I asked.
“Yes,… we are from Iran.” She looked surprised. I tried to offer some sense of friendliness. All the Iranians I’ve ever met on Tour were extremely nice people (true fact). “Very nice.” I repeated, looking at her daughter slouched in the chair next to her mother—the corners of her mouth in a pout, her back turned away.
Sadly, it was almost as if that reciprocity opened a sure gateway for more boldness. And then true enough—the eventual question.
“So,…” her voice trailed. And then again, that curious upward tilt of the brow.
“What was the score with your opponent?”
I winced inwardly. I’ve never gotten how absolute strangers can come up to a player who just finished their match, and ask, almost demandingly, what their performance was like. To me, it’s like asking someone what size bra cup they wear. It irks me because the life of a match is much more than hard score lines which, through their very questioning, try to delineate you into a number. I am not a number.
But who cares? It is easy to categorize people by how many social media followers they have. How many people “like” their posts. Apparently by the law of the world, the more people “like” something, the more “correct” it is supposed to be. I detest that sort of thinking. A like does not constitute an endorsement. And it should never be your personal identity, because it sure as hell is a shakey foundation to build your life. Your life.
But who cares. People at tournaments don’t. It’s all about the win. And in some way or form, she was trying to poke a win for her daughter. The #7 seed, I was to play for round 16.
--
To my great surprise, for all the gentleness of this Iranian mother, her daughter, was the absolute exact opposite on court. The “COME ONNNNNNNSSS!” just after the first two points of our match, already started to sound ridiculous. She alternated between yelling and screaming them after every rally. Like a hustle to establish dominance. Admittedly, I couldn’t help think of how it sounded like a half-assed attempt to convince herself she was worth the win.
At the start, I found it annoying as the games started equaling, and I knew I was letting it get to me. Sometimes when that happens, you need to be verbal back, just to establish presence and reclaim your own rhythm. I also quite enjoyed seeing her response when I started COME ONNNNN-ing back (an inelegant expression, I know, but you get what I mean). The match itself was not the prettiest. Tougher this time (second match in a day), and I resorted to playing lobs sprinkled with fairy glitter that would have made Walt Disney proud.
But the point was that it was effective. So effective the COME ONs eventually dwindled down to a donkey mute. The torture of the rallies turned her pale. She even had to stop halfway through the match to merlion all her breakfast and fluids. Guts splayed across hot tarmac, in that inane, afternoon heat.
Tour teaches you a lot of things. One: the stronger, fitter man wins. Two: even if you have to win ugly, you still win.
Sarah up and through to the quarterfinals. Vamos. Let’s go.
#TenniswithSarah #LifeonTour #StrengthForLife #NotANumber #AlwaysSarah #MakingMagicInTheSky #WaltDisney
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