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I will admit, I’m pretty predictable and right now I’m as obvious as someone who says their thoughts out loud.
Because I know I’m wearing my thoughts on my shoulders and that’s the worst thing a tennis player can do. She sees right through. I know it.
But I can’t blame her or Xavier for throwing my game off.
I’m not mentally strong enough to expel these thoughts from my mind.
It’s entirely and completely my fault and that’s what makes it hurt more.
As the game progresses, even though I would love more than anything to get off this court, my self-doubt gnaws at me relentlessly as if Letty is already in my mind.
I question my abilities, my training, and even my decision to compete in this match.
Will I ever be good enough?
Because right now, I’m not.
The weight of my previous losses burdens my shoulders, haunting me with the fear of repeating my past failures time and time again.
The sun blazes overhead, intensifying the physical and mental strain on my body. My legs feel heavy, and my movements are sluggish as if I were walking through quicksand that makes me sink further into my thoughts.
The court seems to stretch before me, an endless area that magnifies my struggle. Fatigue creeps into my muscles, making it increasingly difficult to execute even the simplest of shots.
With everyone’s gaze on me, it’s as if I’m a bug under their magnified glass. Ripping me apart and trying to show my most vulnerable state.
The crowd’s energy became a double-edged sword. Their support for Letty echoes in my ear, amplifying the pressure I’m already feeling. Each cheer that erupts as Letty gains a point feels like a dagger to my spirit, eroding my already fragile confidence.
With each passing game, the score gap widens, leaving me feeling trapped in a never-ending spiral.
I fight to salvage my pride, to regain my footing, but it looks like I’m chasing the inevitable. The momentum is firmly in Letty’s favor, and my attempts to shift it in my direction only results in more errors.
I’m going crazy.
I’m losing like an amateur.
As the set draws to a close, the weight of defeat is pressed upon me. The realization that my victory is slipping further away leaves a bitter taste of disappointment on my tongue.
The final game approaches, and I stand at the baseline, trying to muster one last surge of determination. But even as I swing my racket again with all my might, the ball goes wide, sealing my defeat in the first set. The moment is punctuated by a resounding cheer from the crowd, their joy confirming my status as the underdog.
I approach the net with my heart practically outside of my chest. I shake Letty’s hand, while silently vowing to myself that I will never let this happen to me again.
I’m exhausted and dejected, while I acknowledge the power this woman has over me. At that moment, amidst the disappointment, a flicker of admiration ignites in my gut.
She’s good.
No, she’s great.
This is why they call her the Empress of Tennis.
Letty played an incredible game, pushing me to my limits and showcasing her talent even though it led to me questioning my own. Because I feel more than defeated, but I can’t help but feel a sense of awe for how extraordinary she is as a tennis player.
When I walked on court, it was as if she knew my mental game was already weak. With every lost return, Letty chipped away a little piece of confidence.
Even though that sounds like she’s not the nicest person, that’s what makes her such a good tennis player.
One day, I’ll be at her level.
But that day isn’t today.
