What Makes a Game

It is an eccentric thing to walk past the tennis courts of Casa Grande before the time of 3:00 p.m. I looked through a grim grey chain-linked fence, as I was strolling by, onto an empty court which was waiting indignantly for something to come along and make the whole place jolt to life; but for what I could see there was nothing special to it at all, just a couple of cracked and faded green squares outlined in burgundy with some white lines. I walked over to the gate and as I opened it the hinges cried out a long shrill creek that broke an intensive silence that I was not yet aware of. The barren bland court had a sense of anticipation emitting from every corner of it down to the gritty sand that slide harshly beneath my feet. Waiting, waiting, waiting, but not a single thing was to be seen as I looked around, not one. As I stood there observing this empty place I heard the subtle “Bing, Bing” of the dismissal bell, and that is when it all begins.
I turned to face the exits of the school as I began to hear a rising murmur and witnessed the colossal masses of students pouring through them with the select few dropping out of the main pack and heading over to my location. One by one each player entered with somewhat of a grim expression caused from a rigorous regular school day and sat on a splintery old wooden bench to gear up for the practice. Every player unsheathed their rackets and stepped onto each separate court all knowing exactly where they belonged. Soon enough they all had their assignments from the head coach and off they went. Crack, smack, whack-every player running frantically back and forth across the court chasing the little energetic yellow ball like it was solid gold. I saw the quick puff of dust appear after every good stroke and on occasion it blew into my face, but my mind was so entranced by the quick ball that I had no time for silly things like sneezing. I felt the ground slightly vibrating through the soles of my converses from all of the feet stomping, stepping, skipping, and sprinting. With every hit I felt and saw the tension and stress of outside life sift slowly away from the players and soon all that was left were high spirited adolescence on a mission to win.
On each court you saw blissful battles fought back and forth; each opponent tactically placing the ball on open spots on the court while switching from offense to defense as fast as they hit the ball until there was a winner. On each court you heard the solemn cries of defeat and the proud roars of victory after each point, game, match, and finally set. On each court you smelt the artificial smell of new tennis balls after each “Pop!” of the canister and smelt the light smell of burnt plastic as each player grips there handle like a clamp and still turns it when he hits the ball. On each court you felt the raw emotions of disappointment, confidence, anger, and relief radiating from each player. On each court you tasted the sweat dripping down from your forehead and the rejuvenating flavor of water that fuels you to be able to compete the best you can. On each court you need to be aware of all these things at the same time, it’s like the chaos of trying to juggle but if you can manage it you get into a smooth rhythm which is the most important thing in tennis.
On the inside of those fences, which filter in only enjoyable feelings, lies an entirely different world of its own, and at the heart and purpose of everything is the game of tennis. It’s like an entire ecosystem with players, rackets, balls, and even the ground all working together to bring a fantastic challenge and competition to those who accept to enter such a world. In this peculiar small world that day I saw that it was full of individualized techniques and styles. Tennis is like playing an instrument or dancing, once you learn the basics you can change it to your own custom and create a majestic art from it. Although each player on every court looked different and played different they were unified by a common goal and teaching.
Then as subtly and quickly as the whole ordeal had started the cold shrill sound of a whistle blew into the darkening dusk and like a troop of trained soldiers they all picked up their tennis balls and packed up their rackets and shoes and water and said goodbye to each other and headed out the screechy gate. I was the last to leave and as I turned around to look back upon the court the human effect that it seemed to long for was slowly cooling off it like a fire slowly dyeing down to coals. It was getting ready to wait again for the players that made it whole again in anticipation until the next meet. It’s an eccentric thing to look back at a tennis court after you know how majestic and epic it can become if you just add people, and I knew that after experiencing these things, I would be back again just like them.

--Eric W