The Match That Was Never Played
Karen Gill
“A Note to Our Readers: The following story is a deeply personal reflection that touches on sensitive subjects, including addiction, emotional trauma, and the loss of a family member. While it celebrates the positive impact of tennis, some readers may find parts of this piece difficult. We invite you to read with care.”
Rummaging through a bedroom closet in my childhood home the other day, I found my brother David’s Wilson T-3000 tennis racquet from the 1970’s. Its red cover was like new, and I smiled as I noticed that David had written his name in his distinctive childhood scrawl on the cover with a black magic marker. “Hands off,” that meant!
Holding his old racquet in my hands made me both happy and sad. Happy, because I remembered the many times David and I played tennis in our oversized, newly paved driveway as children. No net was present or needed. We would hit for hours, and David was excellent for someone with no formal instruction. He was a natural, able to serve and hit with power even at a young age. His aim was also impressive. Sometimes we would set up targets, and David could hit them over and over.
These happy memories of my brother soon turned to sorrow. Sadly, David died of a heart attack at age 54 after abusing both food and drugs for most of his adult life.
Examining its retro frame, I wondered if tennis could have saved David’s life. I can’t stop thinking of this idea – and the more I think of it, the more I let myself believe it could actually be true, that somehow, the sport that I love and play several times a week, could have somehow radically altered or at least improved the sad trajectory of his existence.
In hindsight, it was obvious David suffered from low self-esteem. He was an adorable, sensitive child - everyone’s favorite - but my father’s relentless teasing and old-fashioned he-man mentality didn’t help. A slight reading disorder in grade school made things worse, and he had to repeat second grade.
David was built like our Dad – big boned and abnormally strong. He played little league baseball as a youngster, but my Dad wanted him to be a football star, like he was. I’ll never forget the day he drove David to a local football practice with me tagging along. David was about twelve years old and had been working in the family corn fields. My father forgot to bring his sneakers, so David had to run laps around the stadium in heavy work boots. A punishing military-style workout did not inspire David. I remember watching him trying to execute a hundred jumping jacks wearing those steel-toed
Timberlands. He was traumatized and burst out in tears as he ran to my father’s muddy pick-up truck and screamed, “I’m never going back.” He cried all the way home and never touched a football after that. But he did continue to hit a tennis ball, mostly with his friend Roger, until he lost interest. Although I took tennis lessons, David never expressed interest, and my parents, unfortunately, never pushed it.
In my fantasy, David does not quit tennis and joins the high school team. He excels using his powerful forehand and exceptional aim, which his friend Roger still mentions on the rare occasions when I see him. In my musings, David wins matches, has fun, and feels a sense of accomplishment. The tennis practices get him into shape, and he takes pride in his body instead of being ashamed and embarrassed by it. He’s fit and starts getting attention from girls, which makes him feel even better about himself. He makes friends with quality people through tennis and gets inquiries from colleges.
If I take this fantasy of mine even further, I would say that he chooses a college based on its tennis program, which gets him away from the family farm, which was beautiful but also a nest of toxic male culture that further drilled his self-esteem into the ground. Perhaps he would have gotten a degree. Instead, the sad reality is that David struggled with his weight and confidence his entire life. Teased but also spoiled by my father so he would remain on the farm, David, in his twenties and thirties, fell into a crowd of hard-drinking, undereducated men who took advantage of his good nature and generosity and got him hooked on cocaine. He never married or had a healthy, long-term relationship with a woman. Although children loved him, he never felt the joy of parenthood. He died of a massive heart attack in the family den at the age of 54, in terrible physical shape, weighing over 350 pounds.
I don’t think my fantasy is so far-fetched. As a PTR tennis instructor and USTA team captain, I’ve witnessed first-hand the positive effects tennis can have on one’s life, including my own. They are far-reaching and can be infinite.
My last tennis fantasy involving my brother has us competing in mixed-doubles together in the local county tournament. We play. We connect. We high-five and we laugh. We are a team.