A few weeks ago, Panini and I hopped in the Honda Odyssey at 7am and drove 25 miles from Chicago, to some miserable suburb for some miserable tournament. She should have crushed most of the girls there but pressure changes everything and Panini somehow figured out a way to make the day even more miserable. Rather than beating these girls in straight sets, she kept winning the first set and then losing the second.
And I'll tell you what: I get emotional when she splits sets.
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It’s not the anticipation of the third-set tie-breaker that’s making me emotional; it’s the fact that now I have to continue to make “polite” conversation with this slick-haired, teeth-whitened, Northface puffer vest-wearing, douchebag executive recruiter who won’t stop talking about how he didn’t want to leave the city and move to some nameless, soulless suburb but felt like it was the “best thing to do for his family.” And how he used to be on the grind teaching 5th grade at some gritty Chicago Public Schools elementary school but now he’s a corporate sell out bitch (my words, not his). And as we talk more about city life, he says, “Yeah you just do your best to make sure your kids are safe and the rest is in God’s hands.” And I say, “Yeah, totally, everything is in God’s hands, you Jesus-loving Christian fuck.” So yeah, I’m not anxious about the super-breaker; I’d just prefer to be done with this overly friendly, self-righteous sycophant.
It’s not closeted Chris Cooper from American Beauty that’s making me emotional; it’s the Asian helicopter dad sitting stoically, alone, in the front row of the stands, with perfect posture and a slight forward lean. It’s cloudy but he’s wearing dark sunglasses and a hat. It’s chilly but he’s not wearing a jacket. His jeans are too tight and his Hoka walking shoes are so red that [insert joke about Communist China here: ___________ ]. He for sure speaks Chinese but he doesn’t say a word. Meanwhile, his fist-pumping, high ponytail-wearing daughter won’t shut the fuck up. She’s wearing a bright green tennis dress to match her bright green racquet. She’s also wearing glasses because the only time Chiang Kai-Shek* lets her outside is to play tennis, so of course she’s near-sighted due to lack of natural sunlight. But her glasses have transition lenses because of course they have transition lenses, so she’s actually playing in dark sunglasses which, as you know, no respectable tennis player uses. Did I mention this little girl is 11 years old and weighs 80 pounds? She’s playing in a tournament with 15- and 16-year-olds because she’s very good at tennis. She’s also putting most of these big girls to shame and screaming out “C’mon!” every other shot. But what’s making me emotional is that I’ve seen this movie before: Queue will never play another sport in her life and, instead, will play 15 hours of tennis per week for 50 weeks a year for the next few years until she gets injured or burns out. She will then realize how much resentment she has for her father, who, per stoic East Asian cultural norms, will forbid her from going to therapy and, thus, expedite her suicide. So yeah, I’m emotional because I feel bad for this sad little girl in the bright green dress.
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It’s not China ruling the world that’s making me emotional; it’s that I’m missing the Nuggets game. This stupid tie-breaker is delaying our departure, so now I’m gonna be late picking up Broosevelt from his soccer game and, shucks, I’ll have to miss seeing him standing around kicking up dirt while he plays goalie for the entire second half when his team is already up 6-1. And I’ll probably hit vicious Saturday afternoon city traffic when we get back which will make my 70-mile day of driving even worse. And then I’ll finally get home and the Nuggets playoff game (read: the only thing I have left in my life) will already be over.
It’s not the delay that’s making me emotional; it’s that I’m feeling nervous about my new seating arrangement. I’ve moved away from Phil Dunphy and Pol Pot on the bleachers and am now lying on the sidewalk next to the rec center because that’s the only sunny spot near the courts and there’s a good view inside the rec center of a karate class for kids with special needs. Some construction guys in Carhartt hats just finished working on the rec center roof and, though they cleaned up, I’m surrounded by rubber tubing, broken pipes, and other detritus. And when I say I’m lying on the sidewalk, I mean that literally. I am prone, head propped up by my right arm, like a Sports Illustrated bikini model but handsomer and hairier. Even though it’s cold, I’ve already put on two layers of sunblock because cancer kills. My knees hurt, the gravel stings, and I’m pretty sure the other parents think I “walk the earth” (Jules, Pulp Fiction). So yeah, I’m feeling insecure about loose roof shingles, a Daniel LaRusso crane kick going sideways, and someone calling the cops on the guy with a rainbow hat and bright blue sunglasses that say “Saul.”
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It’s not my imminent arrest that’s making me emotional; it’s Panini’s anxiety. After splitting sets with some completely mediocre girl in her first match today, she walked toward me with tears in her eyes and stammered, “I can’t lose!” I wanted to venomously spit back, “Actually, you can lose, you often do lose, and you’ll probably lose this one.” Instead, I put on my Horse Whisperer hat and talked her off the cliff by helping her realize that all of the mistakes she was making on the court were a result of the mistakes she was making in her head. She somehow got through that match, and now here she is in the finals, freaking out because she’s about to choke away the entire tournament. And I’m a little emotional too.
She comes off the court after double-faulting away the second set and the first thing she says to me is, “It’s the wind!” I want to venomously spit back, “It’s not the wind. It’s you! Make an adjustment!!” Instead, I put on my Horse Whisperer hat and tell her to use her slice when the wind is at her back. It works, she pulls ahead in the tie-breaker, and Panini now has two championship points. She hits a solid cross-court backhand and a beautiful approach shot. She gets an easy forehand volley put-away on top of the net and all she has to do is put it in the court to get that precious, plastic, long sought-after trophy. She misses, and I know for a fact that she had the same thought I had: Holy shit, she’s gonna choke away this match.
Thank god the other girl was an even bigger choker: She double-faulted on the next point to gift Panini the match and the tournament. I was proud of Panini but mostly I just wanted to get the hell out of there to catch some of the Nuggets game.
*not a Communist
