A Mirror

I get emotional when she hits a backhand.

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It’s not just the backhand that’s making me emotional; it’s the fact that it’s a one-handed backhand. 16-year-old girls usually use a two-hander, so a one-hander makes her unique.

It’s not just the one-hander that’s making me emotional; it’s the fact that she’s hitting with slice. 16-year-old girls usually hit with topspin, so a slice makes her particularly unique.

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It’s not just the slice that’s making me emotional; it’s the talent that the slice demands. Anyone can “grip it and rip it” with topspin; slice demands a soft touch and a firm wrist. It demands sensitivity and strength, feel and power. I’m emotional because every time she hits a slice, she shows me how god damn good she is at this sport.

It’s not just the talent that’s making me emotional; it’s the intelligence. She’s mixing up spin to keep her opponent off-balance. She’s mixing up pace to keep her opponent guessing. She’s using it defensively out of necessity. She’s using it offensively out of opportunity. These other 16-year-old girls are mindlessly blasting the ball; she’s playing with precision and patience. God she’s so fucking smart I could cry.

It’s not just the intelligence that’s making me emotional; it’s the confidence. The belief that this shot is the right shot. The trust that she’ll win the point a few shots later. The understanding that sometimes being different is better. She’s an anxious kid, so I get emotional when I see her being brave.

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It’s not just the confidence that’s making me emotional; it’s the work. Talent, intelligence, and confidence aren’t enough. She has put in the time. Hours of cross-court, down-the-line, and figure 8’s. Warm, comfortable days in October; cold, painful days in April. Blazing outdoor sessions in July; dreary indoor sessions in February. Sit-ups, push-ups, stretching, pilates. She has earned this moment. I see her daily, years-long grind in this shot, and I feel pride.

It’s not just the work that’s making me emotional; it's the toll of the work. The physical toll of 6am alarms and hour-long drives to distant suburbs. Twelve-hour days and entire weekends in the car. Shoulder pain and ankle sprains. The emotional toll of nail-biting victories and brutal defeats. The satisfaction in playing tougher than her opponent and the shame in choking. So much laughter in the bleachers and so many tears in the car ride home. The fun of making friends and the misery of getting cheated. So much time and energy, so much joy and pain. It’s all brought her to this moment, and I am overwhelmed.

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It’s not just the toll that’s making me emotional; it’s the fact that she is grown. From crawling to walking to running. From fear to hesitation to embrace. From novice to expert. From weakness to strength. She has mastered the grip, the angles, the footwork, and the timing. She is tall, fast, smart, and beautiful. She is a role model. Spectators walk by the court and are impressed. They stay for a moment to bear witness. She entertains; she captivates; she inspires. She’s not a 16-year-old girl; she’s a woman. And I can barely handle it.

It’s not just her being grown that’s making me emotional; it’s that I’m looking into a mirror. The slice is my shot, my weapon, and I taught it to her. I called her up to the net and adjusted her grip. I taught her when to use it, how to follow through, and the correct angle of the racquet. I’m emotional because when I look at her, I also see me. I see our work together and I see the daughter becoming the father. I see my legacy.

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It’s all of it: the excellence of the present, the grind of the past, and the brilliance and torment of the future. I think I’ll give her an extra-long hug after her match today, and she and I will be back on the court tomorrow.