I am not a team player. I do not respond well to instructions. I am not athletic, graceful or keen eyed. But none of that stopped me from taking tennis lessons.
The truth is I have always wanted to learn tennis. It has certain glamourous appeal. I love that it is played in crisp white skirts. I love that it is watched by Pims-drinking nobility. I love that it involves clean lines, mowed grass and sunshine-filled courts. I also love that it can be played solo. That it involved minimal equipment. And that it can be a controlled release of agression.
After a week of lessons, I am still absolutely crap at tennis, but it kept its appeal. I loved the precision, the force and the rhythm. I loved the sound of the ball as it impacts with the racket. Most of all I loved the vision of a future me that might exist if I keep playing tennis. I could see myself meeting a good friend to play a friendly game. I could see myself on vacations with the in-laws bonding over a doubles match. I could see myself teaching my nieces and nephews to play. I could see an athletic, tanned, self-assured woman out for a day of tennis.
Those who don’t believe in magic will never find it.