Rough draft memoir
It was roughly one in the afternoon. It was a hot spring day. I was going against my old rival again. We have competed against each other every year I’ve been doing tennis. She’s won once and I’ve won once. As soon as I walk up to the roster table and see her last name I know exactly whom I’m dealing with. I know her tricks, her personality, her mind games, her tendencies, her weaknesses. I became a professional athlete, waiting for the call to begin in the locker room and getting in the zone. I packed three bottles of water and a giant Gatorade in my racket case because I knew this would be a long match. I had learned this the hard way last year when I had to call from across the courts to the event aids to bring me water …show more content…
“It’s show time.” I collect my things and bound towards the roster table. Through the windscreens on the fence I can see her already walking towards the far right court with our matches’ balls. I expected nothing less from her seeing that she sits at the roster table the whole time continually asking the organizer what number match they are on. I rushed through the gate to indicate I was present then began to walk leisurely to the far right court. I laid my racket case on the benches that overlooked our court and slowly began making myself at home. I sat all of my drinks out on the seat all in a row, followed by the track pants I had just taken off. I adjusted my sunglasses and examined them for any smudges that might affect my performance. I took a deep breath, grasped my racket’s grime-coated handle and made my way to the left side of the court—because she always goes to the right side. She silently threw the ball in the air and began our warm up. We volleyed, practiced serves, not either of us really attempting to hide our skills or tricks because we already knew them. Then we simultaneously walked to the center of the court, one of us on each side of the net. “M or W,” I asked for the third time today. I spun my racket and felt my spirits slightly decline as I examined the W that she had called laying on the concrete. As always she chose to serve first. I hesitated to routinely say good luck but quickly bit my tongue. She called out the game count and serve in her irritating voice that I can only describe as that of a girl in an anime cartoon. I took a breath and blocked her out. “Focus on the ball. Focus on the serve.”
First set done. She seems off for some reason. Was it possibly because when she hit me with the ball I laughed it off and joked with her? I gulped down one of my water bottles and used my track pants to wipe off the sweat that was dripping down my cheek. I turned around and went back
It was roughly one in the afternoon. It was a hot spring day. I was going against my old rival again. We have competed against each other every year I’ve been doing tennis. She’s won once and I’ve won once. As soon as I walk up to the roster table and see her last name I know exactly whom I’m dealing with. I know her tricks, her personality, her mind games, her tendencies, her weaknesses. I became a professional athlete, waiting for the call to begin in the locker room and getting in the zone. I packed three bottles of water and a giant Gatorade in my racket case because I knew this would be a long match. I had learned this the hard way last year when I had to call from across the courts to the event aids to bring me water …show more content…
“It’s show time.” I collect my things and bound towards the roster table. Through the windscreens on the fence I can see her already walking towards the far right court with our matches’ balls. I expected nothing less from her seeing that she sits at the roster table the whole time continually asking the organizer what number match they are on. I rushed through the gate to indicate I was present then began to walk leisurely to the far right court. I laid my racket case on the benches that overlooked our court and slowly began making myself at home. I sat all of my drinks out on the seat all in a row, followed by the track pants I had just taken off. I adjusted my sunglasses and examined them for any smudges that might affect my performance. I took a deep breath, grasped my racket’s grime-coated handle and made my way to the left side of the court—because she always goes to the right side. She silently threw the ball in the air and began our warm up. We volleyed, practiced serves, not either of us really attempting to hide our skills or tricks because we already knew them. Then we simultaneously walked to the center of the court, one of us on each side of the net. “M or W,” I asked for the third time today. I spun my racket and felt my spirits slightly decline as I examined the W that she had called laying on the concrete. As always she chose to serve first. I hesitated to routinely say good luck but quickly bit my tongue. She called out the game count and serve in her irritating voice that I can only describe as that of a girl in an anime cartoon. I took a breath and blocked her out. “Focus on the ball. Focus on the serve.”
First set done. She seems off for some reason. Was it possibly because when she hit me with the ball I laughed it off and joked with her? I gulped down one of my water bottles and used my track pants to wipe off the sweat that was dripping down my cheek. I turned around and went back