The Last Match I Remember
I read the news of the Italian player Sinner winning Wimbledon. I'm happy, even though I must admit I don’t follow tennis (or any other sport, for that matter).
And yet, I used to be a tennis player. Not professionally, of course, but I trained consistently for about ten years - from the age of 8 to 18.
It wasn’t always enjoyable. I started because I was forced to, and I did it almost unwillingly. And it showed. And yet, those were wonderful years, and many lessons from that time have stayed with me to this day. One of them: respect.
In tennis, you don’t “trip” your opponent. If you win a point by hitting the net cord, you apologize. Some do it as a formality, others because they truly feel it. And after the match, players leave the court together, with deep respect and friendship. A contest of skill and physical form, not a battle for dominance. That’s the spirit tennis taught me.
Of course, it’s not always like that, and not for everyone. But there were three events, over the years, that left a mark on me.
The first, when I was very young - probably around 10 or 11. I didn’t feel like playing, and I was only doing it because I had to. It showed. Suddenly, my instructor stopped the training and hit the ball to the far end of the court. She called me over and, without sugarcoating it, said: “If you don’t feel like playing, leave. It’s disrespectful - to the sport, to me, to the others. No one is forcing you. This is not the way to approach it. Respect those who are here with you, always”.
I was crushed - because she was right. I realized how disrespectful, rude, offensive, and stupid I had been. I apologized, and from that moment on, I approached training with the commitment it deserved. Always remembering to show respect to those who were giving me their time.
But it took a few more years - when I joined a pre-competitive group - before I truly felt the spirit of it. Maybe, as a kid, I was missing the motivation: the group, the sense of growing together. Things changed, and from then on, I trained almost every day. Two days of athletic conditioning, and the rest on the court. Summer and winter, in the rain and in the snow. With others. An adventure to live together - people of different ages, similar skill levels, a shared passion. Friends, teammates. Those were wonderful years, with wonderful people.
But, I’ll admit, I was doing it more for the group, for the experience, than for the sport itself. Sure, I liked it, and I had gotten decent at it, but I was far from the best. I didn’t have the right mindset - certainly better than before, but still not the right one. When there were tournaments, I didn’t sign up. My goal wasn’t to rise, but to share a spirit.
And yet, once, during a training match, after my fourth mistake in a row, I had a burst of anger. Extremely rare for me. Frustrated, I threw my racket to the ground. Not violently, but with a good dose of anger. My instructor (still her, my Teacher) looked at me, eyes locked on mine, disappointed: “Out.” She kicked me off the court. Because no, you don’t do that. If I made mistakes, I had to focus more. Or maybe it was just a bad day. But throwing the racket? No. It’s important to stay calm, to manage anger, not to be overwhelmed by frustration. On the court, and in life. Because if nerves, anger, resentment pass a certain point, things can only go downhill - in sports, and in life.
I lost the match like that, to the disappointment of both myself and the person on the other side of the net. I left the court, looking at the racket (now with a few extra scratches), reflecting on what had happened. In the moment, I was still too angry to think clearly, so I just followed orders - but a few hours later, I fully processed it. It never happened again.
I stopped training and playing when I left for university. There were two reasons, but they were somewhat overlapping: moving to a new city meant a new group, new instructors, and I would have to juggle that with a much more intense academic schedule than in high school. In my first year, I had classes every day, all in the afternoon (from 13 or 14 until 19, if I remember correctly), so it would have been extremely difficult - if not impossible - to balance everything. I decided it wasn’t worth it, priority-wise. Especially in light of something that had happened a few months earlier.
Our training group was tight-knit: we were training partners, but some of us were true friends. We would hang out outside the court, go on outings together, etc. A really beautiful bond had formed. One day, for instance, I ran into one of them by chance, and we decided to go home together since our friends were staying longer. I was on my Vespa, not driving a car (I expected a lot of traffic and was still a bit unsteady behind the wheel), so we left together, riding through mountain roads, talking about everything, and having a lovely “journey” of friendship.
The next day, during tennis training, a match was arranged (again, just a practice match) between us, and we started playing. I was focused, but I could tell the other person had a different intensity. Much stronger than mine - bordering on unsportsmanlike. Anyone who’s played tennis knows there are certain shots, certain tactics, certain little tricks that show when someone is trying to put you in trouble in a subtle way. And that’s what she was doing.
During a break (we were more or less even), I asked why she was being so aggressive - the answer was clear and blunt: “We may be friends, but when there’s a match, there are no friendships.” True, in a way. But it really hurt me. A match? I would have called it a confrontation, a friendly challenge, especially since it was just training (mainly physical training). Sure, it wasn’t to be taken lightly, but still - no need to be that aggressive.
I kept playing, and her intensity kept rising. I didn’t understand. Something was up. I talked to the coach during the next break. She smiled and explained: they were evaluating who to move into a new amateur/competitive group the following year. There wasn’t a set number of spots, but the idea was to organize some local tournaments. Not a career in tennis - the truly talented and motivated ones were already in other groups, playing all over the country - but just a more focused approach. And clearly, she had decided that this was something she wanted. So much so that she never told me - the day before, during our long chat - hoping that keeping it a secret would give her a better shot. And now she was playing almost dirty to prove how much she wanted it. To show she deserved it much more than I.
It was a bitter disappointment. Because for me, it was all about the group, the environment, the atmosphere. For her, that didn’t matter as much. Sure, she was a bit younger than me, so she still had time before facing the same choice I was approaching (whether to continue or stop once university came). Sure, tennis is ultimately an individual sport more than a team one. But none of us were real competitors. None of us would become champions. So, personally, I would never have pulled a stunt like that - especially not against someone I had such a deep and long-standing friendship with. Years of friendship.
I won the match. Because at that point, I played with anger. With energy, with tactics, with strategy. With disappointment, with regret, with sadness. I played to win, and I did. Without saying why. Without showing that I knew. When I scored the final point, I approached my opponent to shake hands and leave together. But to my surprise, she slammed her racket on the ground and walked away without a word, visibly angry. She didn’t expect me to win. She didn’t expect me to react that way. She thought she could beat me, shine in front of the coaches. Instead, she showed ambition - but not integrity.
My instructor, my Teacher, came up to me. She had known me for almost ten years and had seen me play thousands of times by then. She just said this, with a smile halfway between proud and disappointed: “You’re a bastard. Look at what you just did. If you played like this all the time…”
It was the smile of someone who had watched the transformation - from the unmotivated kid to the focused, fast, athletic and committed teenager. But she also knew why I had done it. And she knew it wouldn’t happen again. And she was right. I had won - but not with the right spirit. So she didn’t suggest me for the new group, even though, in her opinion, I had all the necessary qualities. Except for the mindset, of course.
That person joined the group, but didn’t last long. Too much ambition can backfire. And that episode marked the end of our friendship. We stayed on good terms, but just as acquaintances. Then I left for university, and we lost touch.
She never knew that I knew. She never knew how disappointed I was by her behavior. The next day, during athletic training, we both pretended nothing had happened. But nothing was ever the same.
Tennis is a noble sport. It taught me so much, and it’s thanks to tennis and the people who guided me that I am who I am - especially in the parts of my character I’m most proud of. But I could never have been a competitive player.
Because for me, tennis has always been about confrontation, never combat.
Tennis taught me to respect others - and myself. And that, more than any trophy, is what I carry with me.