Maybe Nadal After All

As it turns out, my kid, the great tennis player, is also an amazing writer. Below is an essay he wrote for English class, reprinted with his permission, of course. I've added a couple of editorial comments (in parentheses) for clarification.

Growing up under a sick (disgustingly good, for anyone over 15) athlete puts a lot of expectations on you. Everyone thinks you’re the next version of him. I’m sure Michael Jordan’s boys live in a dark shadow. Some rebel against the idea, and some take it as a challenge. Which is exactly what I did with tennis. It wasn’t planned; I just fell into it.

My mom played tennis in our country club and decided to take me to a clinic. I started playing on a monthly basis, which turned into a weekly basis and, finally, daily. As I progressed, people told me about a place where could really improve. This is where I met Murphy.

I walked up to the court where a teenager was playing better than anyone I had ever seen up close. Murphy was his coach; I instantly asked Murphy to help me.

He was more like a friend then a coach, and my game improved rapidly. Before I knew it, I lived in cheap hotels and was in a new state every weekend (playing tournaments) and out of school at twelve every day. Leaving school early was the coolest thing that had ever happened to me.

Or so I thought.

My best friends became just friends and my friends became just people in the hallway. I wasn’t up-to-date with the latest fashion unless it had to do with a tennis racquet. I had joined the Murphy Payne Witness Protection Program.

After a year, I just couldn’t take it anymore. I decided to put tennis to the side and have more time for friends.

A year has passed, and I’ve led an extremely social lifestyle. I go to school full time and hate it. And as I sit wandering where I would be if I hadn’t quit, I remember what Murphy used to say: “Do you know how many friends I have that I knew in high school?”

I always said no because his point was obvious. He wanted to show me that friends didn’t matter.

Friends do matter, right? They’re the ones who pick you up when you fall. Your brother from another mother. But will I know them ten years from now? Will I still be hanging out with them on weekends?

Of course not. I have big plans for myself. Which makes me think: am I going to be a professional friend?

So as I sit in class realizing how productive the past year could have been, I find myself daydreaming of winning a title. If I had to choose, I’d rather know my buddies on the professional tennis tour than my old high school pals.

I raise my hand to go to the restroom. Not because I need too, but so I can text Murphy.


Mom's note: As much as I would like to think I'm the "sick" athlete/parent, I'm pretty sure he wasn't referring to me. See my last post for an explanation.