The Nineteen Minute Flirt

After barf episode numero cuartro (four), the stomach took a sabbatical and rested wholly on fruit and plain pasta.  Thankfully, the gods of bile and hydrochloric acid were appeased with the offering.  The day after, I was able to resume gym work.

I am slowly but surely getting back into shape.

Coupled with these daily sessions, I ventured back on court with my crazy Englishman friend, Craig Walker today.  I met Craig the last time I was in Barcelona.  He's also a college graduate who shares the same crazy crazy dream of playing professional tennis.  He got his degree in Business, worked and saved for two years to pick up and pack up for Barcelona.  Point of interest, really, is that age aside, Craig has just as much or, if not, less(!) tennis experience than I do.

We're pretty much on the same path, and it was good to catch up again after seven, eight months.  He also works as a night warden at another tennis centre in Barcelona (the Centre Internacional de Tennis), and is trying out an optimal set up that will allow him equal opportunity for rest, work, and training.  We met up with the intention to hit, but spent most of it talking.  About relationships, age, adulthood, dreams, ideal training set ups.  He talked about his new girlfriend and the challenges of keeping a relationship under the strain of tennis.  I reminded him about being single and the equal challenges it often poses.  It's ironically comforting hearing how our struggles are so similar.

When we finally stepped onto clay, we had twenty minutes left.  I was a little nervous.  My wall session yesterday had left me convinced that my legs were still numb lead sticks.  Yet, to my surprise, once we started hitting, things suddenly took on a sudden, strange sharpness.

I could see the ball crystal clear.  I didn't feel any pain in my knee.  I could feel the ball on my strings.  The chaff in my grip.  My entire body, my muscles working and flowing in one accord.  After a month off and the subsequent insecurity and anxiety that naturally welled up--it was surprising to feel it literally melt away under the Spanish sun.

"Forget about the skeptics, let's nail that backhand." Swoosh!
"Watch the ball." Adjust....
"Move, hit." Bam!

The thoughts shot through my mind in split seconds and I responded like an oiled, automated machine.  The backhand worked, the forehand whipped ass, the legs were moving.

"Everything's still there." I thought to myself--amazed.  A little dusty from where I left it, sure, but that's alright.  I've still got it.  I felt a little ashamed to even think I'd lost it.

Maybe what I really need now for my game isn't more gym, or training or worrying about long hours.  My clay-flirt taught me today that it's really about having more self-belief.