Pesky Expectations

“Clear the court and let’s play points!” instructs my hitting coach. We always start with FBI. Not the bureau, but the “first ball in” -- a way to get free reps of the serve before scorekeeping begins.

I stuff one used yellow ball under the leg of my Lycra shorts and bounce another with my left hand.

As a girl who loves the grind of a drill, I do not dread the first half of our practice.  “Three deep cross-court forehands then one winner down the line” is the manifestation of Churchill’s “man who grins when he fights” for me. The over and over and over again seduces and sedates. I’m happiest when straining to build necessary ruts. 

But the last half of practice, playing points, is my favorite part.

Toed up to the line, I gather myself. The racket and ball oblige at the base of my motion, still, as my body prepares to unfurl.  My brain ticks off its list of things to do. I think about the release of the toss, the backside loading, the loop of the swing, the reach of the racket toward the sky, the brush of the strings on the ball. 

Then I explode. Up and out, aiming over, I go. My swing is free and fluid. The box a vague objective-- until I hit one in. 

That’s when the war begins.

Like motion sensor lights that flood the night when foreign movement is detected, my serve is now lit up. An uninvited visitor--intense internal scrutiny –is at the door and she has questions. “How high was your toss? What was your follow through like? When, exactly, should you start your upward motion? Can you hit that spot again?” Fog creeps in and coats the carefully ordered cogs I’ve worked so hard to synchronize. The gears grate. 

Expectation, the ultimate party crasher, has burst in and thrown its weight around. The mind is targeted but the body isn’t spared.

Suddenly I notice that my shoulders have ridden up. My jaw is tight. The ball (seemingly) once round, bounces as if it has edges. When I gather the fuzzy neon orb for my toss, it feels too tiny for my hand. Motion that was just seconds ago loose and languid is now grabby. 

I remind myself that everyone who shows up on the porch does not have to be invited in. Then I get mad at myself for thinking about everything except my serve. Then I grow irritated by the arguing. The mind and the body have gone to their corners. A fight for freedom is on.

I wish I knew what to do with internal expectation—how to use it like I do the externally born. When others expect, it feels like the draw of a lighthouse. A beacon that keeps me on course, beckoning capability. A sixth man when only five are allowed on the court. But when expectation emanates from inside me, it becomes a ruthless bully. The judgy evil twin of hope.

You don’t have to have served an ace to recognize the stifling air of self-imposed aspiration. It’s just an obvious find when you’re standing by yourself behind the line. Such harsh inner reckoning builds walls around things that need space to be what they’re bound to be. We decide how we think a thing should look or feel or sound. And in so doing we keep the best of our best in the vault.

‘Tis the season for all such kinds of mental bloating. We only days ago measured--and no doubt consequenced ourselves about --the turkey or the dressing or the table that we set. And Thanksgiving was just the precursor. The real X-Day is coming at us like a meteor locked and loaded for landing.  It will be here in a matter of weeks. What if the card or the meals or the gifts don’t quite hit the mark? What if we say the wrong thing or aren’t attentive enough. What if because so much these days feels off-limits, we can’t think of anything to say?  

My serve—like the list of things we expect from ourselves this time of year—needs a break. A time-out from all the sparring. An escape from the ring where I bloody myself. 

I can think of no greater gift.

P.S. Expectations