The other day I read this wonderful post on Fue Buena, about how much fun Stan Wawrinka is having on his trip back to Buenos Aires. Wawrinka is there for the Copa Claro, an ATP 250 which has already gotten underway at the “Cathedral” of Argentinean tennis, the Buenos Aires Lawn Tennis Club. It didn’t […]
As I watched Lance Armstrong finally admit to doping on Oprah, while tennis journalists reacted with horror and knee-jerk condemnation of cycling on Twitter, I was reminded once again how naïve the tennis community can be.
I was going to write about tennis today, but I just can’t.
Sports are my safe place. They’re where I go when the rest of the world is just too big, too scary too complicated. Tennis is my favorite sport. There are rules. There are consequences for breaking the rules. There’s a beginning and an end. There’s a winner and a loser. There’s hope, there’s heartache, there’s anxiety, there’s ecstasy, and there’s always another day.
In the realm of my real life, I’m a cynic. A realist. I don’t often get the feeling of butterflies and fireworks and floating on clouds. There’s always a pit in my stomach. I’m always waiting for the other shoe to drop. But sports are a space where I still can believe in magic. Where miracles still occur.
Tennis is my escape. Or at least it used to be.
Last Saturday I went to bed late into the night in my apartment in Queens, New York with a knot in my stomach. Sure, there was a much-hyped hurricane heading towards the city and the winds were picking up rapidly, but primarily I was nervous about the launch of The Changeover that was supposed to take place the next morning. Amy, Juan José, and I had been working non-stop the past couple of weeks to get the site ready, and I was extremely anxious to finally share our project with others.