Tennis, like writing, is technically complex: all those strokes to master, all those rules to obey (don’t take the racket back beyond your shoulder when volleying; assume the trophy pose just before striking the serve). It’s a game of endless small adjustments, a sport for tinkerers, perfectionists.
At the same time, tennis is an unusually – perhaps uniquely – psychological sport. It’s not just that players have to be good readers of character, able to figure out what an opponent’s weaknesses are and how to exploit them, it’s also that the sport itself exerts such acute mental pressures. The margins between success and failure are so tiny, both at the micro and macro levels. (A millimetre’s difference in your swing can make the difference between a win or a miss; just one or two points can decide the outcome of the match.)
This is why, playing tennis, it’s so easy to get frustrated. At every level, it’s common to encounter players who, more than anything, resemble madmen: gesticulating, hurling their rackets, talking to themselves. No sport is more inward-looking than tennis, more conducive to emotional turmoil, downward-spiralling patterns of thought. And in this too, of course, it has something in common with writing.
Jeg har vel ingen illusjoner om at disse setningene vil få utenforstående til å melde seg på begynnerkurs, men kanskje noen får en anelse om hvorfor noen av oss blir besatt av denne rare sporten. (Bilde: Wikimedia Commons)
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