A New Dream

I rock back and forth on the tips of my toes, gripping my racquet with all my might, focusing intently as she stretches her arm up towards the sky, body tilted back with the effort, and then snaps forward, sending the fuzzy ball rocketing towards me, just skimming the service line to be in. I step slightly forward, left hand preparing to whip my trusty Wilson around. At just the right moment, I sweep through the ball, sending it hurtling back the way it came. Over the net it soars, passing the service line, the base line, the far fence. Off by a mile.
         Trembling inwardly in sadness, I ready myself for the first slaughter of my lifetime in tennis. Point after point she serves streaks of lightning, and each time, I, at best, send a weak shot over in return. With each failure, my lip trembles. With each loss, a little energy seeps out of me. With each defeat, a blow strikes my dream of being a professional.
         As she takes the sixth game of our first set, me still fighting for my first triumph, I look over at the crowd of people watching our championship game. My team, smiling encouragingly, as I had for each of them countless times. My fellow high schoolers, cheering me on with every lost point. My mother, who'd accompanied me to every tennis match I'd ever been in from age four, giving me a watery eyed nod after every point, full of pride but inwardly hurting for me. My coach, with no sign of disappointment at how this would be his first loss in the state tournament in all of his years of coaching, instead handing out doughnuts, a forbidden junk food, and rooting for me with all his might. Our rival high school, almost equally divided in their yells for the match. My opponent, wanting to go easy on me, but knowing how that would hurt me even more after seeing me shake my head when she first tried. The reporters, there for a completely different reason than I'd ever have imagined. And me, inwardly weeping, enjoying the last game of my cut short career, enjoying the downfall of the only dream I've ever had since I was three.
         When I rest in between sets, I think about how this is my last match, my last time having my team cheering for me, the last time I get to feel the thrill of the crowd. I let the environment sink in, with its crisply lined courts, its scent of new tennis balls, its vibrating with the crowd's cheers, its towering umpire chair, its beating sun, its very feel of competition. I close my eyes, capturing all of its smells with deep breaths and letting all its sounds echo around my head until they're imprisoned in my brain. I memorize the refreshing taste of orange gatorade mixed with the salty taste of dripping sweat on my tongue after a grueling set. I take in the feel of the blazing court under my molded tennis sneakers, the comforting stickiness of my racquet handle, the energizing feeling of stepping into the shade of the stands after sprinting under the relentless sun. And finally, I reopen my eyes and take hundreds of mental pictures of the court, the stands, the beaming sun, the clear blue sky, the team of reporters, my coach, my team, my family, my classmates, letting everything seep into every fiber of my being so I can be sure that this feeling, the feeling of tennis, won't be completely stolen from me, but will instead stay with me forever. And once I become certain I had absorbed every last thing, every last part of the game I  love so dearly, I take a last shaky breath before returning to the court for the last set of my life.
         As I pass by my opponent on my way to the other side of the court, she gives me a sad smile, her eyes full of pity. Gathering all of my self control, I beam at her, trying to show her I'm having the time of my life and that she shouldn't feel bad for playing her best like I had told her before the match had began.
The second match isn't any different from the first. I still get clobbered, my years of experience and top physical condition doing nothing for me. I play the hardest I've ever played, needing to know I had the best game I could've on my last game ever. I dive for impossible shots, hit using every ounce of my energy, sprint to all the shots to position myself perfectly. My arm aches, my legs are numb, my breath is short and ragged, and sweat is pouring off my face in streams. But still I feel empowered, like tennis always does for me, especially today. Knowing this is my last game gives me endless rushes of energy, makes me push myself past the limit, has me feeling stronger than I ever have before. But none of that makes up for my weak shots and the curved arcs they travel in, just sitting there for her to pulverize into all the corners of the court. No matter how much I work, I simply can't get my shots to work as they should, as they have for the past fourteen years of my life. And it kills me each time to know exactly how to hit it, where to place it, and the perfect amount of spin or power to use, but to not be able to execute them like I had been able to every time. My serves, instead of racing through the air just centimeters above the net, curve over softly like they had when I was five. My forehands, instead of being almost invisible as they speed cross court, just skimming the base line, end up right in the middle of the court, the shot of a beginner. My backhands, instead of slicing cleanly through the ball and landing just beyond the net, take all my power just to even make them be in. My volleys, normally angling the ball to the very edges of the court, instead are tentative, all my focus on making sure they land inbounds. And my thoughts, instead of being focussed on strategy and determination, are only concentrated on my dream being flushed away forever.
I had resigned myself to loss before even arriving at the court, instead working to preserve my last game ever as long as I possibly could. And it's working, my extraordinary conditioning and years of playing able to hold off each inevitable point loss for full minutes. The cheers of the crowd jolt through my veins, giving me the energy to keep playing, to continue wanting to draw out the match. By the time the game-winning point comes around, I feel like me again, feel like the old Rae, the star tennis player who spent every free moment on the courts. The Rae before who I have become, a mere object of pity.
The old Rae would be calm in this moment, ready to battle off the match point with a consistent game, just waiting for her opponent to make the sloppy error that she could seize to prevent her loss. I couldn't do that, though. I had to go out, as I knew I would within ten minutes, strongly and powerfully, defeated in my last game with an amazing play by my opponent. But, of course, that could never happen. I'd played the entire match very consistently, just trying to prolong the points, with my shots, however weak, very likely to go in.
But when it got to the final point of my life, I choked. The tears were already in the corners of my eyes, and I had to swallow repeatedly to keep myself together. I tossed the ball high, outlined by the vibrant blue of the midday sky, and whipped my racquet through the air, hitting the ball with all my might at the peak of its height, just like I was taught. And the ball reacted by weakly arcing towards the net but dropping just short of it. Pressure to get it in for my second serve was crushing me, making it hard to breathe, thus causing me to be more concentrated on keeping my breath steady than the actual point ahead.
When I was ready, I stepped up to the line, right foot a quarter inch behind it and pointed at the service box, right foot a foot behind, as I'd done millions of times before. With my right hand, I threw a perfect toss, and, at just the right height, I snapped forwards, form flawless. The serve, however, was not. It made it over the net, headed for service box, but, at the very last second, decided it wanted to go a little further, and ended up inches outside of where it had to land in order to be in.
The umpire called it out, declaring my opponent champion. Every part of me was numb. I couldn't move, just stood there, mouth moving wordlessly, as the trophy was handed to her, tears rolling down my cheeks. I was done. My career in tennis was over before it even began. Years of training were all for nothing. The one thing I loved more than anything had been cruelly ripped from my life. And it had all ended on a double fault. The worst way to end any game, let alone your last. Sorrow was crushing me in that moment, and it was all I could do not to sink to my knees and weep. I had ruined my last game, my last chance to prove I was great. I'd never be able to remember the two hours of consistency, the pure will and determination to play the best game of my life, but would only remember those twenty seconds of my terrible last point. I had one chance to prove to myself I had done it, and I blew it in the worst way of all. By double faulting, I took away any chance, any hope, of triumph. And so I cried my heart out, all of my bottled-up feelings emerging in the way of silent tears. The girl was weakly raising her trophy, and I forced myself to smile at her and shake her hand through the mask of tears on my face. She was speaking, but I couldn't hear a word, everything utterly silent, so I just nodded. She lifted the trophy, handing it to me, but I pushed it away. She'd won it, it was hers. It didn't matter that she said she didn't want it, that she would've lost to me in any other circumstance, that it wasn't right for her to take it. I couldn't take it away from her. It was hers. She'd triumphed, and I'd failed in a way I'd never have imagined.
As I walked off the court towards my team, my classmates, my coach, my family, I managed a weak smile towards them. And they, the amazing people that they are, all stood up and cheered for me. Eighty people, all stood up and gave me a standing ovation for my effort in the last match of my life. It was a beautiful moment, a moving one, one that was imprinted in my mind forever. It was truly remarkable to hear and made me feel that perhaps this didn't necessarily have to just be the end of one dream, but could also be the beginning of another. Because, with my name echoing around the court and bright smiles and pride on everyone's faces, for the first time, my tears were because of pure happiness. And it was then that I realized it would all be okay. Even if I couldn't play tennis anymore, I'd had the best last game I could've ever wished for, one that I was infinitely lucky to get to play. Standing there, my name being chanted by so many people I loved, I realized that tennis would never be over for me. I'd never leave my team, my coach, the sport I loved. It might never be the same, but I could still know the feeling of tennis, could still be empowered by it every day. It could never be stolen from me because I loved it too much. In order for it to go away, I'd have to let it. And I will never let it go. I still have dreams for tennis. They've just changed, maybe to something even better than the original.
And so I run towards my team, brushing off the tears, as they swarm around me, smothering me in a large hug, bright smiles and words of encouragement all around me. Wrapped in the team embrace, I felt so loved, the sorrow vanishing bit by bit as my teammates helped me see a not so bleak future, one where I was still on the team, just in a different role. I twist myself away after a few minutes, and walk slowly over towards my mom. My mom, who realized that I, her daughter who'd lost her right arm in a car accident, am going to be okay after all, and opens up her arms to envelop me, tears of her own dripping down.
'I'm so proud of you, Rae.'