🎾 Surviving Break Point

A personal essay about tennis from the archives at Defector

A few years ago, I went through what can only really be described as a total mental breakdown. Psychological issues—what my dear friend Pete once called “coconut problems”—run deep in my family, so I chalk up whatever happened to me as a combination of inherited instability and accumulated stress forcing my foundations to buckle.

I found exercise, specifically weightlifting and tennis, as the only mortar that made me feel whole again. When I finally came to, I emerged with a new love of a sport I had never played before. I wrote about that process for Defector in 2023, and, what with the U.S. Open happening and Dark Alcaraz emerging and all, I wanted to share that essay here. It’s paywalled both here and on Defector’s website. If you’re debating on where you should read it and/or spend your money, please consider becoming a paid subscriber to Defector, which is one of the best media independent media outlets we have.

The rules governing a tennis serve are pretty vague. You’re allowed to get the ball over the net and into your opponent’s service box in whatever way you want, which is why most people at my level of experience hopefully flick their rackets like stringed frying pan. A professional serve, on the other hand—a real serve—is a violence of motion, an intention to dominate.

Going for power when you’re not very good at the sport to begin with means you will hit 90 percent of your attempted serves long or see them ram harmlessly into the net like a tuna struggling against a trawler. You will frame the ball and hit it into traffic or someone’s backyard. You will aim instead of hit and thereby defeat your attempted fluidity. Your mind will leave the work to your body, and your body will betray you.

But there is joy in transforming yourself into a thoughtless whip. Feet set, toss high, trophy stance, feet together, racket drop, slight jump, snap elbow, follow through, land forward. You have turned your body into an energy transfer machine. You are a kinetic chain fused for a single purpose. You have uncorked yourself, a top set loose on clay, concrete, grass. Your executive functions have narrowed to a point. The lights dim, your brain goes library-quiet.

Last summer, my brain broke. The mooring between my body and mind snapped and the latter was cast adrift. A friend who had gone through a similar thing years ago described it as feeling like you're on the moon watching everyone else down on earth.