blink and you'll miss the point
It’s a random Sunday evening and I’m kind of watching the tennis channel. It’s May, so clay court season is in full swing. Clay is my least favorite surface to watch— it’s slow as hell compared the other surfaces. Which is really my problem in a nutshell, but we’ll get there in a second.
I played tennis most of my adolescent life. I guess maybe I was decent, in the sense that after playing it for around a decade I was minimally competent on a good day. Like many a writer before me, I’ve always been better at indoor activities, I’m afraid.
But I’ve always absolutely loved watching sports (which leads me to believe I was likely extremely athletic in a past life but my overly competitive and/or arrogant spirit led the powers that be to snatch back my athletic prowess so that in this life I may learn humility—but I digress!)
The better player on the court was losing, I observed neutrally, glancing up at the TV screen in between scrolls on my handheld screen. And while I’m sure there were a bunch of technical reasons for this, in my unprofessional opinion (which was subsequently validated by the on-air commentator so maybe not so unprofessional after all!), it was because she kept rushing the point.
I’ve watched enough tennis to know that it’s a game of momentum. There’s a rhythm to it and you can always tell when a player, no matter how good they might be, is struggling to find it.
I nodded soberly, as the analyst kept lamenting: why doesn’t she make the extra shot? Take the extra step? She’s rushing the point, man.
As another ball went flying into the net and the telltale look of frustration flashed across the player’s face, I shook my head—got to stop rushing that point, my girl.
And it was at that moment, irony tapped me lightly on the shoulder mid-scroll, with a raised eyebrow.
That damn rush. That vexing need to hurry. So anxious to get to where we want to be in the shortest amount of time that not only do we rush the point, we miss the point.
Because in tennis, as in life, each point matters. You can’t win by skipping any—you need every single one of them. Every point will be different and might require something different from you. Sometimes you will need to be clever, other times agile. Sometimes, ferocious, other times, tactical. Sometimes you’ll lose the point and have to start over, but that too, my dear, is the point.
You can rush as much as you like but you won’t get anywhere. Even when you believe you have everything required to meet the moment in front of you, your shot might still land in the net. And I’m not saying it’s because you’re rushing the point but I am saying that there’s a point to that as well.
You must be willing to sit in your discomfort/exhaustion/frustration long enough for you to find your rhythm. Because the only shot that matters is the one you actually make—and sometimes you have to wait to take that shot.
That’s the point.
The wait is the point.
The journey is the point.
The learning is the point.
Our ability to endure those in-between moments is constantly being compromised because modern life is designed to feel like a rush. We’ve been set up to feel as though we’re perpetually falling behind, not only in comparison to other people but in comparison to the timelines we’ve set for ourselves, and I’m afraid we must begin to fight back.
There’s a uniquely perfect rhythm to your life. There is a timing and cadence that no one can hear but you. And you can’t hear anyone else’s either, by the way. We’re all existing very deeply in the throes our own frequencies, and you’ll always be off-beat if you try to dance to someone else’s song.
You don’t know their song; you can’t hear their song. You have no clue what the playlist of their current season is titled, so I suggest you listen inward. Because the reason they’re killing their little dance is because their dance is for them, baby. Go learn your own!
Don’t abandon discovering your own steps to copy what someone else has going on because you feel frustrated with how long it’s taking for you to find your groove. Because you don’t actually get to replay any of the songs in the soundtrack of our lives. It’s a one-and-done type deal. And I think if we considered that more often, we’d be in less of a rush to press skip.
There’s value in every song, even the ones we hate.
Even the ones that feel random.
Even the ones that feel like they’re going on too long.
I promise there’s a lyric you’re meant to learn; a sequence you’re meant to memorize.
I promise there’s a point.
I never finished watching the match, so I don’t actually know who won. But who won or lost here really isn’t the point!
(I googled it—she lost. Should have stopped rushing that point, girl)
And so should you. Stop rushing the point!