She’s smart and intuitive, with her father’s speed and power and my timing and agility all wrapped in her DNA and tied with a silver ribbon, hers to command. With all that athletic ability that she can unleash at will, she’s gotten used to winning.
It’s a beautiful March morning, and the sky is bright and clear as I sit between my father and my sister watching Maya play. As an agent, I’m careful to school my features and reactions, but when I’m watching Maya compete, I am every bit as emotionally invested as any other parent.
“Jamal and Derrick had lunch yesterday,” Thea says. “And Derrick couldn’t stop talking about you.”
“That’s nice.” My eyes remain on the court. It’s match point. For the third time. Maya has lost her focus and seems irritated that her opponent refuses to give up. This is when mental toughness becomes even more important. An ace would be nice. But that’s never something you can count on. She has to aim for that but also be prepared to play out and win the point.
“He thinks you’re really great.”
“That’s nice.” Maya steps up to the service line. She bounces the ball once. Twice. I hold my breath as she begins her serve. As soon as she releases the ball, I can tell that her toss is too low.
The return slams right up the line just out of her reach. She’s muttering to herself as she moves into the ad box. Even before she tosses the ball, I know she’s going to lose. Because her opponent is laser focused and Maya is clearly angry. At herself. At her opponent. At the world.
I watch her double-fault. Then I watch her fail to return her opponent’s first serve. Her second return is long. She has pretty much handed her opponent the game.
The winner jogs to the net and offers her hand. Maya doesn’t even attempt a smile or offer congratulations as she shakes it. She’s scowling as she stomps off the court.
If Thea wasn’t clutching my arm, I’d already be headed for my daughter right now. Her lack of focus lost her the game, but it’s her poor sportsmanship that troubles me the most.
“Let Dad talk to her. You’re too upset right now.”
My sister holds my arm. Somehow, I manage not to shake it off while I watch my daughter stuff her racket into her bag, her movements jerky with anger.
Her coach steps over to speak to her, no doubt a recap of everything that went wrong, and while she doesn’t turn away, her face is a thundercloud. I attempt to distract myself by coming up with positives to acknowledge, a practice I’ve all but abandoned lately, but it’s hard to be grateful when your head is about to explode.
Okay. Let’s see. It’s a positive that Maya’s so talented. There, that’s one.
Her face is still dark when my father, who has given so much of himself to all of us, hugs her and speaks quietly to her. No doubt pointing out what she needs to work on in a much calmer and kinder manner than I could manage right now.
I force myself to take a deep breath.
Maya tosses her head while my father is talking to her, and if my sister wasn’t still holding tight to my arm, I’d already be down there reaming Maya out, something I don’t believe in but am dying to do right now.
Instead I search for another positive and come up with the fact that we can afford coaching and tournaments and everything my father struggled to pay for, for me.
When my father shakes his head almost sadly, I’ve had it. I rip my arm out of Thea’s grasp and stride down the bleachers, my sister on my heels, to where my daughter stands, chin out, scowl still in place.
“You need to apologize to your grandfather right now.” Somehow, I keep my voice low.
Maya does as instructed, glaring at me the whole time, which, of course, negates the whole apology. Anger and disappointment bubble in my veins like lava in a volcano. It takes every ounce of control I have not to erupt as I hug my father and Thea goodbye.
When they’re out of earshot, I turn to Maya. “Lose the scowl. Let’s go.”
“I’m not . . .”
“Now.” I say this quietly, but it’s a command.
In the car, I buckle my seat belt and sit with the car idling. “I am incredibly disappointed in you.”
She shrugs. “I lost a match. It’s not the end of the world.”
“No, it’s not. And it’s not losing that’s the problem, although I’m not a fan of the practice. It’s giving up. Not staying focused. Not caring enough. Not playing to the end. There’s no point in competing if you’re not going to give it your all. You handed it to her, Maya. And then after she took the gift you gave her, you acted like a spoiled brat.”
She says nothing. But the car is hot with emotion and anger.
“You were born with immense talent. But talent alone is not enough. You have to want to win every time. You have to commit to winning.”
“Well maybe I don’t care about winning as much as you do. Maybe I don’t even like tennis all that much.”
The words are a knife to the chest. It’s hard not to double over. But I am the adult here. “Then quit. No one is forcing you to play. End of story. There’s no point in playing if you’re not willing to give it your all.”
A car horn honks, and I look up to see my sister and father pull out of their nearby parking space. I wave, but I don’t put the car in gear. Maya refuses to wave or meet my gaze.
“Should you choose to continue to play,” I resume, “being a poor sport is not an option. I know Poppy’s told you stories about Arthur Ashe and what a gentleman he was on the court. And how Björn Borg’s father taught him to control his temper. Your behavior today was unacceptable. And it prevented you from winning.”
“You think you know everything.” She sounds about five.
“No, I don’t. But I do know what it takes to excel at sports. I also know how quickly it can all be taken away from you. You need to respect and honor the talent you were born with. A lot of it came from your father. If you only want to use it for fun or as a hobby, that’s your business.
“But if you choose to compete, then you have to be a competitor. And a good sport.”
She doesn’t argue. Or speak at all. As I put the car in reverse and back out of the space, I give myself permission to count that as positive number three.
Sara
Dorothy and I haven’t spoken much since she shut down the subject of elder abuse the other night. Neither of us has brought up the topic of Mitchell.
I’ve left several messages on Mitch’s cell phone, hoping that maybe we could discuss our next steps in some civilized manner, but while I’m angry that he hasn’t called back, I’m not incredibly surprised. My husband has always sidestepped, and apparently this is no exception. As if not talking about his secret life and family will somehow allow me to pretend that they don’t exist. If only. But I will never be able to unsee the sight of Mitch standing in the foyer of that Birmingham apartment with his son and the pregnant Margot at his side. It is imprinted in my brain forever. The caption reads: “My greatest wish denied and handed to another woman.”