The Shame of Losing

Tonight's Sunday Scribblings prompt is Shame.

I ran into the club, holding my racquet case over my head in a vain attempt to stay somewhat dry in the pouring rain. Once I walked through the doors, the rain stopped, but my sense of unease remained. I walked up to the counter where an unfriendly woman pointed me to the back to find the rest of my team.

My team.

Sounds nice. Like a cohesive group of women who've known each other for years. Kind of like the group of women wearing black tops sitting around the coffee table laughing at a shared joke. I looked at them as I walked around, searching for anyone else wearing a red top like me.

I didn't recognize the woman with the red t-shirt walking into the bathroom. I walked up to her, introduced myself, and asked her if she knew where I should go. I explained my ignorance apologetically, "I'm new. I've never played match before." She shrugged and pointed towards the courts on the left.

"I'm just a sub but I think the other girls are over there. Check the sheet at the sign in desk to see who you're playing."

A few minutes later I was on the right court, having introduced myself to my partner and my opponents. After some firm handshakes all around, the mood on the court was all business as we began hitting balls to get warmed up.

Although I've been playing tennis for three years now, I'd never played a "real" match, only casual games with friends. I was completely unnerved by the tension of my teammate and the naked competitiveness of the two women on the other side of the net.

Things began to go badly during the warm up. I hit wildly, sending most of the balls they hit to me way out into the other courts. At first the other team looked annoyed, but soon they were smirking at each other and whispering. Ten minutes later, when we spun for the serve, my hands were shaking.

We lost the first set 6-0. After a close first game that went back and forth at deuce, the other five games just whipped by. During the water break between sets, I was apologizing to everyone, to my partner for playing so poorly, to my opponents for not giving them a good workout. I was mortified. I looked at my watch and counted the minutes until I could bury myself under the covers, forgetting my shame in the warm comfort of my sheets.

When the second set began, the blonde in the fuschia skirt hit a volley at my knee. It hit me hard, and when I looked up, she put a hand to her mouth, shielding her smile. Anger replaced the hot pain and fueled me through the next two games.

The smirks disappeared from the women's faces. I was on fire, making shot after shot. The last point was won with a volley planted right between blondie's legs. It was the beginning of a comeback worthy of a Lifetime movie.

And then it ended. We lost one point, then another, and suddenly the second set was lost. 6-2. We shook hands limply. I was unable to meet the other players' eyes as I uttered the words, "good game."

They walked off the court without looking back, laughing loudly.

The defeat was complete and utterly humiliating. I began apologizing to my partner, explaining my state of mind and my surprise over the intense competition of the match. She looked up at me and said, "As long as you played your hardest, it doesn't matter that we lost. We have the court for another hour, do you want to hit some more?"

And for the next sixty minutes, on the far court of this unfriendly club, we played and practiced, gearing up for the next match. Next week, I'll be ready.

Until then, I'll chalk up this complete defeat to a lesson in humility.