Advantage
written: 5:00 p.m. on Thursday, Feb. 26, 2009

Prima facie this shouldn't be personal. After all, in a game that starts with love, there is a winner and a loser in every match. It is how the game is played, how championships are won. You won. She lost. End of story - move on.

But you linger behind after game, set, match, hovering around her, wondering why she can't look at you, can't respond to your attempts to talk to her. It's nothing personal, you shout silently at her back, obstinately turned towards you. It's how things are supposed to be. I couldn't have let you won; that would have hurt more than breaking you at love in the final game of the match!

You always think you know what's best for her. You studied her game carefully despite her protests and claims that she didn't need your help. Yet you needled her into submission, acquiescence, with offers to carry her bags, string her racquets, buy a new outfit. You were there at every practice session, cheering her on when she botched a forehand, picking up her racquet when she flung it to the ground in frustration. After a while, your presence became a familiar feature in her quest for perfection. She started talking to you, telling you the thoughts that ran through her head every time she ran around her weakest shot to try and hit the perfect backhand; the fear of sending the ball flying if she didn't, the mental image of the ball tumbling out of the boundaries of the singles sidelines if she misfired yet another forehand. It was her Achilles' heel. She suffered her worst, most heartbreaking defeat at the mercy of an astounding number of unforced errors coming from the forehand side with her opponent allowing her to win one game in a two-set match. She sprained her wrist trying in vain to save match point with a running forehand that landed straight into the net. The only bright side was that, at least, that was the last point of the match.

You knew all this because she opened up to you. Every player had a favourite shot, but she had a hated one. You knew this. You also knew how desperately she tried to swing her forehand right, but most of the time it consistently failed to click. She allowed you into her game - into her head - into her heart - as she vented and ranted and cried to you when no amount of practice seemed to be making a difference. You consoled her, patted her on the back, promised that everything would be okay; promised that she would get better.

If this was a ploy to dig deep into her weakness and break her down by building her up, your plans were utterly perfect. Don't wonder why she turns her back to you; don't feel hurt that she doesn't cherish, or care about, the moments you spent cheering her on and conscientiously dissecting her game. There is no wonder when the evidence is clear: attacking her forehand from the first point of the match to the last, knowing she'd panic, forcing it to error. Your relentless pursuit of her forehand became an assault every time she tried running around it and going to her backhand; you just kept hitting the ball even harder to her forehand side. The ball, packed with so much spin, barely squeaked off her feeble racquet in the rare instances when she got anywhere near it; otherwise, she just stood there, mouth agape, as the ball casually skidded off the baseline of her forehand side.

If you thought it would be good for her, you thought wrong. At match point her erratic, desperate forehand sent the ball flying high, high, over fence, into the drain, and you cheered, your fist clenched, celebrating your victory. Must have felt good to win the match on her forehand error; must have felt good to know what would break her, then using that to break her at love. Your smile doesn't leave your face as you watch her stare despondently at the sky, then walk away without a word.

Prima face, this shouldn't be personal. There is a winner, there is a loser; it's how the game is played. Exploiting your opponent's weakness to your full advantage - that's also how the game is played. She knows this, and yet she doesn't. After all that you said, after all that you did, after everything that she said to you in open and unguarded honesty, you forced her to hit a forehand, then broke her at love. You left her grasping, flailing, without defences, no time to react. There is no wonder why she's got her back turned to you and doesn't respond when you call out to her. Some things are just unforgivable.

Maybe she should have learned to take the heat and conquer her forehand if she'd wanted to play the game. But maybe, too, this was a game that should never have been played: a game against someone that knew her too well. Far too well. Too well for comfort.

before sunrise // before sunset

Previously:
- - Tuesday, Aug. 29, 2017
I'm moving. - Sunday, Jul. 11, 2010
In all honesty - Tuesday, Jul. 06, 2010
What I want for my birthday... - Sunday, Jul. 04, 2010
On Roger's behalf. - Friday, Jul. 02, 2010