But lately the experts who dissect behavior patterns have begun to ruffle me with their accusations. On TV and radio, in books and magazines, they tell me I’m mistaken in thinking I play for the sheer pleasure of it. It’s a common form of self-delusion, I’m told, that leaves the victim completely unaware of the sinister forces operating below his level of consciousness. And it isn’t confined to recreational tennis players, but is shared by amateur participants in many sports. We’re all guilty.
According to the probers, the image we project of ourselves as jolly sports enthusiasts cavorting around a field, course, court or other area in order to get sun, fresh air and exercise is utterly false. The real motivations are disagreeable and sometimes contradictory. When I smash an overhead, for example, I may think I’m doing it to win the point; but I’m actually venting the hostility I’ve built up over an indefinite period of time toward my boss, my wife, my children, my co-workers, my landlord, my dentist, middle-of-the-night garbage collectors who bang pails under my window, drivers who cut me off on the highway – or the world at large. Unable to release my anger in other ways, I take it out on a defenseless tennis ball. It provides the relief I need and may keep me from becoming a menace to society.
If I say I like the game’s challenge, that I enjoy outmaneuvering my opponent and pushing myself to my physical limits, I’m sadly deceiving myself, according to the experts. What I really enjoy is that wonderful glow I get when I win. The thrill of triumph, the exultation of victory–that’s my only but unadmitted goal.
Do I claim that I play simply for my own satisfaction? Wrong, they say. It’s to excite the admiration of spectators. When I dash in pursuit of the bouncing ball. I’m striving to impress onlookers with the sight of a lean, muscular, well-tuned athlete who has lightning-quick reflexes and an uncanny sense of anticipation. To achieve this blatant ego-buttering, I’m prepared to drive myself to exhaustion, ignoring painful blisters, a gimpy knee and a severe tennis elbow.
Do I imagine that when I don my spandex outfit in the locker room, pump up my premium sneakers and pick up my custom-strung racquet that I’m simply preparing for a game? Not so. This is my way of advertising that I’ve attained a position in life where I can afford the equipment necessary to play tennis. And if I belong to an exclusive tennis club, I’m going several steps further to affirm my status.
If I were honest with myself, I’d admit that I’m into tennis for its material benefits–to promote myself in the business world by playing with company superiors who can advance me, or with power merchants with whom I’d like to make a lucrative deal. In either case, I wouldn’t hesitate to hit a ball into the net or over the fence, or to rub an overhead to soften my opponents into offering me what I’m after.
I may allege that tennis is ideal for me because it improves my muscle tone, helps control my weight, indulges my need to compete and instills a vibrant feeling of fitness, but in reality, the sport is nothing more or less than an elaborate means of filling several otherwise boring hours- a stopper to plug a gaping hole in the day. Solving crosswords, collecting grandfather clocks or learning to play the ukulele would fill that gap equally well.
As a male athlete, I take the court to prove my superiority to females–to flaunt my ability to serve harder, smash overheads with more finality, get to my opponent’s shots faster. This bolsters my self-esteem and justifies the energy, time and money I spend on a sport to whose finer points I’m oblivious.
The delvers into hidden motives aim their sharpest barbs at middle-aged athletes, of which I am one. We aren’t trying to conquer our opponents so much as we’re trying to conquer Father Time. By sticking stubbornly to a sport after we’re over the hill, we’re engaging in a frenzied Ponce de Leon pursuit of our lost youth. We want desperately to believe that we’re as vigorous as ever, that age has made no inroads and that we can perform as well as we used to, so we flounder around the court, trying to ignore telltale twinges and other cruel evidence to the contrary. And if we happen to win against someone younger, we’re ready to shoot off fireworks and proclaim a national holiday.
Do I believe in the sportsman’s code, that it’s not whether I win but how I play the game that counts? If I answer yes, I’m lying through my teeth, because what I want is not simply to overcome my opponent but to punish, grind him into the dust, humiliate him. Tennis offers me the opportunity to fulfill this sadistic urge. Finally, I took to the sport only because I was frustrated in another field of endeavor. My dream of becoming a world-famous architect, a concert pianist, a high-salaried corporation lawyer or a brain surgeon didn’t materialize, so I sublimated my ambition by substituting the tennis court and smashing the cover off the ball. This helped to erase my bitter disappointment and galling sense of failure.
Malicious and farfetched as some of these charges seem, I can’t help but wonder sometimes whether there may be a grain of truth concealed among them. Perhaps I’m not the innocent, pleasure-seeking athlete I think I am. Perhaps I’m a bundle of hostilities, an exhibitionist, a pathetic pursuer of vanished youth, an opportunist, a snob, a hypocrite or a sadist. The mere possibility that one or more of these may apply to me disquiets me enough to shake my concentration while I’m playing. That’s undoubtedly why, at match point of a tournament game last week, I hit my opponent’s easy serve into the net. At least, that’s my alibi.
