Глава 1
When Tennis Becomes an Obsession: Finding Meaning on the Court
At forty-one, Scarlett Thomas picked up a tennis racquet after a twenty-seven year hiatus, igniting an obsession that would consume her life for the next year. What began as casual hitting sessions quickly escalated into a full-blown quest to see how far she could go in competitive tennis as a middle-aged woman. This raw, unflinching memoir has garnered praise from unexpected quarters-tennis legend Billie Jean King called it "a powerful exploration of midlife reinvention," while author Zadie Smith described it as "equal parts hilarious and heartbreaking." Thomas's journey resonates deeply with the growing movement of adults returning to childhood sports, seeking meaning beyond professional accomplishments. In an age where midlife crises often manifest in material purchases, Thomas chose instead to pursue athletic excellence with a single-minded determination that would ultimately push her to physical and psychological breaking points.
Глава 2
The Return to Tennis: Rediscovering a Childhood Passion
At forty-one, I returned to tennis after a twenty-seven year hiatus, stepping onto the court at the Indoor Tennis Centre with my cheap racquet and outdated technique. My first competitive match came in December 2013 against Karen, a solid doubles player who kept lobbing me as I gasped for air, dehydrated and struggling. Down three games to love, I remembered basic strategy-hit deeper to her backhand, serve deep, stay on my toes. Despite my limited skills (no second serve or two-handed backhand), I battled back to eventually win 10-8 in a grueling match where we had to go two games clear.
The victory was intoxicating. I continued winning in singles, defeating "Netball Hannah" 6-0 and Kofo 6-1. In the final against unbeaten Amie Tonkiss, my steady play frustrated her attempts at winners, and I surprisingly won 6-2. The trophy went on my mantelpiece, and I realized all I wanted was another one-a desire that would "almost kill me."
This obsession quickly took over my life. By January 2014, I was preparing for matches with fanatical dedication-arriving early at the tennis center wearing Stella McCartney for Adidas, nails painted to clash with my shoes, bag packed with knee braces, electrolytes, and pain relievers. Despite reading strategy books like "Think to Win" and "Winning Ugly," I discovered the reality of team tennis was far from my idealized vision of coordinated outfits and strategic partnerships.
I decided this would be my year of tennis-seeing how far I could get as a forty-one-year-old woman player. I had no concept of what "good" actually meant in tennis, just vague childhood memories of my mother saying I was "good enough for Wimbledon." I still clung to the belief that if I wanted something badly enough-if I trained, prayed, and paid for it-anything could be mine, completely unaware that every tennis parent and middle-aged wannabe in Britain felt exactly the same way.
Глава 3
The Past: Abandoned Dreams and Teenage Insecurities
I gave up tennis in 1986 at fourteen after going to boarding school, abandoning what had once been my defining passion. At my new school, lacrosse reigned supreme, with star players like Kate and Danielle from my form dominating the sports scene with their competitive achievements and social status. The shift was jarring - from being the local tennis prodigy to just another student trying to fit in. When I finally gathered the courage to play tennis at school, I discovered my classmates possessed sophisticated techniques and natural athleticism that made my once-special abilities seem ordinary.
During my first tennis lesson at boarding school, I experienced what athletes call "choking" - a devastating psychological collapse similar to what I'd later recognize in professional players like Eugenie Bouchard's infamous meltdown at the 2014 Australian Open. My arms became wooden, my coordination disappeared, and I developed "the Elbow" - that dreaded tension that transforms fluid movements into mechanical jerks. The pressure of performing in front of my peers, combined with my desperate need to maintain my identity as "the tennis girl," created a perfect storm of anxiety and failure.
I played against another student who wasn't even particularly focused on tennis, and she defeated me handily. The humiliation felt absolute and public. Rather than face this new reality, I orchestrated a complete identity transformation. I began using Victoria, my middle name, marking a clean break from my tennis-playing past. I immersed myself in the accepted culture of the school - taking up ballet and horse-riding, embracing lacrosse with forced enthusiasm, and adopting the typical teenage rebellions of smoking and obsessive dieting.
Yet tennis never completely left me. Throughout the years, I maintained a connection to the sport, keeping a racquet tucked away like a secret reminder of my former self. In casual games with boyfriends, my childhood training would resurface - the muscle memory of proper footwork, the instinctive ability to read ball trajectory. One particularly satisfying moment came when I challenged a smugly misogynistic friend who had bragged about beating his ex-wife to "prove" male superiority in tennis. Despite my rusty technique, I outmaneuvered him with strategic shot placement and quick court coverage, a victory that felt like justice for more than just tennis.
In 2007, riding the success of my first bestseller, I attempted a tentative reconciliation with tennis during a trip to Gozo with my mother. Using a borrowed racquet that had seen better days, I hired a local coach who immediately recognized potential in my play. However, I wasn't ready to commit to technical improvement - I simply wanted to feel the satisfaction of striking balls again. Later, I briefly joined Canterbury Tennis Club, but my return was cut short by an unsettling incident involving a male player's inappropriate behavior, pushing me away from the sport once again.
These scattered moments of my tennis history - the early promise, the teenage abandonment, the brief returns and retreats - created a complex tapestry of unresolved emotions and unfulfilled potential. As I approached my new tennis journey decades later, these memories served not just as reminders of what I'd left behind, but as fuel for what I hoped to reclaim and redefine on my own terms.
Глава 4
Tournament Circuit: The Brutal Reality of Competition
My first serious tournament in Leicester was a humbling experience. After booking the Hilton with its gym and pool, researching opponents' rankings, and arranging pre-tournament coaching, I arrived at the David Lloyd Tennis Centre Narborough feeling completely out of place. Instead of the glamorous venue I'd imagined with young, toned athletes and tiered seating, I found middle-aged players in ill-fitting tennis clothes in a desolate industrial estate.
My first opponent, Natalia Lozano, a Spanish-looking woman with a self-assigned 7.2 rating, immediately demonstrated her skill with powerful topspin shots and even a between-the-legs "hotdog" return during warm-up. Her serve was devastating-three aces in her first game. She had the killer forehand I'd always coveted, and I lost the first set 4-0 in a blur. In the second set, I concentrated harder and managed to take two games, but her professional-sounding grunt and powerful shots overwhelmed me.
After losing, I entered the consolation draw against Charanya Ravi, a student with a 9.1 rating. We were forced to play outside on frozen Astroturf in frigid conditions, but I won 4-2, 4-1, advancing to the consolation final. For the final against Sally Foster (8.2), I had to negotiate to avoid playing outside in the dark. The tournament organizer initially claimed I was only guaranteed two matches, not three, but eventually found us an indoor court.
Our match became boring middle-and-deep rallies, with neither of us hitting out properly. I wasn't grunting or finishing my shots. She won the first set 4-1, and when we were at 3-2 in the second set, Kevin arrived with his clipboard, expecting Sally to finish me off quickly. I lost focus completely, and Sally served like she really wanted the win.
Back at the Hilton, despite my disappointment, I realized I did reach a final and beat someone in my first tournament. I later discovered Natalia was ranked in Spain's top twenty as a junior, making my two games against her seem more impressive. Despite the discouraging experience, I immediately began looking for more tournaments to enter.
This pattern would repeat itself throughout the year-moments of promise followed by crushing defeats, consolation draws, and the occasional unexpected victory. Each tournament taught me something new about myself and the competitive tennis world I was trying to break into.
Глава 5
The Coaches: Technique, Ego, and Divided Loyalties
My relationship with my coaches became increasingly complicated as my tennis obsession grew. Initially, I worked exclusively with Dan at the Indoor Tennis Centre, who had asked me to be his doubles partner in a league match despite my painful knees requiring braces. Though terribly nervous and initially playing poorly, we won our first match 6-3, 6-3. Dan later casually mentioned I'd be playing again the following Thursday, beginning a pattern where I became increasingly dependent on his approval.
During our sessions, Dan introduced unusual training methods-having me pretend to be a peacock while he pretended to be a dolphin, a technique from his Level 4 coaching training. As I preened with splayed "feathers" and Dan bobbed around clicking like a dolphin, I discovered I was hitting surprisingly good topspin forehands by exaggerating my preparation. Later, I became a cat and Dan a hamster, though he still won our match.
My coaching relationship took a dramatic turn when I began secretly training with Josh, Dan's colleague and competitive rival. Josh offered more structured coaching than Dan's music-filled hitting sessions, teaching me a full western grip and calling Dan's approach "old-fashioned." Unlike Dan, Josh balanced criticism with praise, though I noticed he didn't speak as admiringly of Dan as Dan did of him.
When Dan inevitably discovered my sessions with Josh, he was clearly hurt but quickly recovered his cheerfulness, suggesting we meet up to play in Devon. The tension between the coaches mirrored my own internal conflicts-wanting to improve technically with Josh while maintaining the emotional support and friendship Dan provided.
Josh eventually became my primary coach, pushing me to exhaustion in two-hour sessions. Our relationship remained confusingly playful; he would put insects in my hair one moment, then transform into a serious coach the next. After one particularly effective session where I hit winner after winner, Josh confirmed what I feared: Dan's coaching had set me back nearly a year with bad habits. "He's just holding you back," Josh said.
This triangle of divided loyalties became emblematic of my tennis journey-constantly torn between competing approaches, personalities, and philosophies, never quite finding the perfect formula for success.
Глава 6
The Physical Toll: When the Body Rebels
My body was not designed for the punishment I was putting it through. After buying new Adidas shoes in January, I nearly broke my toe trying to stop suddenly during practice. The nail turned completely black, and neither my dismissive doctor nor the nurse at Minor Injuries were particularly helpful. My catalog of injuries continued to grow-micro tears in my right calf, tight left calf, problematic knees, and a sore right arm from my newly strung racquet.
When I complained to my osteopath Charlotte Webb about my entire right side giving up, she simply laughed and pointed out I was playing tennis "about twenty times a week." The higher string tension on my racquet gave me more control but less power-perfect for pros who generate their own power but need precision. Unfortunately, this combined with my intense forehand practice created a painful red line from my shoulder to my fingertip.
During the Canterbury tournament, I struggled through my singles match against Siobhan despite taking the first set 6-3 with powerful baseline play. My body felt broken-concrete calves, collapsed arches. I reluctantly tried orthotics during a mix-in session at Polo Farm, where Carol Bye recruited me for Canterbury's East Kent league team.
After playing with Nick at the Sandwich tennis club and winning easily against our opponents, I developed mosquito bites that later became infected. At urgent care, nurses were baffled by the strange circular patterns spreading down my legs. I was given antibiotics, steroids, and antihistamines which eventually worked, though the ghost of the rash remained for weeks. I wouldn't feel quite right again for almost three years.
Despite these warning signs, I continued pushing my body to its limits. I was obsessively cycling through diets, trying to lose weight despite warnings from friends. My body was changing-I was down to under 30% body fat and looking more athletic-but at what cost? Tennis had become a rectangular sanctuary where I could hide from life indefinitely, safe within invisible walls, even as my physical form was breaking down.
Глава 7
Mental Game: The Psychology of Winning and Losing
The mental aspects of tennis proved far more challenging than the physical ones. I discovered I played tennis as I lived life: safely, without risk. Deep down, I didn't want to crush opponents-I wanted tennis to be beautiful, cooperative, eternal. I realized I was clinging to my teaching job for security when I could be doing something I enjoyed more.
Playing with Lee, I finally committed to my A game, focusing on breathing and hitting every shot like I meant it. My serve improved dramatically after watching Nadal clips. I beat Lee 6-3, 6-1, and decided to quit my job to become a yoga teacher-a decision directly influenced by my tennis experience.
I struggled with anxiety most of my life, worsening after an abortion in my teens though I couldn't blame it all on that. As a child, I was terrified of disasters, making my family practice fire drills. My anxiety fluctuated with caffeine, alcohol, sugar, and stress. When we moved seaside in 2010, my forty-five-minute commute to the university became unbearable-I'd shake, cry, and fear losing control while driving down one particular straight road.
A transpersonal therapist helped me develop spirituality and unleash "Scary Scarlett," while reducing my university hours improved things further. Now I wondered if tennis was affecting my mental health. I never drove motorways, taking circuitous routes instead. Heading to a match in Maidstone, I experienced vertigo crossing a bridge-what if the problem wasn't outside me but inside?
The psychology of competition was equally challenging. I discovered I could hit drive volleys-powerful, frightening winners-when I stopped overthinking and just played. In Nottingham, I thrashed Lynn Coppell 6-0, 6-2 in a magical performance where I decided to just go for my shots and have fun. Josh texted that another win against an 8.1 player could get me bumped up to 7.2.
But the next day, facing Emma Kingzett in the blazing sun, I was constantly distracted by thoughts of the LTA rating and heatstroke. Somehow I clawed back to win the first set in a grueling 11-9 tiebreak. The second set was equally torturous-I tried playing recklessly to end points quickly and went up 5-1, but then choked while serving for the match. After squandering three match points, I finally won with a backhand that set up an easy volley. It was the hardest match I'd ever played, not physically but mentally, as I was my own worst enemy.
Afterward, I felt oddly empty. Winning felt like "carrying a small, fragile bird-open your hands too much and it flies away, close them too much and you crush it."
Глава 8
Seniors' Wimbledon: The Ultimate Test
Less than a week before Seniors' Wimbledon, I was struggling to maintain my meditation practice and feeling far from calm. My preparation was chaotic-visiting my dad Gordian in hospital after lung surgery, playing mixed doubles matches, and experiencing a disastrous ladies' doubles match that made me question my Wimbledon aspirations. I was obsessing over white outfits and playing five hours of tennis when I should have been tapering. The night before my match, I vomited from nerves.
Arriving at Wimbledon felt surreal. The Aorangi courts were beautiful-twenty perfect grass courts under a cloudless sky. I entered through the "PLAYERS' ENTRANCE" with impossible excitement, feeling like I belonged despite my nerves. The changing rooms were luxurious with white towels, multiple toiletries, and attendants.
Walking to Court 17 with Rod, my opponent Sue, and match balls, I was too nervous to speak. I won the toss and put Sue into serve, hoping to use her service game as an extended warm-up. My strategy worked better than expected-Sue double-faulted three times, putting me up 0-40. Though I lost the next two points, I won the first game, then the second and third, as Sue made numerous mistakes that I managed to capitalize on despite my scrappy play. I struggled to find rhythm, my forehand faltered, and I wasn't hitting aggressively enough, but Sue's serving woes continued. I won the first set 6-2, then the second by the same score, beating the second seed in a convincing victory.
I couldn't believe I'd won! After shaking hands with Sue, I went to the control room where the official congratulated me on beating the second seed. In the changing rooms, I felt a sense of belonging I'd never had before. I took a long shower using All England Club toiletries, savoring every moment.
My semifinal against Chantal Kilov was scheduled for the next day. She was a 6.1 player who played daily; I was an 8.2 underdog. My plan was to play relaxed while she felt the pressure, but I was already tense and anxious. When we were finally called, we were sent to remote courts far from the main grounds-no audience, no atmosphere. Though I won the first point with a nice forehand and held my first service game, it was the only game I won. Chantal played consistently better on every point. After losing, I left quickly in tears, feeling the magic broken.
Back in the changing rooms, I sobbed in the shower, feeling like a failure despite nearly making the national top ten. I felt like an outsider again, wondering what to do next. I decided I must give up tennis-I was too old, too inexperienced, too prone to psychological collapse.
Глава 9
The Aftermath: Breakdown and Recovery
After Seniors' Wimbledon, Josh excitedly told me I was now ranked 8th in the country for over-40 women. When he checked my world ranking, he was shocked to discover I was 131st in the world for my age group. This changed something-I was a world-ranked player now. Days later, I discovered I'd somehow risen to 6th in the GB rankings without playing another match.
Despite my rankings success, being at the tennis center became stressful-I was the woman with the world ranking who still fluffed easy shots. Though back teaching after study leave, I still fit in 4-5 hours of tennis daily. Rod took up tennis just to see me.
Then during a hitting session with Dan, everything started spinning. I nearly fainted, insisting it was just anxiety. But soon I was "allergic" to the ITC, feeling faint every time I visited. I wondered if it was the lighting, dehydration, or even Lyme disease from summer insect bites. Like someone dancing the tarantella or wearing enchanted red shoes, I simply could not stop-until eventually I could barely stand up anymore.
Four years later, I was in my fifty-sixth therapy session with clinical psychologist Professor Roger Baker, doing what he called "mopping up." My nervous breakdown began with those dizzy spells at the tennis center that spread to every aspect of my life. Despite being incredibly fit (confirmed by a cardiologist), I was plagued by palpitations, panic attacks, and an inability to function normally.
My recovery took over two years, not the simplified "three months" I told people. Through therapy, I processed past traumas, including an abortion from 1989, family issues, and the death of my beloved stepfather. I learned that I was essentially "a mass of phobias" but otherwise psychologically sound. The most important lesson: overcoming anxiety requires not being afraid of it, accepting what is.
I still don't fully understand why I crashed when I did-why my joyful tennis obsession turned destructive at that particular moment. I've tried returning to tennis but never overcame the anxiety of competing. I've since tried ballet, running, and cycling instead. But do I miss tennis? Hell, yes.
Глава 10
Finding Meaning Beyond the Score
Tennis gave me something I hadn't found in my successful writing career-objective achievement. During a January lunch with novelist David Flusfeder, I showed him my tennis trophies from the Christmas Tournament. I explained how proud I was of these small, cheap trophies-more than my Elle Style Award or Orange Prize for Fiction nomination-because with tennis, you win based on objective points, not judges' opinions.
What began as a simple desire to improve at a sport became a quest for meaning and validation. I wanted to be "so good that everyone complains," to be the woman everyone stopped to watch. Instead, I discovered the limits of my body, my mind, and my talent. Yet along the way, I also found unexpected joy in the pure physicality of the game, in hitting a perfect shot, in the camaraderie of fellow tennis obsessives.
Watching Sammie easily beat Lynn 6-1, 6-1, I learned she trained five times weekly with a head coach at 50/hour plus personal training three times weekly-over 500 weekly in coaching alone. I realized there would always be players with more natural talent, more resources, more time to dedicate to the sport. The question became not whether I could be the best, but whether I could find satisfaction in my own improvement.
Tennis taught me that winning feels like "carrying a small, fragile bird-open your hands too much and it flies away, close them too much and you crush it." Perhaps the most valuable lesson was learning to hold that bird with just the right touch-to care deeply without being consumed, to strive without destroying myself in the process.
Though my tennis journey ended in breakdown rather than triumph, it revealed truths about myself I might never have discovered otherwise. In the rectangular sanctuary of the tennis court, I found both my limits and my potential-a paradox that continues to shape my understanding of what it means to succeed, to fail, and to simply play the game.
