Winning Ugly

I'm currently obsessed with reading Brad Gilbert's book, Winning Ugly: Mental Warfare in Tennis - Lessons from a Master. Mental warfare. Love it. I'm completely fascinated with how overwhelmingly mental tennis is for not only professionals, but also seasoned recreational players. My practice opponent tonight, Christine, was talking about a group of women (including me) who will all be playing as part of a charity league this fall; who she's beaten, who beats her, and so on, but then she said, "well, you know, we really are probably all the same ability level, it's just a matter of who competes better on a given day."

Mental warfare. Recognize, Analyze, Capitalize.

The two major obstacles to my having been a world-famous, rich-as-fuck, widely-adored professional tennis player were my susceptibility to injuries and my mental weakness. One lost point would lead to another would lead to another, and soon I'd be spiralling downward into doom and the loss of a set after being ahead 5-0, 40-15. I would probably be crying at the end of the match. Fucking pussy. Mental warfare, baby, you're out there to win! As a kid I never thought about the mental stuff, I just went out and played with my friends while fantasizing that Andre Agassi would one day discover my unique, misunderstood beauty and profess his undying love for me.

I want to develop my mental focus to the point where I can consistently win against equally-abled players. I want to get my brain in shape. Like I've mentioned before, I think I'm on to something here - brain control through tennis, brain control in rest of life. Es posible, no?

Tomorrow, my goals are to employ excellent footwork throughout my entire match and to not talk to myself. Talking to one's self is another one of those mental things; if you're playing an opponent who is clearly and audibly frustrated with her game, you get a pleasing little boost that can often turn into stronger play and more opportunities to win. I would also like to go out there and work my ass off, fighting for every single point and every goddamn game. I want to come home covered in layers of sweat and salt and filth, feeling like I've just run a fucking marathon in Arizona. I could come close to that; we're playing in Folsom (yes there is a prison there) where the expected high is 99. Hot damn!