Blame Tracy Austin

Tracy Austin is the reason I’m not a multi-million dollar tennis star with a lucrative announcer gig upon retirement.

From 9 to about 14 years old, I was playing in the junior circuit. I’d been playing the sport since I was old enough to hold a racquet upright. I was pretty darn good too.

At one point, a former Wimbledon champion who had retired in Palm Springs wanted, nay begged, to take me on as her project. She wanted to coach me, shape me, mold me, model me after her own form.  I, however, had different plans. I was a blossoming adolescent with free-flowing hormones running amok, and my concentration soon vacillated between that little yellow bouncing ball, bell bottoms, and boys.

Then I met Tracy Austin in the semi-finals of a tournament. She was younger and much tinier than I. A seeming little kid who spanked me in two sets. I don’t think I got a game. Until then, I had been the star of my little corner of the court. I was emotionally unprepared to deal with this level of defeat. And from a tot too! (When you’re 13, anyone younger is a toddler). 

I soon dropped out of the juniors and jumped into the social fray of high school. Sure, I lettered in varsity tennis (and badminton, softball, and basketball), but the fire to compete at the elite level had been snuffed out by a nine-year-old with a wicked backhand.

So today, many (many!) years later, I still play socially and competitively at a club level. And the cool thing is, through my job I sometimes get to interview tennis legends, like Billie Jean King and Rafael Nadal.

But I’m still waiting for my chance to payback, er, I mean interview Tracy.