As I turned into the parking lot at the tennis club the other day, I pulled my 1)visor over my face and 2)scooted down real low in the driver’s seat so nobody on my team would see me. They’ve 3)been after me for weeks, and they’re like: “Michelle, come on. We need you in the 4)lineup.” They are so 5)peer pressure! They totally know I’m not ready yet because I hurt my wrist and now I have to learn to 6)serve with my other hand. It could take years—ask anybody—for a former 7)leftie like me to develop a right-handed serve that’s good enough for competitive play. So I sneaked out of the car. Then I 8)crab-walked, all 9)hunched over, toward the privacy of the far court, where one of the club’s 10)pros, Rafael, would help me work on my serve. I did not get far.
“Michelle!” Oh no. Janet. My captain. “Are you going to play in the match next week?” she yelled at me from court three, where she was playing doubles. I 11)scuttled past. “Hey, come back here! Are you even on this team?” That was so embarrassing. I pretended I didn’t notice her, which was a 12)stretch, considering that she was barely four feet away and our eyes had 13)locked. But whatever. I was trying to ignore her because I just wasn’t ready. I needed more time to heal.
Just then, luckily, I saw Stacey, my tennis idol and former doubles partner, standing up on the 14)deck. She would have to protect me. I scuttled toward her. Then the worst thing ever happened: Stacey 15)turned on me, too. “Yeah, are you ever going to play again?” she yelled from the deck.
Good question. And before I answer it, I would like to make one thing clear. I know I am no longer in high school. But sometimes, tennis makes me feel as if I am. Maybe it’s the whole team thing. The last time I felt the same overwhelming social pressure to belong to a group, I was a teenager. And not just belong—I don’t want to let the group down. I want to make a difference. It’s a powerful feeling. I know some people get it at their 16)PTA or church or 17)local militia or whatever. Not me. With tennis, the team is me and I am the team. We are like 18)a pack of wild dogs. I am sorry, but it is true. When one of us brings down a baby 19)rhino we all get to 20)feast on its tender, baby rhino flesh. And after that? We might get to go to the 21)playoffs. Some day: a 22)trophy.
Does this make me pathetic? I don’t care. This tennis team matters to me, deeply. I love you, 23)dudes! And yet, that is why it has taken me awhile to rejoin my pack.
“It’s been two years,” Stacey pointed out, somewhat 24)disloyally as I 25)clattered past her, my face 26)crimson with shame.
“I’m ready to play,” I lie-whispered. “Any time the team needs me.” But, dying inside, I 27)slinked home as soon as I could. Later that afternoon, I was at my desk checking e-mail when a shock appeared in my inbox. It was from Janet. She had put me in the lineup! 28)OMG, OMG, OMG!
“I don’t think I can do this,” I said a few days later to Rafael, who also functions as our team coach.
“Why not?” he asked. “Are you sick?”
“No, scared.”
“Of what?” he asked.
“Embarrassing myself,” I said, kind of embarrassed to hear myself embarrassing myself in this way.
“You don’t need a hard serve to win,” he said. “All you need to do is get the ball over the net. Every time it comes to you. The winner, in tennis and in life, is usually the one with fewer 29)unforced errors.” He sounded like 30)Yoda, if Yoda were a tennis pro from Brazil.
I considered his advice. Hadn’t 31)Roger Federer himself just lost the United States Open championship match against 32)Juan Martín del Potro? Why? Because Federer had 62 unforced errors. The unforced error is when you beat yourself. The ball comes to you and you hit it into the net. Or you hit it long. Or you hit it onto the roof of Gary Burke’s car, in the parking lot, which I do, a lot. But the worst error of all is when you don’t even try.
On game day, I knew our opponents were going to be tough. During 33)warm-up, the tall one kept hitting fast, spinning serves. I knocked a couple toward Gary’s parking space just to show her that she didn’t scare me. But of course, she did. During the match, however, I stayed tough and maintained my focus. When she hit a 400-milean-hour drive straight at my kidneys, I played my game: the 34)dink. Soft returns, ridiculous 35)loopy 36)lobs and a serve that floated across the net like a 37)matzo ball made with love.
But a funny thing happened. My opponents kept 38)overhitting. Meanwhile, my partner, Cheryl, and I got most of our shots in. At one point in the second set, I even heard one of our opponents 39)hiss to the other, “But her serves are so soft…”“Float like a matzo ball, sting like a bee,” I thought. And 40)wafted another of 41)Nana’s 42)seltzer 43)specials over the net. We won, 6-2, 6-3.
A few hours later, after that first incredible 44)endorphin rush 45)subsided—and after I called everyone I know to shriek, “I won! I won!” into the phone, and after I texted my daughters at college with the news, and after I did a little secret victory dance in the shower—I realized that I couldn’t wait to play again. I was back on the Team.
前几天，当我把车驶入网球俱乐部的停车场时，我把帽舌往脸上一拉，尽量将身体往驾驶座的低处靠，避免让队员们看到我。他们已找了我好几个星期了，如果见到我，肯定会这样说：“米歇尔，振作点，我们的阵容不能没有你。”他们真是让我压力好大！他们非常清楚我还没准备好，因为我的手腕受伤了，现在我得学着用另一只手发球。这可能要花数年时间——随便去问问谁——像我这样一个原本是左撇子的人，要训练用右手去发球，还要熟练到能参加比赛，难度可想而知。于是我偷偷地下了车，弯腰弓步悄悄向远处球场的隐蔽处走去，在那儿，俱乐部的一位专业人员拉斐尔将帮助我练习用右手发球。可是，我还没来得及走远。
“米歇尔！”噢，不。我的队长珍妮特看到了我。“下周的比赛你要参加吗？”她从三号球场那里朝我大喊。那时，她正在练着双打。我急急忙忙逃开了。 “嘿，回来！你还是不是这支队的队员？”当时实在很尴尬。我假装没有注意到她，但也太假了，因为她离我仅四英尺远，我们也曾四目交会。但我不管了。我试图忽略她，因为我实在没有准备好。我的伤需要更多的时间来愈合。
幸运的是，就在这时，我看到斯泰西站在场地上。她是我的网球偶像，也是前双打搭档。她应该会保护我吧。我急步向她走去。接着，最糟糕的事情发生了：斯泰西也向我“开炮”。“是啊，你有没想过再次上阵？”她从场地那边朝我大喊。
问得好。作答之前，我得说清楚一点。我知道自己已经不是高中生了。但有时，网球让我觉得自己仿佛还是一名高中生。也许是因为“团队”这个东西吧。上一次我感到这样压倒性的团体社会压力时还是一个十几岁的少年。而且并不仅仅是属于这个团队这么简单——我不想让这个团队失望。我想有所作为。这是一种强大的感觉。我知道有些人会在家长教师协会、教堂或者当地民兵组织等各种组织里找到这种感觉。但我没有。当我打网球时，网球队就是我，而我就是网球队。我们就像一群野狗。我很抱歉这么说，但事实如此。假若我们当中有人猎到一头小犀牛，我们都会扑过去共同享受大餐。之后呢？我们可能会进入最后决赛。可能在未来的某天，我们会赢得一个奖杯。
这使我变得可悲吗？我不在乎。网球队对我来说非常重要。我爱你，队友们！而这正是为什么我要花一段时间去重振旗鼓。
“已经两年了，”斯泰西指出，仿佛在说我背叛了网球队。当我经过她身边时，我羞愧得满脸通红。
“我已经准备好了，”我低声撒谎道，“只要球队需要我。”但是，在内心深处，我已心灰意冷。我尽可能快地溜回了家。当天下午晚些时候，我在书桌前查收电子邮件时，突然看到收件箱有一封邮件。那是珍妮特发来的。她已经把我安排在比赛阵容里了！天啊，天啊，我的天啊！
几天后，我对我们球队的教练拉斐尔说：“我觉得自己没法参加比赛。”
“为什么呢？”他问，“你生病了吗？”
“没有，我就是害怕。”
“怕什么？”他问。
“怕自己出丑，”我说。当听到自己以这种方式说出自己的窘迫时，不免有点尴尬。
“你并不需要以猛烈的发球来取胜，”他说，“你只需要把球击到网的那边就行了，每次都要打过去。不管是网球还是生活中的赢家，通常都是那些主动减少失误的人。”他的话听起来像尤达大师，如果说尤达大师是来自巴西的职业网球选手的话。
我仔细考虑了他的建议。罗杰·费德勒不也是刚刚在美国公开锦标赛中败在了胡安·马丁·德尔波特罗手上吗？为什么呢？因为费德勒出现了62次主动失误。当你自己泄气时就会出现主动失误。球打到你这边，你却把 它打在了网上，或者把球打得太远了，又或者你把球打到了加里·伯克的汽车顶上、停车场里，而这些恰恰是我经常犯的错误。然而，最致命的错误是你根本不去尝试。
在比赛当天，我就知道对手将会非常强大。热身期间，那个高个子总是发出速度很快的旋转球。我接了几球，大力往加里停车的方向反击，向她表示她并没有吓倒我。但是，她确实把我吓倒了。不过，比赛期间，我保持顽强的态度，保持专注。当她以每小时400英里的速度回球，直击我的肾脏时，我巧妙还击：来个网前吊球。我使用的是软回球、滑稽的多圈吊球以及如爱心面饼般从网栏上漂过去的发球。
然而，有趣的事情发生了。我的对手一直击球过远。与此同时，我和我的搭档谢丽尔多数情况下能把球打到对方发球区内。在第二局的某个时刻，我甚至听到对手悄声对其队友说：“她发球这么轻，怎么还……”“漂浮得像一团面饼，蜇起来却像一只蜜蜂，”我想。然后网栏上又飘过我的另一个击球（编者注：这里用奶奶的苏打水饮料比喻击球）。我们赢了，第一局六比二，第二局六比三。
几小时过后，当最初那令人难以置信的激动之情消退后——在我给所有熟人打电话，对他们尖叫：“我赢了！我赢了！”、给我在读大学的女儿发短信、在浴室里悄悄地跳了会儿胜利的舞蹈之后——我意识到，我已经迫不及待地要归队了。我回到了网球队。