A day in the life of a tennis player: Part 1

I felt an acute pain around the fleshier side of my behind. A voice for whom I’ve grown to reserve my most unadulterated hatred over the past 16 years orders me to get out of bed. In all my grogginess, I can judge by the bored tone of the crickets outside, and the fact that even the sun hasn’t seen it fit to show its red face, it should be five o’ clock in the morning.

I try a feeble attempt at haggling for five extra minutes of sleep to erase out the feeling of stabbing the man owning the voice with a knife. Sadly I’m rewarded with a harder kick and a threat involving my face and the colours black and blue. A Nazi mass-murderer in Israel couldn’t have been more serious.  I mentally scream a perfect swear word sexually connecting the man and a donkey, and turn methodically to my right hand side, careful not to do it too fast. As I turn, I instinctively roll over on my tummy and slowly stretch my back as I rise, filling my lungs with the cold morning air.

Everything I do in my life runs on the principle of regimented perfection. Rising too fast or with a jerk, my father says, gives a head-rush. The body must not be exerted immediately after rising. The way I rise, almost like a cat-stretching its back to prepare for the day is as important as the rest of my routine. I have been trained to perform each task in a manner that ensures my physical self remains as fit as a Lamborghini fresh out of the factory. My father even kicks me on my butt to ensure nothing happens to my back, or torso. The butt only feels the sting of a slap or a kick, nothing really happens to it. It’s all fat, or in my case – muscle.

“Good morning, sir!” I mumble looking straight into my father’s eyes. He nods. There is no emotion, no love, no affection. Simply, a go-ahead for the rest of day’s ordeal. I now have exactly 25 minutes worth of bathroom access, to do whatever I please there. How I divide my time between the toothbrush, toilet-paper and face-wash is my problem, but I must be out, in not a minute more having used all three. I’ve read stories about how Germans are meticulous about order. My father can calmly give them a run for their Euros. Before my time starts though, I have to pray.

I trek to the corner of the room, where the gods are kept. I am born a Hindu, and my family is extremely religious. I worship five Gods.

I pick a flower from an assortment that are sent to our house every evening by the local florist and keep it in front of a framed picture of the God of War, Rafael Nadal. I follow this procedure three more times offering my respects to the Mother Goddess, Stefanie Graf and the original father of the Gods, Rod Laver.

Fed Ex: My lord and saviour.

I then turn to the largest frame among the others. The King of the Gods: Roger Federer. I take a little water in my palm, pouring some on the frame before drinking a few drops to break my fast. Looking at him I recite my prayer…

“I will win the Australian Open. I will win the French Open. I will win at Wimbledon. I will win the US Open. I will win at Wimbledon more than once. I will hit a thousand balls a day. I will rally till I can stand no more. I will die, but I will not leave the ball untouched. I will defeat my opponent, but respect his loss. I will show no weakness. I will show no emotion”

I look at Federer’s picture. It’s all in the eyes, my father drills to me all the time. Though I have a policy to disagree with everything my father says on principle, I can’t win the argument here. There’s a steel like coldness with which Federer stares at his opponent during a match (and the ball during a rally). Everything you want to know about how your opponent will play is hidden right there. I’ve been taught how to pick the slightest hint of a weakness in the pupils of my opponent, and capitalise on that moment to cheat fate. Tennis is a cruel sport. I’ve seen players who could easily glide to the top twenty by virtue of the quality of their game, piss themselves like overexcited dogs during the most crucial moments in a match. A five setter in tennis combines the physical exhaustion of a 90 minute football match and the mental fatigue of an even longer chess match.

How do I know this? I was fairly fantastic at all three in my childhood. It’s not like I have a huge sense of pride, I just understand the depth of how good I was. When my mother died, my father couldn’t bear the thought of his only son spending hours in front of a black and white board or sharing the limelight with 10 others football players. The former was too gay, the latter too dependent on someone else. Father wanted glory to march according to his terms. My studs were burnt and board locked away. I was given two extra rackets; a tame sort of compensation. Chess for me now, is only a tool to build up my mental concentration. My father uses it to see how well I can manage under pressure. I am not allowed to play football.

After I am done washing up, I head to the kitchen where I eat my breakfast. I crack two eggs in the mixer; add two cups of milk and a pinch of salt. I mix this for 15 seconds and guzzle it down. Earlier I’d add two spoons of sugar, but my father says I’m grown up now. Eggs and milk give me the protein I need to survive my day. My friends find this disgusting, but the way I’ve been bought up, I eat what I get, when I get it or don’t eat at all. Either way, I don’t want to collapse while playing….

To be continued…