Yesterday, the noises in the dining hall here at tennis camp were happy, chirpy and excited. New people to meet, common interests, and an appreciation for gourmet cuisine bound us together in joyful fellowship. We were all devout Tennisists, and away we'd come from our various parishes to fully immerse in the holy gospel of Tennisism.
Today, however, the air was very different - still sociable, but quieter and more humble. We'd seen the power of our maker on Saturday, and today, we were fully at his mercy. Fit looking men wearing slick tennis outfits hobbled across the dining room to the egg station. Women sheepishly asked the chef for a ZipLoc bag filled with ice. There were confessions all around. "I didn't sleep last night." "Everything hurts." "I can't sit down." "I lied - I actually haven't played in a year." "I feel like the walking dead." On the reception desk outside the dining hall, there sat an open 3,000-count bottle of ibuprofen gel caps. We all silently took our communion, washing it down with cups of slightly metallic water.
My group was called for the first session starting at 8:30 AM. There wasn't a chance in hell I'd be running before that, or doing anything besides putting my clothes on; and today I wore a lot less clothing than I did yesterday, simply because I couldn't bear to bend and add the extra layers. I'd rather suffer the cold walk to the courts.
With the weekend now coming to a close, and ten hours of tennis behind me, there's a certain sense of peace. At this moment, toxins and metabolic waste may course through my body, adhesion may bind my muscles, but through the power of Tennisism, I just know my soul is going to be saved.
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