It is 12:40; I now have 20 minutes left to get ready for my match, with this in mind, the anticipation starts building up inside of me. I squeal my way through the large crowd of people who, with their eyes, are all trying to follow the tiny black speck flying around the large glass court. I make a few sharp turns, past the change room and beyond the empty lobby towards the gym. With my hair high in a ponytail, my shoes tied tightly around my feet and my sweat pants so baggy I can barely feel them, I feel as though I am made to move.

I step onto the track that’s wrapped all the way around the huge room, and take off. My feet feel lighter than a feather, bouncing up and down on the ground. Consequently, all the bangs, groans, movements and people in the gym seem to disappear. All I hear are the booms and pumps of the music blaring so loudly in my ears. The upbeat sounds make me forget everything going on in my life. I am the only person in the world, with one goal, play the best possible game I can.

As I make my way back towards the courts and see the crowd, even bigger than before, the nerves start to hit. I hear two simple words come out of the referee’s mouth, “match ball”. It is almost my turn. Immediately, I scrambled around the corner and scan the pile of bags trying to find mine. I eagerly remove my earphones and grab my racket and glasses. The room bursts with cheers and claps from the crowd, the match is over. Finally, it is my turn.

I place my clean towel and half empty bottle of blue Gatorade beside my dad sitting on the bench. I rush to get onto the court before my opponent so I can warm up my forehand first. The strong familiar odour of sweat and 50-year-old dust overwhelms my nostrils. I pick up the ball with my racket and with all the power built up inside of me I hit the ball like I’ve never hit it before. The ball catapults to the wall and smacks against it with a huge splat. The racket fits in my hand similarly to puzzle pieces fitting together. The movement my body makes and the sound of the ball hitting the wall and my racket is like a rhythm that takes over me. Although I took my earphones out a few minutes ago, I still hear my overpowering music on repeat in my head. I am so lost in this moment, I barely notice the huge man twice my size to my left hitting the same ball against the same wall with the power of a bullet shot from a gun. In reality, I should be scared of him, but I am more scared of myself. I cannot mess this up.

I look out the glass wall at the attentive crowd of people, watching my every move, every mistake. I recognize all of their faces, however, I’ve never felt so intimidated. I try to pull my eyes and thoughts away from them, but they are so close. I hear the referee vaguely through the cracks in the door say “time”. We spin the huge man’s racket to see who serves. It lands up; I said up, it’s a good start. I exit through the door and plop down beside my dad on the crooked wooden bench, it sinks down a bit lower to the ground with a creek. As I sip on my Gatorade, I listen to my dad’s crucial advice; “keep it deep, cut the ball off and move your feet”. As much as he can tell me what to do and how to win, it’s up to me to pull it all off.

I walk nervously back into the court, I shake my opponents hand firmly and wish him luck. I grab the ball off the ground and head to the right service box, it seems so far away. Everything I’ve learnt the past 7 years is all about to come out in this moment. I am nervous but excited, anxious but hesitant, scared but confident. Through the glass I hear the same line I’ve heard so many times before, naturally, I remember it like the lyrics of my favourite songs. “Men’s B first round match, Sam to serve, love all, good luck guys”. It’s now or never.