Reaching down

There's a copy of Wired that had been sitting by the toilet for much of the pandemic, awaiting attention. I got in one of those recycle or bust moods the other day, and started looking through it. There was an article in there by the current editor in chief about how he had run his best ever marathon (a 2:29, not shabby at all) at the age of 44. It was all about how not to set limits on onesself as an aging athlete, to fight past the voices in your head telling you you can't do this or that.

I wrestle with this on the tennis court a lot, especially when playing with my man Z. After his first time back, recounted above, he beat me 6-4 on Monday. Then both of us got our rackets restrung, and he got his regripped. To counter the influence of his fresh grip, I put some Gatorade in my bottle and even grabbed a headband from the sock drawer, but then forgot it in the mud room. Sigh.

But it was the Gatorade that was doing the trick. I had him down this morning 5-1, before he fought back to 5-4 and I was like, crap! I was fighting all the voices in my head calling me a chump for letting him back in the set, but I closed him out. It was not easy to quiet those demonic voices in my head telling me that he usually beats me, so it's not such a big deal... Or "why do you always fall apart like this?" I stayed in the points, made fewer mistakes, and let him beat himself.