The Players: Debi The Sub

Debi the Sub and I know each other from my working-in-an-office days.  Back then she was Debi the Freelancer, essentially filling the same role as she does now: stepping in to do a job that no one else is available to do.

Debi the Sub grew up playing tennis but hadn’t picked up a racquet in over twenty years before this summer.  Our tennis together started out rough, with her being so unconditioned that she could barely hit for 20 minutes straight.  But we went out alone once or twice a week for a while and she improved dramatically each time. I guess that’s the difference between learning the game as an uncoordinated, middle-aged wannabe and growing up going to tennis camps. 

At first she would only hit one-on-one with me, but eventually I talked her into playing doubles.  She barely knew the game—growing up playing singles -- but was eager to learn.  She has a great groundstroke and can get almost anything back from the baseline, but she didn’t understand how to play the net, either psychologically or physically.  I shared with her the few things I’d picked up after five years and five hundred thousand dollars of tennis instruction.  She catches on easily so, again, her game changed quickly.

Debi the Sub fits right in to my tennis world in that, like most of the rest of us, she’s a strong woman with a delicate emotional state.  Most of us are like that: we present well in modern society, but our psyches rest tenuously on houses built of cards.  As a group, we embody every imaginable phobia and compulsion known to man.  It’s this shared psychodrama that makes our tennis so lively.

One day, four of us were playing a game and Debi the Sub and I were winning.  This is not a typical state of affairs for us.  We lose most of the matches we play together.  But we were taking point after point and we were both a little giddy as a result.  In between points, she came over to hand me balls and said in a low, excited way, “We’re invincible!”

I was feeling the same way and squealed quietly in agreement.  From that point on, we went down.  Debi the Sub knew as well as I did what had happened.  We got cocky, which always backfires.  We lost point after point, knowing full well that we had set this particular spiral in motion with our arrogant proclamation.  We also knew the only way to set things right was to repent. 

“We suck,” we would say to each other quietly, hoping the Universe would heed our atonement.  Even if we won a point, we would say, “That was good, but we still suck.”

I can’t remember whether we ultimately won or lost that game, but it solidified for me that she was a kindred spirit.  It’s almost impossible to try and vet out viable subs for my groups.  How can you say to someone: you need to be serious, but not too serious?  Fun, but not distractingly silly?  Competitive, but not haughty?  Neurotic, but in the right ways and not to a paralyzing degree? 

That you must completely understand and comply with the laws of Tennis Karma, which are unspoken and changeable, yet fully knowable if you are paying any attention at all.  When you find someone like that, you must make sure that all your players put her on their sub list.  And if she can ace her serve, like Debi the Sub, you must move her right to the top.