The First Strike: When Your Serve Demands More Than Just Entry
The synthetic strings bit into the worn yellow felt, a sound barely audible above the hum of the court. You tossed the ball, a familiar weight in the palm, and then, a pat. Not a whip, not a crack, just a polite push. It floated over the net, soft, spinless, a medium-long offering that landed somewhere near the service line.
Your opponent, already coiled, saw it coming. A slight shift in their weight, the almost imperceptible licking of lips that signaled predatory intent. Before you could even think of recovering your stance, the ball was back, a blistering winner screaming past your ear. The point lasted barely a second and a half. This isn’t just about tennis, is it? It’s about every moment you’ve started something, anything, with the intention of merely *participating* when you should have been *dictating*.
“For years, that was my serve. An obligation. A way to get the game moving. I’d stand at the baseline, heart thumping, not with the thrill of battle, but with the quiet dread of missing the first ball, or worse, setting up my opponent for an easy put-away. It felt like walking into a conversation already three steps behind, having offered up a weak, apologetic opening statement.”
The net always seemed five feet high, and the court twenty-five yards wide. It wasn’t about winning the point; it was about not losing it immediately, a subtle, but profound, difference that shaped











