Winning: the devil in disguise

I hate Winning. She’s the toxic relationship that lives in my head, making me feel like I’m superior to everything else in the best moments and inferior in the worst. It’s her watchful eyes that taunt me on the court now, daring me to hit the tennis ball in that corner where I know my opponent won’t get it. I hate Winning, but I used to be in love with her.

Nine years ago, my shots were effortless and effective. That’s when Winning came into my life as the more I played, the more often she appeared. 

“Left… crosscourt… winner!” She would whisper in my ear and I swear I could feel her breath on my neck. Just like that, we were the dream team: she fueled the fire in me that gave me the confidence I needed to beat my opponents and all I wanted to do was make her proud. 

I was so close. I had coaches lined up from Europe eager to mold me into a tennis phenomenon. They saw I had potential but I argued it was because Winning was my best friend.

But I failed to make her proud. She started threatening me when I rejected those coaches’ offers, when over time I stopped picking up my racket, so much so that nine years later, on my tennis team, her whispers started disappearing.

I remember the day they did. Out in the sweltering heat, I lunged for the ball, barely making it over the net, winning the match point. 

“You did it!” exclaimed Winning. I wanted to embrace that high of victory but my heart only felt empty looking at my opponent slamming her racket to the ground, in defeat.

That’s when I realized, what was the point of Winning? She made some people feel good but destroyed others.

Here’s the trouble with Winning: once you start hating her, you end up only wanting her back. So I spent three tennis seasons grasping for her again, only to see her on the opposite side of the court, with my opponent. 

Once she slipped from my hands, she left me covered in envy that clouded my purpose on my team. I was at the top of the ladder, yet I had accomplished nothing and Winning knew that.

However, there came a point where the more I forgot what Winning looked like, the more at ease I felt with losing. I realized there was a purpose for me playing the game: it wasn’t about Winning, it was about the experience of playing the game.

There was power to losing. Without the watchful eyes of Winning judging my every move, I did not give her the chance to fuel my ego, instead, I embraced the freedom of playing without her constant whisper in my ear.

Winning is perhaps the biggest devil in disguise. Everyone always wants her but nobody wants the consequences she brings.

Now if Winning is the devil, then I must be her arch nemesis because after nine years of playing this cruel game of tennis I can confidently say I beat Winning.