I am a shy person, an introvert. I squirm under new environments and freak out in situations involving new people. They’ll judge me. They’ll think I’m weird. I have low confidence and even lower self-esteem. Yet, I easily make friends and would be described as having a crazy, bubbly personality. I made it my goal as I entered middle school to compress my “unlikeable” traits. No one likes shy people. They are boring and weak. My life became a raging battle between extrovert and introvert. Eventually, outgoing won the war, killing off the shy soldiers as time continued. But deeply buried under the battlefield, reticence lingered—surrounded by muck and remains of the lost.

A drop of sweat leaps off of my chin, and plunges down to the ground. A slight pop is made as the perspiration lands. My breaths are long and heavy, trying to recover from the previous sprints. My feet stand strong on the court, body swaying in anticipation for the next move. The crisp sting of the sunlight hits my shoulders, and I squint my eyes, narrowing them down on my opponent.

I started playing tennis when I was 12 years old, and my coach would always tell our class, “Tennis is a mental sport. If you have a weak mind, you will become a weak player.” I always got nervous when he lectured us about mental toughness. Maybe because I had the weakest mental strength.  But I would never show it. Don’t reveal your weaknesses. Other times, our coach would show us tennis videos featuring Serena Williams in the Wimbledon championships or Roger Federer playing in the US Open. I sat in awe as pure focus was seen in the players’ eyes, every move being calculated. Everything was focused on the court, the game. Nothing else mattered.

“15-Love,” my opponent announced, bouncing the ball steadily with her hands. One, two, three. With her right foot back and her body crouched low, she smoothly tosses the ball into the air, shifting her racquet back and swiftly rising her body up. Her eyes stay focused on the object now well above her head, as her racquet increasingly made its way to the ball. I take a short, quick breath, tapping my thick shoes on the gritty court.

Seventy-two girls arrive at the Washington State King Co Tennis Competition. After checking in, they prepare at their representative stations. Each one ties their smooth, polished hair into a clean, tight ponytail. They stretch their athletic, toned arms and legs. Nike visors are strapped around their heads as they fiddle with their Babolat Pro racquets. The perfect tennis player.

The ball makes contact with the racquet, and the hollow pop of the impact cuts through the air. My eyes blur at the echo of the sound. The precise angle of the shot sends the object straight down the line. Raising my right arm, I powerfully snap the ball back, and the momentum carries me into the air. I am a strong, confident player. I must show her.

I always analyze my opponent before I play them. I watch her motives and study her mannerisms. I look at her shoes and her racquet. I analyze her groundstrokes while we rally. All the while, I am processing how I will destroy her. How I will win. I know that what I am doing is ridiculous. But am I alone??

The hits are continuous, with the ball constantly in motion. Every shot became the insecurities I needed to conquer. Destroy my self-doubt. Shatter my weak self-esteem. Every shot was fought for with all the determination I had. I finally get the point when my opponent slides into the net and misses the fuzzy, neon ball, letting it bounce softly as it trails behind her. Game, Set, Match. She collapses onto the gritty court and erupts into frustrated cries. The pang of her racquet rings throughout the court. I’m so sorry. Please don’t be upset… I say nothing and turn back to the baseline, waiting for her screams to fade.

I wash the grime and sweat off my face that accumulated from the day’s tennis matches. I scrub hard to release all the dirt under my skin, and gently pat my face with a towel. I look into the mirror, with my worn, stained tennis tank that boldly prints “Bothell Cougar Tennis!” in the center. My fresh, pure face stares into the mirror, and I try to imagine what I would look like if I were confident. If I didn’t care what other people thought of me. Am I shy, or outgoing? Is it me, or who I’m trying to be?