When you lose your (tennis) life, you find it.

Outwardly, I tried to appear happy when my 14 year old daughter told me she was going to take up tennis with the intent of making the high school junior varsity team.

She had been a good soccer player but was consistently injured while playing the game. The day came when we had to consider the long-term effect of these injuries. I loved watching her play and I enjoyed being with her and her peers while driving them to soccer games. I was as disappointed as she was when she quit the team.

I was rooting for volleyball to be her new sport. The opponents were safely on the other side of the net. I could sit in the consistent climatic comfort of a gym. No more huddling in a down blanket in October.

I wasn't happy about tennis because I knew what it would mean for me: playing tennis again.

The day before she made her tennis announcement I had decided that I hated tennis and would never play again. I had spent my youth playing tennis; tournaments, invitationals, a ranking in my home state, tennis teams, teaching tennis, a tennis life.. So why was I hating tennis? I was used to a certain level of tennis playing. Over the years I played less and less and got worse and worse. Tennis was no longer fun, and my husband was starting to beat me.

But...my daughter means more to me than my own life. I kept my anti-tennis resolution to myself and agreed to work hard with her in her tennis pursuits.

We spent hours on the court, sometimes twice a day; but it wasn't playing tennis, it was helping my daughter.

I analyzed and critiqued; I picked up balls while she practiced her serve or hit on the ball machine. I modeled footwork and strokes. As I transferred my knowledge to her, as her game improved, without intention or realization I was improving my own game.

In the week before tryouts, she started to play with friends who were anxious to make the tennis team too. Four days passed after playing twice a day matches, when she didn't have anyone to play with. "Mom, can we go play tennis?"

My opponent stood across the net. She hit her first ball. It came at me fast; I sent it back. I got my racket back sooner, stood on my toes ready for the return. It came, it went back. With a four day hiatus I came back to the court with fresh eyes. My daughter had dramatically improved, but so had I. We had become worthy opponents and we were having fun. It crossed my mind that maybe I liked tennis again.