The ball whizzed towards me, but I was ready. I mustered up all my remaining strength and whacked the ball straight down the line. Mike stood rooted to the spot and watched as the ball flew past him. He wasn’t even close.

I allowed myself a second of triumph before preparing myself for another serve. “Only one more point,” I told myself. “Only one more point and you’ll have won.”

“Won what?” another voice in my head asked me. “It’s just a friendly match, so what’s there to win?”
“Shut up,” I heard myself answering.

But I knew the answer perfectly well; I just didn't want to admit it. The answer was, of course, pride. I didn’t care if it was just a friendly match or a tournament final. Tennis was my life, and I shared that belief with people like Mike. We all endeavoured to someday hold up that Wimbledon trophy we’d seen on TV countless times. Every match was significant to us. If winning didn’t elevate our status, it elevated our self-esteem.

Mike was even more ardent about the game than me, if that was possible. Every match he played was a match he needed to win, big or small. He seldom lost, and I’d only ever seen it in person once, at a local competition. He was playing guy called Callum who was usually terribly mediocre.

But that day, Callum had a way of forcing Mike to chase down every single shot. Beads of sweat had started rolling down Mike’s face when he realised Callum was a force to be reckoned with. Callum took the first set 6-1, and never looked back. Mike clawed at every shot, frantic to even the score, but in vain. Callum concluded the match with an ace as fast as lightening, fastidiously aimed to barely graze the line. Needless to say, Mike was utterly devastated. He was so humiliated that he started to cry in the changing rooms.

But other than that incident, Mike was undeniably skilled. He was left handed, a somewhat unfair advantage that he held over everyone else. Where he lacked in height, he made up with surprisingly respectable serves, and his agility on court allowed him to amply return virtually every shot.

His next serve to me contained an abundant amount of spin. The ball bounced off into an entirely different direction within a fraction of a second of hitting the concrete. But again I was prepared; I returned a sharply angled crosscourt, but it seemed this time Mike was better prepared too. He returned it with a drop shot that hit the net cord and just made it over; entirely impossible for me to return.

It’s basic tennis etiquette to apologise to your opponent after hitting a net cord shot, but evidently the rules didn’t apply to Mike. Mike never admitted he did anything wrong on the court. He knew, as did I, that that shot had been won out of pure luck, and didn’t exemplify any skill on his behalf. Nevertheless, the score was now deuce. I had to win two points in succession to finish off the match.

I sighed and bent down again to receive another shot. I watched the ball come towards me again, but it hit the net before it reached me. I straightened up for a second, feeling Mike’s frustration, and then forced myself to focus again.

The second serve made it, but contained neither speed nor spin. I easily hit a powerful forehand back at him as he struggled to return it with his feeble backhand. His shot left him on the left side of the court, and I effortlessly directed the ball towards the right side. Even Mike wasn’t quick enough to sprint almost 10 metres in under a second.

Match point. In the end, this was what it came down to. I win this point, I win it all. Mike’s serve was a speedy one, and I returned it with some difficulty. But it had just made the boundaries, and Mike lost a precious second as he deliberated whether my shot had been wide or not. He sprinted across the court when he realised it was in, and just managed to return it with a calamitous lob.

He promptly ran backwards, bracing himself for the inevitable smash. But he knew it was over, as did I. He surveyed me motionlessly as I effortlessly loped forward and polished the match off.

I laughed out loud as a feeling of ecstasy filled me. I walked to the net, waiting for Mike to come forward and shake my hand; another basic tennis etiquette. But he didn’t bother. He was already walking towards the benches to pack his gear.

“Good game!” I yelled at him.

Mike glanced up from his bag and stared at me. “Whatever,” he shrugged. “It was just a game.”

I stood there watching him as he finished gathering his possessions and exited the court. His words echoed in my mind, over and over. It was just a game…

Was that really all it was?