“10-5 match ball.” The referee’s words echo on the squash court walls.

My body is drenched in sweat, simultaneously alert and numb. I wipe my hand on the wall, a wall at which I am angry for failing me. My fingers clench the tacky yellow grip of my sleek racket, a racket at which I am angry for letting me down. I prepare for my opponent’s serve with primitive desperation, as I raise up onto my toes and feel my body tense. As my eyes sharpen, my mind flashes back to the past few weeks—running in the beating sun, forcing myself to continue as I gasp for air and embrace the deep burning sensation in my legs and chest. I reflect back on the countless hours spent practicing on court: drive, volley, drop. Trying to perfect every stroke and every shot so that I am primed to perform at my best in tournaments. But most of all, I think of the months preceding my training. The relentless days spent in physical therapy having to learn how to walk properly, and the distant dream of possessing the ability to move like an athlete after being shut down for nine months with a crippling injury. I think of the days I decided I would quit, only to continue with my rehabilitation and training program the very next morning. 

The serve is played, careens into the sidewall and shoots out at me. I stumble backwards, wide-eyed, and manage to flick the ball off the front wall and into the middle of the court. Middle of the court—not where the ball should ever be. My opponent pounces onto the shot, effortlessly poking the ball forward. I dive across the court, hopelessly determined, but to no avail. My knee is streaked with blood, but that isn’t what stings the most.

I shake hands with my opponent, head down, again. I thank the referees, half-heartedly, again. I skulk to the men's locker room of the club, biting my bottom lip, wetting my tongue with coppery blood, again. 

For the third time that season, I was knocked out of a gold-tiered event in the first round. And for the third time that season, my world does not end. I pack up my squash bag, my mother’s voice in my head reminding me not to leave anything behind: three rackets, goggles, sneakers, water. I walk to the car, where my coach is waiting to drive us to the airport. The car ride isn’t filled with my heavy silence, as it has been in the past. I am talking without fear—about my doubts, my training, my performance, and how I feel about the game. “I don’t know how I can continue this constant training and put myself through emotional and physical stress just to achieve underwhelming results. I enter one tournament after another and repeat the same process that leads to failure. My body can't keep up with my mind.” 

My outburst halts as the words hang in the air for examination. I imagine hitting them with my racket and watching them collapse, lying limp on the floor. I ask myself if these words ring true. I consider where I was a year ago, when I could barely walk and where I am now. I realize that losing, even on a good day, is an integral part of the process to victory. Losing on the heels of an injury, even more integral to the process. We arrive at the airport to the comforting rhythms of familiar airport hustle. Neon signs above burger joints, whizzing wheeled carts with toppling luggage, scampering children escaping parents’ tugging grip, and my nostalgic feeling of going home.  

I don't feel purposelessness or resentfulness towards the sport I both despise and can’t live without—I feel a sense of restlessness. I don't tell myself I will quit or that I haven't trained enough. Instead, I think of the times when I have been successful, and  through relentless determination, I have achieved far more than a gawky bookish teen was meant to achieve. Rather than dreading the next tournament I feel excited for it. For the first time that season, I think of squash and smile.