an open apology to Georgetown, Texas.

the whole damn town.

In sixth grade at my middle school in Georgetown, Texas, you could play two sports—if you made the team. But—because these are Texas sports and you have to start cult-like-dedication young—by the seventh grade, you had to choose only one sport.

Trying out for tennis was hilarious. It was the couple country club sun-bleached blond semi-professional kids (legit I remember one kid doing a between-the-legs shot) running drills next to like 20 nerds (me) holding either a wooden racket from their grandparents’ dusty garage or a shiny new one from Wal-Mart. We were just trying not to get hit in the face. I don’t think we all succeeded. Everybody made the team. Coach Mendoza had her work cut out for her.

I was also shockingly tall in sixth grade (like six feet already) and loved watching Lady Horns Basketball, so obviously I also tried out for the basketball team. Umm, those tryouts were not fucking around. I had never run like I had to run in that tryout in my life and I thought I was gonna die. I am 500% sure that my height is the only reason I made the B-Team. If there had been a C-Team, I would’ve been on that one.

The basketball coach, Coach Paynor, really did not like me. I’m sure it had something to do with my potential (height) and tragic weakness (my arms. they were like noodles. soon after this, I got the nickname “Gangles”). I was so weak that I could barely do a chest-pass with a whole-ass basketball. I bounce-passed to everyone during every drill in practice. I remember vividly that one practice, Coach Paynor lost her shit. “STEVENS! IF YOU DO ONE MORE BOUNCE-PASS, I’M GOING TO MAKE YOU RUN LAPS FOR THE REST OF PRACTICE.”

Basketball practices were before school. Tennis practices were after school. Basketball practice started at 7am, but my dad had to be at the post office for work by 6:30am, so I got dropped off early to an empty gym. Coach Paynor would come through those heavy gym doors at 6:45am and I could tell how much she hated that I was the first person she saw every morning.

Meanwhile, during tennis practices, Coach Mendoza was hard on us, but also gracious. She loved the sport and soon I did, too. Coach Mendoza was one of the handful people in my life who I remember the beautiful satisfaction of making her laugh. She wasn’t an easy laugh and when I made her laugh, it was the BEST.

Our coach was competitive enough to drive us, but cool enough to make fun of the hot-shot on our team who refused to cut his hair, so he was constantly brushing his hair out from his eyes. One time during a low-stakes match, he tried to do a between-the-legs shot again (like he had in tryouts) and completely racked himself in the nuts. He went down and started moaning, yelling, “I lost my testicles!”

And Coach Mendoza yelled back, “You lost your tennis skills??!?!?”

I laughed so hard, I couldn’t breathe.

Soon I got pretty good at both tennis and basketball. I was winning matches and finding a love for doubles tennis. And in basketball, I went from being the third-string on the B-Team to being a starter. We figured out that as a low-post, anyone from the team could pass me the ball and I would just dump it in from right under the basket. Soon, I was the highest-scorer on the team. (let me assure you in 1995, in sixth grade basketball games, that usually meant an average of 10 points… but still!)

Coach Paynor started coming into the gym on the mornings after games, greeting me with a little more enthusiasm, “Stevens. Did you know you had the most points of anyone out there last night? Good work.”

It somehow still felt hostile, though.

Far after basketball season ended, I still participated in off-season practices and had a locker in the coveted basketball locker-room, while I continued playing tennis. The time came for me to make a decision about my seventh grade sport. I can’t tell you exactly what did it for me, but I knew that I wanted to play tennis instead of basketball, even though I truly enjoyed both. I sat with this decision for a couple weeks, before it traveled. One morning, in the basketball locker-room, just getting ready for school, Coach Paynor yelled, “Stevens! Can I see you in my office?”

– I heard you’re not playing on the team next year.

– Uhhh… yeah, I’m going to play tennis.

– I was thinking about moving you to the A-Team.

– Oh, well, that’s okay. Someone else can have that spot.

– You have improved so much. Basketball is a big sport in Georgetown. We could really help you go on to high school and play Varsity basketball. This could be huge for you.

– I think I just wanna play tennis.

(and then I will never forget what she said to me.)

– You are letting down the whole town.

Ha! That moment really sealed the deal for me. It was a Texas-tale as old as time…

fun fact: Varsity Blues was filmed in Georgetown, Texas and I was an extra! you can spot me whispering in a girl’s ear during the first game, right behind Mox’s family.

I knew that this basketball thing wasn’t my vibe. So I went on to play tennis all through high school. I met my first boyfriend through tennis. I made so many friends and had amazing coaches. I went on to letter in it and love it and travel for it and have that hard realization that—in the scheme of things—I wasn’t spectacular enough to play in college. But I have a true love for tennis that will live with me forever.

So on July 6th, waiting in a line of almost 10,000 tennis fans at 6am, it felt right. I got to go to Wimbledon last week and it was an absolute dream come true. I went by myself, because it all felt too much for Marcelline and Evan, but for me it was completely worth it.

Truly a dream come true. I wore my Stan Smiths and walked on the same grounds that he did. The same place Arthur Ashe became the first Black man to win the whole damn thing. The place Martina Navratilova won NINE titles. The place tennis was basically born. So much history. So much love for the game. All here.

I had one Pimm’s Cup, one strawberries and cream, and watched one full match. I got to watch little slices of other matches, but I sat for a full match between Denis Shapovalov and Grégoire Barrère.

I was so close to the action. I got to watch the art of tennis. To smell the grass court. I made friends who were sitting next to me. A 20-something guy who had gotten tickets through the lottery had brought his English teacher from high-school, who was now retired. They were so awesome. We sat right in front of Denis’ coaching team—including his girlfriend. Denis kept getting super fired up and being mean to himself. When he would miss a shot, he would yell things towards his coaching team like, “See?! I’m fucking terrible! Fucking horrible! And this guy is so fucking lucky!”

And the sweet retired teacher would turn to me and say, “Did you catch what he said?” and I would just shake my head innocently and shrug my shoulders.

It’s hard to see someone so talented be so hard on themself in such an ugly, powerful way. Tennis does weird things to a person. I remember how much I used to slam my racket on the court after a mistake and yell, “C’mon, Rachel!” Once, my parents were at a big match of mine and I slammed my racket down on the ground so badly that I broke it. My parents were mortified and just silently left the match out of disappointment. I have to think I learned something in that moment that I’ve kept within me since. (let’s hope.)

Denis won in three sets. (he lost a couple rounds later after a knee injury.) I said goodbye to my new friends. I bopped around a bit more and soaked up the magic of Wimbledon. I went to the tennis museum on the grounds and feel in love with the photography and outfits they have on display. I bought a beach towel to remember this all by. And then I got on a train and headed back to Lisa’s house, because Evan and I had tickets to a sold-out Sylvan Esso show at the Electric Brixton.

Thanks to some huge babysitting pulling through on Lisa’s part, Evan and I were able to take the train and make it just in time for the start of the show. I melted watching this group. And was beside myself as everyone sang along to each word.

I sang along to almost each word. I love Sylvan Esso and will always always treasure this interaction. It was perfect. And I DANCED. I didn’t realize how much I needed/wanted to dance.

And when they played “Coffee” (an inside joke for Evan and I for years has been when I wake up in bed and Evan is [always] already in the kitchen starting his day, I’ll make the kitchen speaker play Sylvan Esso’s “Coffee” as a request for Evan to make me a coffee and bring it to me in bed), Evan wrapped his arms around my waist and we swayed together and sang along.

While I was a tomboy who loved (still loves!) sports (tennis much more than basketball) so much, this moment at the Sylvan Esso concert is really who I am. This is what I wanted. This is what I was striving for all those awkward, gangly years… I just didn’t know it yet.

So, I want to offer an apology:

Dear Georgetown Texas, My Hometown, My Town,

I am sorry I let you down. I am sure you all grieved together, with round after round of Bud Light. Into the night, I could hear you howling and crying, “Damn you, Stevens!” But I refused to acknowledge your cries and ignored your pleas. You probably all noticed that I never once attended a Lady Eagles Varsity basketball game. I was too afraid each one of you would make direct eye-contact with me and shake your head. I couldn’t take that disappointment, but you’ll be happy to hear that my parents still found ways to instill deep disappointment in me when appropriate on the tennis courts.

I can picture it now: The Varsity championship game. Me, still reeling from the pep-rally that featured a whole dance routine just for me. Coach Paynor, giving me (the team captain) the play when we’re down by two and there are a few seconds left in the game. I get the ball and when everyone thinks I’m going to just dump it in the bucket, I pivot and give a glorious bounce-pass to our point guard who is at the three-point line. She drains it as the buzzer goes off and we win the whole damn thing. Coach Paynor looks at me with that look like, “You beautiful son of a bitch. You did it.” And me pointing at her as we’re both thrown atop the whole town’s shoulders and then immediately flown to the White House where we party with James Van Der Beek and Garth Brooks and eat What-A-Burger and Dubya sings a shockingly good karaoke version of Nelly’s “Ride Wit Me.”

But instead, here I am. And while I’m sorry I let you down, I’m not sorry about where I’ve landed. July 6, 2023 was a beautiful day in London filled with tennis and music and dancing and singing and awe and wonder and friends and that’s what I love more than anything. More than I love a good bounce-pass. I am so grateful for this life and this path and my love for the sport of tennis. But I do also love you, Georgetown, Texas. I’m sorry. I owe you each a What-A-Burger. Put it on my tab.

xxo,
Rachel.