A quick note before we begin: everything that follows is invented, exaggerated, and written purely for fun. No real diary was harmed, consulted, or leaked in the making of this column. It’s the sort of thing that happens when a tennis columnist lets her imagination off the leash. Please enjoy accordingly.
Dear Diary, today began with an alarm that sounded like a personal insult. Breakfast was suspiciously healthy. I stared at a banana for a long time and wondered whether it knew something about my forehand that I didn’t. Practice is at ten. Hydration is at all times. Dramatic sigh.
Dear Diary, I would like it noted for the record that suitcases have a mind of their own. I packed efficiently. I unpacked and somehow owned more socks than when I left. Airports are a maze built by someone who loves watching athletes squint at departure boards. I have mastered the art of the travel nap.
Dear Diary, the practice courts are my favorite place in the world, mostly because nobody is watching and I can hit as many ridiculous trick shots as I like. A few of them even land in. The coach pretends not to notice. I pretend I meant it. We understand each other.
Dear Diary, there is a lot of talk these days about rising stars and big expectations. I try not to read too much of it. Mostly I think about playing the next point and about whether the post-match snack table will have anything good. Priorities remain firmly in order.
Dear Diary, a gentle reminder to myself: be kind, be curious, and laugh at least once before every match. The pressure is real, but so is the joy. If I can hold onto both, I figure I’ll be okay, and if not, there’s always another banana.
The end, for now. Remember, none of this is real, but the fun of imagining the life of a young tennis phenom is the best part of the game.
