Love, Love

Mara Kurtz

The author and her father

Word Count 805

Crossing Dune Road to the tennis courts for our 9 o’clock reservation, I thought about all the sporting events my father and I had seen together over the years. As an only child, I became both his daughter and the son he never had. Although my mother dragged me to dancing classes and piano lessons after school each day, weekends were totally devoted to my father and tennis. Now that I was in college, it was a treat to come home for the summer and play together every day.

My father was an exceptional athlete. While I wasn’t a “natural,” after countless lessons with excellent tennis pros, including the retired British champion Fred Perry at a hotel in Florida, I’d become a good “club player.” As a teenager, with my father’s enthusiastic coaching, I won the women’s singles and doubles tournaments at the Bath and Tennis Club in Westhampton each summer. My father and I teamed up to win the mixed doubles championships in the fall.

Of course, when we played against one another, he always won.

We started to warm up slowly that day, just hitting the balls back and forth in an easy rhythm. Forehand, backhand, long rallies before one of us finally missed. But as the morning heat intensified, perspiration dripped from my forehead, burning my eyes.

By the time my mother arrived to watch, we’d just started to play a set. A few minutes later, my father’s best friend Joe joined her on the bench at the side of the court, where they sat chatting.

My father served and won the first 2 games.

I won the next 2.

Then he went ahead 4 games to 2, which usually meant his victory was inevitable. But I felt very relaxed and found myself hitting with unusual precision that morning and won two games in a row to make it 4-all.

My father won the next to lead at 5 games to 4.

As we changed sides on the odd game and paused to take a drink, my father smiled at me and said, “You know, you can’t beat me.”

Looking over at my mother and Joe, I said, “Did you hear that? I can’t believe Daddy just told me I can’t win.” Then I looked at him and said, “That was so mean. How could you try to intimidate me? I’m your daughter.”

My mother said, “Max, what’s wrong with you? Are you crazy?” He just laughed, and we continued to play. But as I started to serve, I suddenly felt very tense. It was no longer fun, and for the first time in my life, I really wanted to beat him.

I lost the next game by double faulting twice. Now it was tied at 5 games all.

My father was ahead in the next game, but I hit two very hard shots down the line to his backhand and he missed both, losing the game.

At 6-5 in my favor, we changed sides again, and this time, as he passed me, he whispered, “You’ll never do it.” My mother yelled, “We heard you, Max, shame on you.”

My arm was shaking, and the grip on my racket felt slippery. It was difficult to swallow. I won the first two points. He won the next two. We were tied at deuce. Whoever won the next two points would win the match.

Trying to play it safe and not double fault, my next serve was so weak that my father had to run up to the net to get to the ball. I returned a lob over his head that miraculously landed right on the baseline. It was set point in my favor, but I didn’t really believe I would win. I was reminded of my father’s favorite Vince Lombardi quote, “winning isn’t everything, it’s the only thing.” I realized that I’d never cared about winning before and felt faint.

I hit another wobbly serve, but this time my father was ready and hit it powerfully cross court. I had to run hard to reach the ball and just managed to push a backhand over the net. My father, in perfect position, hit it back as hard as he could, right down the middle. But suddenly, the ball hit the white tape running across the top of the net and seemed to hesitate. Then, like in slow motion, it dropped back on his side.

I’d won the set.

My mother and Joe stood up and clapped. I expected to be very happy, but I wasn’t. We never played a second set because my father walked off the court and wouldn’t talk to me for the rest of the day.

Over the years, I’ve often thought about that day and how I learned that winning isn’t everything.

Mara is a graphic designer, photographer, illustrator, and founder of Mara Kurtz Studio.
Her work has been published in numerous publications, including Metropolis, New York Times Magazine, New York Magazine, Conde Nast Traveler, Travel and Leisure, and The Wall Street Journal. She has been a Professor at Parsons School of Design, The New School, NYU, and School of Visual Arts since 1990. She is a graduate of New York University and Parsons School of Design. She received an MA from The New School in 1995. The Rock Hill Pictures, a book of Mara's documentary photographs, was published in 2012.