Earlier this afternoon I participated in a live blogging event hosted by Shelia on Black Tennis Pros. It was the first time I didn't feel alone while watching competitive women's tennis. I was in the company of others from around the country tuned into their televisions, with an assortment fast food and beverages.
My roommate doesn't understand my fanaticism, but rather pokes fun at me when I clinch my fists at the screen in an attempt to rally Serena, Venus, Asha Rolle, or Lindsey Davenport through to the finals.
My love of tennis came upon me just as The Williams Sisters began dominating the sport. To the uninitiated, I probably behave like an awful stage parent when I move about the room trying to urge one of the ladies to a win. I used to be embarrassed by my reaction, but soon got over those feelings when the upstairs neighbor who makes much too much noise, much too early in the morning with her washing machine, vacuum cleaner, and traipsing back and forth had the nerve to pound on the floor during The Wimbledon 2005 final between Venus and Lindsey. I know these women are capable of victories, and when they fall short, I'm baffled.
Perhaps it's a personal reflection on my not always living up to my abilities in life that I cringe when I see someone else not fulfilling theirs. I applaud them for taking the court in front of a critical worldwide audience. I don't suffer from stage fright, but I don't think I'd be comfortable on a tennis court with a racket in hand.