By someone who’s 40, owns more visors than actual tennis trophies, and still dreams of hitting a clean overhead smash.
Let’s get something straight. I’m not out here on the court trying to qualify for Wimbledon. I’m here for the sunshine, the serotonin, the semi-competitive cardio, and the post-match iced lattes with my girlfriends. But make no mistake. When summer hits and that first ball pops off my strings, I am Serena. At least in my mind.
There’s just something about summer tennis. It’s hot (literally), but also kind of magical. Like, how else do you explain willingly running around in 90-degree heat wearing a pleated skirt and calling it fun.
We always say we’ll beat the heat by starting at 8 a.m., but let’s be honest. We all show up around 8:23 with iced coffee in one hand and a slightly melted SPF stick in the other. I usually forget my water bottle, but never forget my earrings. Priorities.
I stretch for exactly 14 seconds, claim it counts as a warm-up, and then proceed to hit approximately four balls over the fence before finding my rhythm. It’s tradition.
By game three, my hair is doing its own thing (bun turned bird’s nest), my mascara is halfway down my cheek, and I’m sweating in places I didn’t know had sweat glands. And still, I’m having the time of my life.
We shout things like “Nice shot,” and “Yours,” and “That was out, but I’ll give it to you because I believe in karma.” We keep score for the first half, then slowly forget who’s winning because no one really cares.
Also, side note. I brought grapes as a court snack once, and now I’m the designated fruit girl forever. There are worse titles.
This is the best part. We gather under whatever shade we can find. Sometimes a tree. Sometimes the shadow of the tennis shed. We sit on our towels like queens surveying our court. There’s something deeply spiritual about peeling off a sticky wristband and immediately replacing it with an iced matcha.
We rehash every rally like we’re commentating for ESPN, exaggerate our best points (I swear that serve clipped 90 mph), and laugh until someone accidentally sets off their car alarm with their tennis bag. It’s summer. It’s sweaty. It’s a little chaotic. But it’s ours.
So why do we do it?
Because summer tennis is more than a sport. It’s a vibe. It’s a way to move your body, catch up with your girls, and wear skirts with built-in shorts like a fully-functional adult. It’s showing up for yourself and each other. It’s burning 500 calories and then immediately replacing them with a muffin the size of your face. Balance, baby.
I may not have the cleanest backhand. I may double-fault twice per game. But I also have sun on my shoulders, laughter in my lungs, and just enough court cred to know when to lob and when to fake confidence.
So here’s to summertime tennis! The tan lines are weird. The rallies are semi-respectable. And the memories are totally worth the foot blisters!
See you on the court with frozen grapes, SPF 50, and a fresh set of balls. Tennis balls.
