For all of the kids on those long car rides home after a tough loss, but mostly for the parents who don’t know they’ve gone too far.

Every day in Arizona I hoped that it would rain. That way the tournament would have to be put on hold. Then I wouldn’t have to play a match. It wasn’t that I didn’t like playing matches; I just hated the possibilities that came up after playing them. If I won, it was great. Sometimes my dad would even buy me an ice cream. But when I lost… Well, when I lost it was bad. I couldn’t exactly predict how things would go, but I could sort of predict how things would go. Depending on how I lost, my dad would be one of three things: uncomfortably quiet, thunderously vocal, or stutteringly impatient. If he was silent, I had probably embarrassed him. It meant that I had lost quickly. If he was yelling, it was because I had made a major mistake like getting the score mixed up. Scoring was hard in tennis. Sometimes I was so nervous that I just forgot all of the numbers completely. If he was speaking through his nose without pausing, I had played the wrong way. My technique might have been bad. I might have hit to her forehand more when her backhand was the weaker shot. Something like that. Anyway. Whatever way he acted after I lost, it was never good. It always made me sad.

When he yelled at me on the car rides home, I would sometimes pretend that I had jumped out of my own body. I would look outside and pretend to be out of the car, but my dad would still be in the car. He would be yelling, shouting, huffing and puffing…and I would be outside, under a blue sky on a nice day. His mouth would be moving, but I wouldn’t hear a word. The idea of teleporting kept me looking out through the passenger window. But then he would tell me to look at him and, in fear, I would. His eyes were so threatening, but he would just continue to lecture me more in his strained voice.

Today, however, I didn’t want it to rain. See, today was special because it was my thirteenth birthday. I had to play the number one seed, the highest ranked player in the tournament, on my birthday. The night before, my dad said that if I played well and won the match, he would buy me my first cell phone. If I didn’t win, I’d have to wait. Who knows how long he’d make me wait? So today, I was happy when I woke up to clear skies. I opened the blinds wide in our hotel room. It was looking like a good day. If I lost, I would have to deal with my dad afterwards like I always had to when I lost, but if I won, I could get a cell phone. Today, there was something to be gained.

So, the warm up went nicely. My forehand felt smooth. My feet felt light. It was my birthday after all. Shortly after, game time came. A plump old woman behind a stand-up table handed me a new can of balls, and I walked to my assigned match court. The smell of new paint on the balls and the urge to suddenly have to go to the bathroom told my brain that I was about to play a big match. I sat on the bench on the court and listened to the speakers announce my name as well as the number one seed’s name, “Janice Beals.” I knew her name already. It was imprinted in my head. I had looked at the draw a few days ago when the tournament was just beginning. The majority of the girls’ names were printed in black. But her name, along with all of the other seeds in the tournament, was printed in a prestigious red. I could never call “Janice Beals” by just her first name. She was too good for that. She was a seed. And that was something her parents could be proud of — and boy were they. My dad hated it. He would talk about seeds in the hotel room at night. He hated how they talked about their own children. They would chat about how their daughter had improved in quickness or been working on that tough swinging volley that always gets the younger players at this age. Or they would talk about buying new shoes because their daughter’s footwork was so light and quick that she wore her shoes out every two weeks. Or buying new strings so often because their daughter put so much spin on the ball. Or buying new clothes because their daughter was growing so quickly (fortunate for that tough first serve, eh?).

My dad complained about other parents and their children all the time. He studied the rankings often on the computer. “One day. One day we’ll be there,” he would always say while tapping the top of my head. I tried to understand what he meant by that. I think he meant that one day I would be there with those girls, and maybe he meant he’d be there as one of those parents. I didn’t understand it. If he hated them so much, why did he want to be there with them? And why did he always talk so nicely to them? He treated them nicer than he treated me or mom. He treated them nicer than he treated a lot of people. Sometimes I wanted to be one of those seeded girls so he would treat me that way. I wanted him to wow about my forehand or my split step. I wanted him to sigh longingly at my volleys or my backhand. If I was a seed it would be nice, but then my dad would be extra nice to me and just normally nice to my mom since she wasn’t seeded. I liked being treated the same as Mom, so I’d rather stay how I was.

“Janice Beals” walked onto the tennis court. I sat on the bench looking at my shoes and then up at her. Her father was right behind her, carrying her tennis bag and a cooler full of icy Gatorades and water. I just had a leaky jug that got my shirt wet and cold every time I tipped it towards my face. Dads weren’t allowed on the court. Not at any time. Not before, during, or after matches — not even when they were helping their child carry things on court. It was a rule that was explained in the parent/player meeting the night before. But “Janice Beals” was seeded, so I think that’s why the umpires didn’t say anything. After playing tournaments for five years, it all made sense to me. Seeds got away with a lot of stuff. They could be late to their match, like “Janice Beals” was. I was never late for matches. My mother always told me that being late was disrespectful. I didn’t want to disrespect the referees, the staff, the court, or my opponent. I didn’t want to disrespect anyone. That’s why I was five minutes early. That’s why I waited ten minutes for “Janice Beals” to show up five minutes late. She hadn’t spoken a word to me yet, and she was already disrespecting me by making me wait. But who didn’t wait for seeds? Seeds could get away with that. No one would say anything. Not even me.

I even heard that one seed’s parents let the boy she liked spend time with her. That was unheard of. I liked Nick Willman — a boy ranked top ten nationally. He liked me too. But even with him being a seed, my father never let me talk long with him at tournaments — which were the only times I was able to see him. He never let me talk about Nick either. I never told my father that I liked Nick, but I was scared because I knew he knew. We all knew that boys were bad news for us serious tennis players. “Boys will just keep you from achieving your dreams,” my dad would preach. That’s why it was so shocking when I heard that a seed had been able to go to Subway with a boy after her match. Maybe it was just a rumor. But then again, seeds got away with a lot, and nobody said a word.

I stood up and walked to the net to meet the umpire where we would toss a coin to see who would serve first in the match. The old lady umpire and I stared at the other bench, the seed’s bench. “Janice Beals” was sitting down, sliding a wristband onto her lanky forearm. Her father, a round, compact man with a bald head, sunglasses, and olive skin was crouching on the ground, square with his prize: his only child. He was rubbing out her long calves with his strangely long, but fat cigar-shaped fingers. I wondered if she was embarrassed about her father being there, touching her like that. But then again, she was a seed. And, anyway, I didn’t know if seeds got embarrassed or not.

I looked at my father through the chain-linked fence. He was sitting on a fold-out chair with a hat and glasses. It always made me nervous when he sat so close, leaning forward with his hands cupped together in front of his knees like that, but it was better than when he would stand up, pinch his eyebrows together with two fingers, shake his head, and walk away. That was when he was upset. But he wasn’t now; he was anxious and ready. I knew that because he licked his lips a lot. “Janice Beals’” father walked off the court. He gave his daughter a smile and a thumbs-up after he swung the door shut. I blinked at my dad. He licked his lips and nodded at me as if I knew what to do next. I didn’t know what to do next. I looked at “Janice Beals.” She was a seed; maybe she knew what to do. Then I looked at my dad again. He was staring at “Janice Beals.” I wondered then if he ever pretended that the girl I was playing was his own daughter. Was he imagining that he had the capability to breed such long and powerful arms and legs? Was he happier when he pretended that she was his own? Was he aching at the sight of his daughter’s name highlighted in red, tournament after tournament, week after week? He would be able to carry her cooler on court, towel her off, massage her long legs, and after, he could smile and give her a thumbs-up because… well, because she was a seed! And even after that he could walk around the bleachers commenting on “Janice Beals’” new shoes or the way she was growing and how she was “probably going to be taller than her own father!”(Ha! What do you know!) I looked at my dad again and then looked away. I suddenly felt guilty for thinking about those things. My father, I knew, was trusting that I was focusing on strategy. I was supposed to be thinking about how I could get the ball to “Janice Beals’” backhand. My father wasn’t paying thousands of dollars for me to be out on the court daydreaming about my father and “Janice Beals” actually being related.

“Janice Beals” got to call the coin toss. She said “Heads,” the first word I ever heard her say. I always chose tails. I liked the wings on the bird that showed tails when I actually won a coin toss. It reminded me of my mother. She loved birds. The coin shone in the sun when the umpire flicked it high toward the sky. It landed. George Washington smiled at the three of us. “Heads it is,” the umpire said. Seeds somehow always won the toss. I wish I had won the toss. It was my birthday, after all. I didn’t sigh like I wanted to though. I was always taught to never show my opponent that I was irritated or discouraged. No emotion. I wasn’t supposed to do anything but play tennis. So instead, I did nothing. The five-minute pre-match warm up began.