Why this column exists

This column exists because of a Tuesday morning in October. My son was ten. We had been on the court for forty minutes and nothing was working — his serve was breaking down, his footwork was wrong, and he was doing the thing ten-year-olds do when they are frustrated, which is to go silent in a way that means they are about to cry but will not. I said the wrong thing. I said something about effort, something about trying harder, something that sounded like coaching and was actually just my own frustration wearing a patient voice. He looked at me for a moment and then said, very quietly: I am trying. I drove home without speaking and spent the rest of the day thinking about those three words. I have been thinking about that moment ever since. About how sport — and specifically tennis, and more specifically the particular experience of playing tennis as a child whose parent is also their coach — teaches you things that cannot be learned any other way. About losing with dignity. About trying again when trying again costs something. About the specific texture of a cold Tuesday morning on a court when nothing is working and you show up anyway. This is what I want to write about. Not technique, although technique will come. Not rankings or tournament results. The other stuff. The Tuesday morning stuff. The drive home stuff. The what-do-you-say-when-you-don't know-what-to-say stuff.

My name is Chris. I am Malado's husband and the father of two children who are learning — slowly, imperfectly, and with great determination — that the point of sport is not to win. The point is to keep showing up. Welcome to Playing.

✦ The racket my son uses — [add affiliate link]. If you buy through this link, Maison Lumiel earns a small commission. Always our honest picks.

✦ The grip tape we go through — [add affiliate link