The coach who kept me on the ball.
Raj was much more than a tennis coach. Since we’d begun working together in 2002, he’d become my mentor, friend, and counselor. Besides helping me tremendously with adapting my play to get the best I could out of my postcancer body, Raj was the person I turned to when I was frustrated with my career, family, or relationship. Over the course of those three years, I must have shown up crying at the court at least once a week.
Raj and I arrived in Auckland, New Zealand, in early 2005 so that I could play a warm-up tournament to the Australian Open. My regular tennis partner Lindsay wasn’t available for that week, so I played doubles with Jill Craybas, another player who worked with Raj. We played our first round at night and it was extremely cold and windy, which was always tough on my shoulder. I was uncomfortable, my shoulder was stiff, and I was serving one double fault after another. I didn’t have any feeling, strength, or confidence in my shoulder, or my play. Jill and I ended up losing to two unknown players, 6-4, in the third set.
The next day when I showed up to practice with Raj, I was as foul as foul could be. I was moping around, slamming balls into the fence for no reason, just generally pissed off at the world. Most of my close friends in tennis, with the notable exception of Lindsay, had retired by then. I felt completely alone, angry, and disappointed . . . and I had no desire to hide it.
Five minutes into practice, Raj stopped, turned to me and asked, “Okay, what’s going on with you?” I unloaded, bitching about anything and everything. I told him that I was absolutely miserable, was playing like crap, had lost all my confidence, and hated all things associated with tennis. I hated walking into the players’ lounge, I said, because I had no desire to see anyone. None of the women were really my friends—they were all these pro tennis players who were sheltered, pampered, narcissistic, and insulated in this unreal “bubble world” that had nothing to do with real life (never mind that I was one of those players myself). The rant continued for quite a while. I had completely lost my mind.
Raj finally replied, “Okay, I get it. But you might want to think about what you are putting into this equation.” He always had a way of calling me out and telling me the truth in a way that was rarely combative or belittling. And however reluctantly, I listened. He went on to explain that “people often respond to you in the way you are behaving toward them, and whole situations often unfold according to the way you view them going in.” He then ended his little talk by saying that he thought I was too emotional at that point to discuss the matter further. He wanted me to leave the practice, go back to my hotel room, and spend the day writing down exactly what I was feeling.
In a huff, I grudgingly agreed to do what he asked, and retired to my room, still full of rage. I sat down to write my thoughts, knocked out all of three sentences, and abandoned my assignment. “This is ridiculous,” I told myself. “I know exactly how I’m feeling. I’m f***ing pissed!”
A couple of hours later, having calmed down a little, I decided to have another go at it. And suddenly, my emotions came out like a flash flood. I started writing and crying and crying and writing, and the three sentences turned into three single-spaced pages of how, at age 26, I felt like a failure. In a short span of three years, I’d gone from feeling extremely proud that I’d survived leukemia and returned to professional tennis to the emotional state I was in now—demoralized, embittered, and almost ashamed that I was “just” a doubles player. I had completely bought into the attitude that an accomplished doubles player is somehow a lesser human being than an accomplished singles player. And I was even failing at that! I was humiliated and embarrassed.
I don’t think that I’d fully realized until that episode how much I’d attached my sense of self-worth to tennis, and probably had since age six. I always saw myself as a well-rounded person capable of having a rich life outside of tennis. But all parts of my life, even after my divorce from Andrew, remained completely entwined with this frustrating career. What did I keep coming back to after every injury? Tennis. I might not have been fully content in the tennis world after my leukemia, but it was comfortable, and I was scared to go outside of it. It was the only reality I had ever known.
Raj came to my room that night around ten, and I read him everything I’d written. He was, as always, incredibly supportive. He knew that I was in the middle of an important emotional shift, and he had the foresight not to rush it, not to push me just to get to a conclusion. He left me alone for a couple of days after that so I could cry out more of the pain and frustration of the last three years. I slowly came to terms with my situation, which was: I used to be able to serve with authority, but no longer. I used to be able to play singles with authority, but no longer. It was clearly time to let go of what I used to be capable of and make the best of what I could do now. This was Raj’s gentle advice as I mourned the loss of those skills, and it was advice that finally sunk in.
Raj himself put it slightly differently. “One of your real strengths,” he later told me, “is that you can actually look with an objective eye at what’s being said to you about you. When someone holds a mirror up to anyone, they rarely like what they see. You may not like it, but you will process it, take it in, and move away from that place."
Whatever happened in Auckland, it was genuinely cathartic for me. I was feeling much better about myself and playing better as a result. I had been relieved, at least temporarily, of my feelings of inadequacy.
Excerpted from Living through the Racket by Corina Morariu. Copyright © 2010 (Hay House).
Corina Morariu was a professional tennis player for 11 years. She retired in 2007 and currently works as a commentator for the Tennis Channel.
