The Mental Game

My last tournament before my knee operation (my next post) was the Bundaberg Open a few weeks ago. It’s quite a big tournament with a good history – back when it was the QLD Claycourt Title I lost in the final to Scott Draper, almost 20 years ago. My goal for the tournament was, no matter what, to keep a calm mind and play aggressively.

I failed.

Second round I was up against a dangerous floater, a cocky kid you don’t want to lose to but easily can. I won the first set 6-1 and knew if I got up an early break in the second I’d be off the court holding the balls in 20 minutes. Instead of taking my chances I tightened up, and then got down on myself for doing it. My goal had gone down the toilet and it was only 11 am on the first day. I lost the second set 6-3, and although I’ve got a pretty good 3-set record this one went his way, 6-4.

I was mightily peed off.

That night, instead of sleeping, I thought about where I went wrong. I listed some mental qualities you need to be successful and came up with two categories.

There are the emotional ones – calmness, looseness, focus, awareness (of self and opponent), a clear head under pressure.

Then there are the qualities that derive from self-talk – the constant chatter in your head between, and sometimes during, points. Self-talk affects enthusiasm, determination, motivation, positivity, and a never-say-die attitude. Self-talk can also affect physical qualities such as energy levels.

When you've got emotional control and positive self-talk and body language you can  sometimes find the most important quality of all - confidence.

But here’s the thing – emotions are tough babies to control. There are things you can do: diaphragmic breathing, progressive muscle relaxation, visualisation, meditation (best not done during the match!). But your subconscious mind can make your body tense up when you least expect it. If you’ve spoken in public you’ll know this feeling well – you’ll be doing fine and then a squash ball will start to bounce around in your throat for no particular reason. Or maybe there is a reason – like a TV camera pointing your way or a kid poking a tongue at you.

But what became clear to me at 2 am was this, when the nerves hit, you only collapse in a heap when your self-talk turns on you.

‘I can’t hit a forehand.’

'I always miss the return on break point.’

‘I don’t deserve to win.’

When you think about it, self-talk and body language are within your control. They're choices you make over and over again. Whether you’re winning or losing 6-0, 5-0 you can choose to say, ‘Quality serve next point’, ‘Attack his backhand’ or ‘Fight hard’ before every point. You can skip on your toes before you return serve, turn away from your errors and walk confidently to the other side, convince yourself a good shot will come from your racket next point.

For the doubles event, I changed my attitude. I didn’t worry about getting tight, I focussed on being positive. Things didn’t always go our way and we were two points from losing the semi-final, but somehow we were able to pull out the important points when we needed to. Josh Barrenchea and I beat a couple of young guns in the final, the ATP ranked Mark Richards and Andrew McLeod, 6-3 7-5. I faced three break points at 5-5 and hit three big first serves – unusual for me. Was it the positive attitude or just dumb luck? Who knows.

It’s too early to tell whether this will work in the future, but I’ll be trying it out. You won’t see this old bloke yelling at himself in frustration ever again. Well, not  too often, anyway.   

The Rebellious Ballgirl

When my wife Cath was a girl she was good friends with my younger sister Liz and my two cousins, Bern and Cis. (Boys, be nice to your little sister because they might come in handy one day.) They all played tennis, and between the ages of 10 and 12 all four were ballgirls at the big women's tournament in town - the National Panasonic at Milton. They’d get a free outfit, shoes, and a five dollar lunch voucher – worth a lot in those days - as they fetched balls for players like Martina Navratilova, Pam Shriver and Wendy Turnbull.

Now in any group of friends there’s always one who’s a rebel - in this case it was my cousin Bern.

She discovered that if she bought something with the $5 lunch voucher she’d get the change in cash. So the girls started bringing in vegemite sandwiches for lunch, buy an icy-pole for 50 cents and pocket the change. Not bad.

Most 11 year olds would be happy with that. Not Bern. If you asked nicely, the lady in charge of ballgirls would give you a free pass each day for your mum or dad to watch the tennis. Bern would get all her friends to pick up their free pass, but of course they wouldn’t give them to their parents. When they were dropped off in the morning Bern would wave goodbye, but instead of walking into the tennis centre she’d walk 100 metres up Milton road. At the box office it would cost someone 17 bucks for a ticket. Bern would sell them for 10.

Now the goal of every ballgirl, apart from getting autographs, is to make it on centre court. You’ve got the TV cameras, crowd, the best players. It’s ballgirl heaven. Even though she was a rebel, Bern was a top ballgirl – fast across the court, good hands, able to bend down quickly - so she’d often make it to the big stadium. There was a huge fridge with all sorts of drinks for the players, which the ballgirls at the net would serve at the change of ends. Bern was a net specialist. The players would ask for Staminade or water, but Bern noticed that the fridge was packed with soft drinks that the players would never drink. So Bern decided to try her riskiest move yet. After match point when everyone was clapping as the players walked to the net to shake hands, Bern quickly opened the fridge and snuck out two cans of soft drink. The ballgirl hat had a long tail that covered the neck. Perfect for hiding drinks.

‘Bernadette, how could you?’ Cath said. 

Bern replied, ‘Well the players aren’t going to drink them so we might as well!’

And four girls sat on the front lawn, eating their vegemite sandwiches, and sharing a few cans of soft drink.

Twenty-five years later Aunty Maureen rang me up. 'Pat,' she said, 'why don’t you write a book about ballgirls? The girls used to have so much fun doing it. It was one time I never had to worry about Bern. She liked it so much she wouldn’t dare get up to mischief.'

'Aunty Maur,' I said, 'that’s a great idea!'

And so I wrote a book called The Best Ballgirl and called one of the character’s Bern. I just hope Aunty Maureen never reads it.

Life on the Road

I hadn’t travelled to play a tennis tournament for awhile and it was interesting to experience the rhythms of life on the road . Here are three things I learnt, or rather, re-learnt.

1.    Lack of sleep. No matter how much tennis you play during the day sleep doesn’t come easily at night. Replaying the day’s matches and anticipating tomorrow’s keeps you tossing and turning. Being in a new place, having new experiences, seems to double your energy level. I remember one player on the circuit who used to go to bed at 9 pm but invariably rise in the early hours and pace the streets until light. At the ripe old age of 20, Boris Becker became addicted to sleeping pills. (Which was why he had that annoying cough on the court.) I can see why. Next time I’ll bring a relaxation CD.

2.    Waiting. Most of the day is spent waiting and doing menial tasks: Re-gripping rackets, filling up water bottles and adding electrolyte tablets, icing sore body parts, looking through your racket bag for the hundredth time for a lost sweatband, making small talk with other players, snacking, watching matches, trying not to think about your match. For some reason I can’t read a book before a match – takes too much concentration – so the days are long and are spent making sure everything is ready for those few hours you’re actually on court. And if it rains – the waiting only gets worse.

3.    Worry. Problems seem to get amplified on the road. A sore knee, a slippery court, a lost sweatband – any number of things can get into your head. Dealing with distractions is one of the big challenges, and quickly summing up what you can and can’t change is the key to keeping stress levels under control.

Also, sleeping in a lumpy pub bed makes you appreciate home.

Highs and Lows of a Tennis Pro

I was wired during my 6-hour drive home from Inverell. Not from any illegal substance (although Pepsi Max has so much caffeine it must come close), but from a weekend where I played some of the best tennis of my life. In the $5000 Platinum event I beat the number 72 in Australia in the third round, and took it to the eventual winner, Erik Chvojka, the number 6 in Canada, before going down fighting in the quarter-finals. Also made the final of doubles with the talented Josh Barrenechea who asked me to play via Facebook – a first. Some of the things I’d been working on came together – staying loose and in the moment, being more aggressive, believing in my ability to hit quality shots under pressure. Of course the slippery ant-bed surface helped – I practically grew up on the stuff. It makes everybody look a little slow – which helps when you are slow. No matter how good an athlete you are, if you get wrong footed on ant-bed you’re in trouble. My dropshot made the speedy Canadian slip over and scream in frustration.

Three days after that drive I was up against Ryan Agar, the 12^th seed and number 75 in Oz, in the QLD Claycourt. Although the body was a little sore, I was feeling confident. The book on him was he has loads of talent – but I could tell early in the match that his confidence was down. He was slicing groundstrokes around the court, content to let me run him around and use his foot speed on the slow and sticky clay court to counter-attack. I was making the play which meant the odds were in my favour, but somehow I squandered 7 set points in the first set and a 4-0 lead in the second to go down 7-6 7-5. It was a disappointing loss. It wasn’t that I played badly, it was that when I got the opportunity to deliver the killer blow I hit more like a Teddy bear than a warrior. Instead of going for winners on set points I played it safe and suffered the consequences. Just like I have many times before.

One of the reasons I took up tournaments again was to ignite some passion into my life. I wanted to feel some of the highs and lows that my 40-something self was starting to miss.

Be careful what you wish for.

My Year in Graph Form

Patrick Flynn - Breakdown - Rankings - Tennis Australia

Points of note:
Tennis Australia have a wrong DOB for me, making me a few years older than I am. I should correct this but it's kind of fun imagining a 16-year-old staring at a computer and saying, 'I lost to a $%^&*!@ 45 year old!'
Talking about age, most guys in the top 500 were born in the late 80s or early 90s, although three in the top 100 were born in the 70s - Peter Luczak, Joe Sirianni and Mark Draper. Kudos to them - especially Drapes who's turned 40. He still moves like a cat around the court. I'm more of a caterpillar (the machine not the animal. I chug slowly but steadily.)
Even though the search database stops at 1971 (TA must assume no one older are silly enough to play Open tournaments), a manual inspection finds there are 4 players in the top 500 born in the 60s. Neil Smith, the father of 3 tennis playing boys, is ranked 422 and was born in 1960. I remember losing to Neil in the final of the Sydney Metro doubles title in 1986. My partner was Todd Woodbridge (and I still couldn't win!).
Even with the correct birthday I'm the oldest player in the top 150, 250, even 350. I'm not sure if this makes me feels good, bad, strange, or just plain old.

Funny things a 4-year old says

Mum: Connor, if you come into the bedroom when I’m feeding Lucy and the door is closed again you’ll get a smack on the bottom.

Connor: (crying) Don’t give me a smack on the bottom! I’m only 4.

Mum: What do you have to do so you don’t get a smack on the bottom?

Connor: I have to hide so you can’t find me.

Connor: If a red car comes today it could be the Wiggles, Postman Pat or Aunty Teresa.

Mum: Who do you want it to be?

Connor: Aunty Teresa

Mum: What about the Wiggles?

Connor: They can come too if they like

Connor: I’ve got no jogs on.

Mum: Jogs?

Connor: Yeah, jogs. That’s what Aunty Madonna calls undies.

Connor: When I get bigger muscles than dad I’ll be able to lift this house up and put it in another place.

(Hopefully not into the nearby Pacific Ocean.)

Turning the Pages of Life

My 18th year was a good one. I won an Australian Junior Title and reached a world ranking of 390 after playing a few Open events. If someone said to me, 'Pat, enjoy it while it lasts because this is the best you'll ever do at tennis' I would have told them they were crazy. I was 17! Surely my best years were in front of me.
They weren't.
Fast forward twenty years and my writing career is going nicely. The Tuckshop Kid has picked up a CBCA Honour award, I've got three books coming out in 2008, more school visits than I can say yes to, The Line Formation about to be released in North America titled Out of His League, and somehow I'm being paid to act in front of a bunch of little kids after adapting Beeware to the stage.
Then the GFC hits and things change. Last year I had one book out, The Trophy Kid, 55 days of school visits (which isn't bad), and next year a return to teaching in some sort of capacity is looking increasingly likely. Does this worry me? A little. I'd be happy to never teach Year 9 English again.
But what will be will be. 
Just like an epic novel, life has many ups and downs. Not even Federer can stay number 1 forever. But 25 years after my 17th birthday I'm playing some decent tennis again. In fact, I'm pretty sure my 42-year-old self could beat my 17-year-old self and that's something I'm grateful for. (Although the standard is higher these days so I was still better comparatively back then.) I'm reasonably optimistic about the future of the book industry, too. Once the E-dust settles someone will figure out a way to make writing stories profitable again and things might be even better than they were in 2007.
In the meantime, I try to enjoy each day, especially the small successes. You never know, today might be as good as it gets!
But maybe not. In 25 years time, it might be better still.