I'm about to head out to my fifth or sixth tennis lesson, and I am still getting used to the idea that I am the proud owner of not just a tennis racquet but the requisite white, boat-like tennis shoes. Only now in my mid-twenties, have I willingly tempted the Sports Gods.

You see, I have never played a sport.  Not AYSO soccer as a six-year-old, not middle school softball--nothing.  When I was ten, my mother dragged me (whining and pouting, of course) to a two-week session at Olympic Sports Camp, to see if anything would stick.  I spent two weeks crafting daisy chains and participating in gymnastics only (my perfected center splits would later appear in the camp brochure).

I wasn't a total couch potato.  I took dance lessons from toddler-hood well though high school and later rose to power on my high school's amateur cheerleading squad.  But there was something about sports that terrified me.  The concept of winning and losing, succeeding and failing--I wanted nothing to do with it.

When my 12-year-old sister started taking tennis lessons this summer, I mentioned to my mother that I wouldn't mind learning how to play.  My friends in college had casual matches with each other, and I always felt a little wistful bowing out of their invitations.  So when my mother offered to treat me to some lessons over the summer, I decided I had nothing to lose.  If I was a total disaster, no one would have to know besides Lori, the shockingly chipper 40-something who gave lessons on her parents' Beverly Hills tennis court.

At my first lesson, I was shocked that I managed to make racquet-to-ball contact, and I felt pretty pleased with myself.  When I learned how to hit backhand and travel to the ball, I was ready to challenge Venus and Serena to a match.  Could I serve?  No.  Could I rally more than 3-4 times over the net?  In my dreams!  But did I feel proud to be overcoming a life-long phobia of courts, points, balls, nets, and competition?  More than you can imagine.

See you on the court...