The Game Of Life
I’ve spent many hours on the tennis court. When I was little, my Dad would take me to the local court in the afternoon, and we would be out after dark, the bright lights illuminating our play, with only the sounds of our grunts and the yellow ball hitting the court. It was peaceful, and it was stressful. It was peaceful because it was so simple and clean. The ball comes at you, and you hit it back to the opponent. Aside from the rules of the game and the lines on the court, the only rule that really mattered was making the connection with the ball. If you don’t make the connection, you lose the point, AND you have to run and get the ball, which no one wants to do. Same with baseball. You fail to meet the ball with the bat, you strike out, and you don’t get to run to first base, and the game doesn’t progress, AND you let your team down. Lines don’t matter, rules don’t matter, if you can’t accomplish that first step: hitting the ball. Life is a lot like tennis and baseball. You have to keep your eye on the ball, or it will fly right past you or hit you in the face, and it will hurt like hell, and your opponent will win. So who’s it going to be?
My Dad showed no mercy even though he was in his forties, and I was basically an overgrown toddler. My racket was almost taller than I was. But I learned to move and move fast over that bright green court. Because if I didn’t, I was either going to miss the ball, get hit, or have to run to get it. My Dad didn’t care if I was tiny or that I wasn’t as good as him. He was in it to win it, at any cost, even if that cost was an eyeball.
During the winter months, we would play racquetball at the local YMCA. He didn’t show me any mercy there, either. It didn’t take long for me to learn to be laser-focused on the game. He would hit that little blue ball so hard that it would come bouncing back at me like it had an agenda, and that agenda was to break my face. When I missed the ball, I could hear the wind in that thing as it buzzed past my head, the echoes and noises made louder by the large white cage we were trapped in. It wasn’t an unpleasant sound, I grew to love the noise the ball made when it hit the walls, an indication that the game was still going. How long could we keep it going? How long could I keep my Dad from murdering me? To give you a picture of just how ruthless my Dad was in sports, he splattered, yes, splattered my brother’s pupil in a game of racquetball. I don’t know why my brother wasn’t wearing glasses, but I do remember his eye patch, and from that moment on, I understood that it was kill or be killed.
Yes, even my Dad, in his forties, when he knew he wasn’t evenly matched, playing with his 9-year-old daughter, would do anything to win, and I mean anything.
My Dad didn’t just reserve his ruthlessness for the court. He carried it with him wherever he went. He brought it home during game night, too. Monopoly was one of his favorite games. I don’t want to think about how many hours we spent playing, but it has to be in the 100’s. He wanted all the property and all the money. His main goal was to leave the rest of us penniless and homeless; that is, in fact, the game's main goal. Only he didn’t always win because I caught him cheating a couple of times. I would get up to get a snack or go to the bathroom, and money would be missing, or he would roll the dice while I was gone and just happen to land on Boardwalk, a property he needed. A cheater does not a winner make.
As I got older, I realized just how horrible the premise of the game was, and I vowed never to do that to my kids, so the few times we played, I gave them money and my property if I saw them about to lose. I played the game the way I truly wanted the game to be. Sharing is caring, and I didn’t want to leave my kids penniless or homeless, even if it was just a game. Because it was still teaching them something about life. There is a lesson in everything. Playing Monopoly with my Dad taught me that ruthless people will cheat to get what they want, and winning the game meant everyone else lost. Playing Monopoly with my children, I wanted to show them that there’s enough to go around and no one should be left out in the cold. Needless to say, we don’t play that game anymore. But I hope for the short amount of time we did, I taught them a lesson in empathy. They care about the homeless and share their stuff, so maybe?
Here is what I’ve learned through the years. Playing any type of game, you are either in or you are out. You are either winning, or you are losing. It can turn quickly enough that just when you think you’re ahead of the game, your opponent will come up from behind and land that trick shot you weren’t expecting, or worse, cheat to win, so it’s important to stay humble and play with integrity. If you have to cheat to win, you are not a winner. No matter how good your backhand, no matter how strong your arm is with the bat, or how much property or money you have, it can all be lost in a second to a better opponent or a ruthless one. Being aware of this is how you win the game of life. You win some, you lose some; it is, after all, just a game, or it should be. Be aware of your opponent and keep your eye on the ball and your money in your wallet. Understand that anything goes, and it might just keep you in the game. And hopefully, if you and your opponent play with integrity, you can shake hands afterward and say, “Good game.” No matter who won. The loser just learns to play better next time. So, is that really a loss? I don’t think so. My Dad was a sore loser; he didn’t see the value in losing, and he also knew nothing about good sportsmanship, but he would still hug me after a match and stop at Casey’s to get a snack for me on the way home.
When I was little, I wondered why my Dad took such pride in beating the hell out of me at any game we played. I always thought, “It’s just a game, Dad!” But he didn’t see it that way. His military background taught him, like he taught me, the mentality to kill or be killed was just a way of life. I wasn’t afraid of him, he never laid a hand on me, and he loved me as much as any man can love his daughter, but when it came to Gin Rummy, now that was “serious shit,” and I was no longer his daughter, but an opponent. I’m grateful for the lessons I learned from playing sports and games with my Dad. It’s made me a stronger person.
It’s also made me a smarter person. I don’t take any game too seriously. I’m not a poor sport, and I definitely don’t cheat. I realize it’s just a game, and how I play it means more to me than how I win it. Besides, I still have dinner to cook and laundry to do. You know, the real stuff. So I reserve that sportsmanlike energy for when and where it truly matters, not on the court but in my home, at my job, and with my kids, the real game of life where lives are on the line. While I may have some paranoia and trust issues I still need to work out with my therapist, I can thank my Dad for my lightning-fast reflexes and for teaching me how he played the game and how I want to play the game.
Some of the sweetest words I ever heard my son say when he lost one of his first games was, “It’s just a game, Mom.”
Game over. I won, finally.
