Chapter 1
Eddie
Iwanttosucceedmore than anything in life. That’s why when my alarm beeps at 4:45 a.m., it’s go time. I immediately stand and stretch my arms. As a professional tennis player, I start my day by doing twenty-five tuck jumps. It’s the best way to get my blood flowing, works better than caffeine. Once that’s done, I head to the kitchen to make my chocolate protein shake.
I pause with my hand on the freezer door. There’s a photo of my family—me, my mom, my dad, and my brother. It’s one of those posed family portraits that they take at a studio. Today, like everyday, I look at the photo and tell my family, “I won’t let you down.” Then, I grab ice, water and my protein powder.
The noise of the blender reminds me of the roaring crowds. My adrenaline surges. I have worked everyday since I was eight toward my goal of being a professional tennis player. Now that I’ve done that, I want to win a major.
In tennis, a "major" refers to one of the four Grand Slam tournaments: the Australian Open, French Open, Wimbledon and the US Open. These are the most important and prestigious annual tournaments in professional tennis.
Last year was my best ranking: Number 17 in the world. I’m so close to breaking into the top ten. I can feel it.
I head to my room and quickly change into shorts and a T-shirt, grab my keys and walk to my car. My coach, Graham, took some time off to be with his family. But, I force myself to practice every day at 5 a.m. anyway. I have to train as hard as I can. It’s the only way…
When I arrive at the South Florida Tennis Center, it’s still dark. I scan my pass, which allows me access anytime—perks of being a pro. Before heading to the court, I make my way to the fitness center. I run two miles on a treadmill and then do thirty minutes of agility training.
Once that’s done, my reward is serving drills. I don’t waste any time. I immediately grab a hopper, which is a metal basket of balls, and head to the service line. I want to start right in, but my physical therapist’s voice rings in my mind.Eddie, you have to take it easy. At least do proper stretching.Sighing, I drop my racket and hurry through my stretches: hamstring, hip flexors, shoulder rotations, and finally, a variety of wrist exercises. Then, I grab my racket and take a few practice swings.
Finally, the time I look forward to everyday is here. I inhale, toss the ball into the air and reach up with my racket before hitting a serve at half speed. The ball smacks the top of the net. I roll my shoulders back, trying to loosen up. After nine more half-speed serves, I accelerate faster. That’s when my wrist starts to ache.
I grimace and close my eyes. I am working my butt off day in and day out, but I’m still struggling to practice because of my wrist injury.You can’t let them down,I remind myself. I breathe out my frustration while doing a few more wrist circles, then serve again. My wrist throbs, but I don’t let up.
I feel like a child whining over and over about a scraped knee, but every time I hit the ball, my wrist hurts. It sounds so weak toeven say it. It’s not like I tore my achilles or pulled a hamstring. The doctors say it’s simply inflammation in the tendons of the wrist, called tendonitis.
The treatment is the worst kind: rest.
It’s like when you tell the doctor you’re not feeling well and they tell you that it’s simply stress. Just stress less and you’ll feel better. But in this case, it’s just rest and it will feel better. But, I can’t rest.
At the last major tournament of the season, the US Open, I lost in the quarterfinals. It was gut-wrenching. My wrist pain was so horrible I could barely hold my racket. But, I pushed through. Quit isn’t in my vocabulary.
After that loss, I dedicated myself to rehabbing my wrist and training more than ever before. I can’t let up. The clock is ticking. I’m 26, which is the equivalent of being over the hill in tennis timelines. The end of my career is looming. I probably only have a couple years left in me. Especially if I can’t get over this wrist injury. It’s like a catch-22. I need to train to stay at the top, but that’s also what’s aggravating the injury.
I’m about to toss another ball in the air, when I notice my agent, Roger, walking onto the court.
“Looking good out there, Eddie,” he says.
“Roger, you know it’s not nearly fast enough for a first serve.”
“They’re landing in though.”
I shake my head. “You’re a good agent but a terrible tennis coach.” I grab a hopper and start collecting tennis balls.
“Well I’m glad you recognize how lucky you are to have me as your agent, because I have great news.”
I freeze and brace myself. What Roger considersgood newsis not always good news to me. It usually means more work. The kind of work I don’t enjoy…the kind that involves being in front of a camera or talking to people.
Roger doesn’t seem to notice my tension because he continues in his upbeat tone, “Mynt, the hottest apparel company in the United States, wants to sponsor you.”
My forehead crinkles in confusion. “Me?”
“Yes, they specifically want you. They actually reached out to me…Usually it’s the other way around.”
“Why would they do that? I’m injured. I played like crap at the US Open.” I’m still beating myself up for losing in straight sets to Sergei Zaitsev. Yes, he’s a legend with a handful of major titles, but he’s pushing 35. There’s no way I should have lost that match, let alone been hammered. Yes my wrist was killing me…but that’s no excuse. My pride will never let it go. I looked like a toddler chasing a lion out there. Way out of my depth.
“I’m telling you, they want you, Eddie Evans.”
“That makes no sense…What’s the catch?” When something doesn’t make logical sense in life, if it’s too good to be true…there’s always a catch. Nothing in life is free.
