More or less when I was high enough to see over the net, my father introduced me to tennis. I occasionally played with my cousins and my sister until age eleven, time where I took my first class with a new coach named John Gardiner in Pebble Beach, California. That same year I played my first tournament in the division, less than 11? at the National Championships in track lasts. The night before the meeting, I dreamed of the glory of being a champion. My first encounter was a nervous but simple victory.
My second encounter, against a second player, ended with a defeat of 6-3, 6-4 making me cry bitterly. Had no idea of by that win meant so much to my. During the following summer I played tennis every day. I got up at 7 in the morning, I prepared and took my breakfast in five minutes and then went up the slopes of Pebble Beach many miles away. I used to arrive an hour before the others and spent that time hitting setbacks and boleas against a wall.
During the day He played ten or fifteen sets, me exercising and taking my lessons without interruption until the lack of light didn’t see the ball. Why?. I really did not. If someone had asked what I had told him that it was because I liked tennis. Although this was partially true, it was first of all because he was deeply involved in the game of perfectionism. There was something that looked like he wanted to show me myself. Win was important for my tournaments, but day to day play well was important. I wanted to be better and better. My style consisted of thinking that it was not going to win, and then attempt to amaze me to me and to others. Although he hated losing, he enjoyed not really win another person; me slightly uncomfortable.