After two years of tennis lessons, my daughter Jordan said, “Mom, I don’t want to play tennis.”

Those words sting the ears of any tennis-playing parent. But it was my sport, not hers. 

Jordan returned to tennis in 8^th grade—her idea. She played on the varsity team through high school. Years later, I asked my daughter why she decided to play again.

“I loved the clothes—the tennis skirts and dresses. They were the coolest uniforms,” she said.

I rolled my eyes; I’m sure of it.

Over the past two months, I’ve worn tennis skirts and dresses to state competition in SC with three of my USTA teams. The first tournament took place on a rainy, dreary weekend on Hilton Head Island.

Ours was a good team, but we responded poorly to the weather-shortened, 8-game pro-set matches. 

The only bright spots on those gray days were vivid pink tennis towels stacked on the tournament desk—prizes for the winners of each division. Prizes my team didn’t win.

Bummer.

Back in 2023, when two of my teams won state championships, the towels were orange, my least favorite color. Of all the colors in the rainbow, who chooses orange for a trophy towel? 

After the wet and miserable Hilton Head debacle, I traveled with a different team to Aiken, SC. At the tennis center, a bit of dazzle caught my eye. 

And there they were, those bright pink towels. They winked at me from a folded stack on the tournament desk.

Blue skies smiled down on us that weekend, but again, the word “short” got in the way. Not shortened sets, but our team was shorthanded due to injury, travel, and illness. 

We won our final match, but envy sent me hurrying to my car. I couldn’t bear to watch the winning players wave their—instead of OUR—brilliant pink towels. 

By the time I headed to States in Florence, SC with my 40s Combo Team, I had erased those cool, fun pink towels from my mind—or so I thought. 

On day one, at Frances Marion University, we played with the fiery intensity of the sun above us. After seizing our first two matches, we were tied with Hilton Head (HH) for first place. 

Water coolers and bananas rested on the metal bleachers—not a pretty, pink towel anywhere in sight. Nor did the coveted towels find me on day two at Florence Tennis Center.

That morning, our team stood alone at the top after prevailing against HH on two of our three courts in highly contested matches.

Our reign was short-lived (“short,” again). 

That afternoon, following a “let’s finish-the-job” pep talk, we lost 2-1 to Columbia. My court suffered a crushing blow, losing 13-11 in a third-set tiebreak. 

If you don’t think I replayed that match in my head all night long, think again.

When we arrived at the courts the next morning, we were one of three teams that sat at 3-1. The final match was a must-win to claim the title.

I headed to the court with my partner, still berating myself for the loss the night before. 

I said to myself, “Self, look forward, not backward. Forward progress is progress.”

No one was happier than my partner (and maybe me) when my will to win finally kicked in.

We joined the team outside the deciding court and held onto our hearts as we watched our teammates claim a tight second set. They finished the breaker with a resounding overhead smash. 

As we gathered in a circle to celebrate, my eyes found the tournament desk. 

And there they were, the towels. Those vivid, dazzling, brilliant, bright, beautiful, cool, fun, pretty, pink towels.

“The pink towels belong to us!” I shouted as my teammates cheered.

Tennis is not about the clothes; it’s all about the towels.