![]() It’s that time again: the U.S. Open. It seemed like yesterday that my family and I crouched over our small television set watching Roger Federer as he beat Andre Agassi for the first time—I was only in 6th grade at the time. In the background, I would hear my mother screaming as Agassi lost a crucial point. I, of course, was rooting for the green Federer—the low-seeded nobody, the one who wanted to steal all the glory from Agassi as he attempted to make history. I didn’t know much about tennis nor did I imagine that I would be playing tennis in the future. All I knew was that tennis was a family ordeal. I used to get all frustrated because our television set refused to work when I really wanted it to. My sister would be screaming at me: “Sam, go hit the TV!” or “Dude, move the antenna!” The air was always tense and nervous as we waited for the image to focus. On the most crucial points, it would decide to blur and buzz in and out as if it has a mind of its own. I used to place the antennae in all kinds of weird places; sometimes, it would be against the wall—other times, it was on the floor, upside down. Year after year, we would move the antenna back and forth. And year after year, I fell in love with the game of tennis. My dad asked me if I wanted to play tennis when I was in 8th grade. He presented me a few rackets to choose from and asked me if I wanted to learn. I remember the first racket: a HEAD radical oversize, a perfect racket for the beginner who could not hit the ball for his life. We would “hit,” as tennis players call it, every day after school—my dad would constantly encourage and guide me to work on consistency. Truthfully, he didn’t know much about tennis—only what he read from online tutorials and Youtube videos. But he was always there in these times, willing to learn for himself first and then share his newfound knowledge and skill with me. This was my dad, a man of many skills and talents—a man of passion, dedication, and motivation. He didn’t have much, but he was willing to give it all for me—all for his son who he loved dearly. Then one day, my dad introduced me to another formidable opponent: the wall. I remember always feeling bewildered and even frustrated at my dad. Why hit against a wall when you can hit against someone else? With much muttering and complaining, I would hit. It was harder than I thought it would be. One ball, two balls, three . . . over the wall. Tennis wasn’t going to be so easy. I spent that summer playing with my dad. We eventually migrated from the small courts of my junior high to the big courts of the high school I was set to study at. Being a shy and timid junior high schooler, I didn’t know what I was doing. I didn’t know how to “play” tennis. And my dad soon discovered he really couldn’t teach me tennis. We couldn’t afford private lessons either. But he was determined. If I was to learn, I was to learn from the people who knew how to play. My dad would drive me to the tennis courts every day after school and he would ask people to play with me. He would ask people if they could teach me. He would ask students if they would be my friend so I could learn the proper way to play. Sometimes, we were at the courts for more than four hours; my dad just sat there on the hard cement courts watching me. Every day he would sit there. And just like that, time passed and Federer won slam after slam, major after major. But during my summers, my dad continued sitting on those hard cement courts, watching me, observing me, encouraging me, supporting me. Don’t get me wrong. It wasn’t like I turned out to be a great tennis player or a great athlete. It’s not like I’m saying these are mandatory items on a “to do” list for becoming a better player. I just know that I owe a lot to my dad. And I owe him much more than just my skills in tennis. I begged my dad today to come play tennis with me. On Lord’s Day, I will be going back to my life in Princeton. My mom wanted to spend some time with me so she suggested that we go to the local gym. It has been a long time since my dad last played tennis with me. More than two years since my dad last touched a tennis racket. And when I asked him for the second time, I saw his face change; it reminded me of all those hours he sacrificed for me to play tennis. It reminded me of how much my father truly loved me. He jumped up and said, “Let’s go.” While we played, I could tell that time has truly flown by. The once young and sprite feet of my dad were now aching at every strike of the ball. He would groan when he picked up the ball or when he ran. My dad was slower than he was, less flexible and awkward on the court—not the dad who once taught me how to play tennis, who instructed me on how to hit the ball, who showed me how to do things right. After about an hour, I told my dad that we should go home. He should take a break. I knew he was tired. I knew at every point, he was fighting for the energy to keep up with a still growing up son. I grabbed a ball and I met my old brick-faced opponent. In the corner of my eye, I saw my dad plop himself down on the hard cement floor. And just like those high school days and those many hours of watching me grow up, my dad was watching me once more, patiently waiting, silently supporting me in my every pursuit. I struck the ball back and forth, back and forth until I grew tired. At every strike, I kept looking back at my dad. This was how I grew up. This was my dad. This was my family. It is hard to put my feelings into words, but I can’t help but feel grateful, blessed, and extremely thankful for the parents I have. A man walked passed my dad and asked him, “Can you hit like your son? He’s pretty good.” My dad was silently crying, remembering the moments of my childhood, remembering the long process he and my mom endured, waiting for me to awaken, to grow up. I later overheard my dad talking to my mom. He was praising me: “Sam plays very well. Very, very well.” Federer made it to another U.S. Open quarterfinal. He is playing better than he has played in a long time. He is on a road to redemption. Tennis is something new to me today. Watching my dad from the corner of my eye and listening to him shed tears for his son brought me back to the purity and simplicity of our human lives. Our lives fade and we get old so quickly. Things become blurry. Our thoughts become so complicated. Today, I was reminded again of my childhood, my upbringing, and my family’s humble beginnings in the United States. I was reminded again of my love for my father, for my mother, and for my sister. I was reminded again of the sacrifices, the pains, and the sufferings of my dad in raising me to become who I am today. I owe him a lot. I owe them my life. I’m rooting for Federer. Just like the old days. But this time, I think I’m at least a little bit changed. -Samuel C
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