My First Racquetball Tournament Experience by JK

For me, it all started on a friends-and-family night at my local club, NERC in Philadelphia—a real old-school, salt-of-the-earth club on the outskirts of Northeast Philly. It’s still there to this day, but unfortunately with far fewer racquetball courts.

The premier show courts had become basketball setups. These were upper-viewing-area courts with no glass back walls, but they were an awesome place to play and watch. The back eight courts were eventually cut in half, and from what I understand, there are now maybe three or four courts left out of what was once, I believe, eleven.

My father and my aunt were members of this club, and it was really one of the first places where I played competitively. There was Tim, Ray, Jeff, Gold, Sue, Stewart, Rick, Carl, Angel, and so many others. These people helped shape my love for the game, and I will always be grateful to them.

Like the racquetball family does, I was invited to a friends-and-family night and played singles and doubles with many of the club players. That night, there was a pro scheduled to play the top singles player. After a close tiebreaker against Tim—who I had never beaten before in singles—I came out victorious and earned the right to play a sponsored professional named Mike.

This gentleman was an amazing racquetball player with deadly touch. Being young and full of spunk, we started our match—me not realizing that he was playing at about half speed and power. I ended up winning the first game by a few points. Feeling a little cocky, I tapped his racket after the game and walked off the court like a champion.

Four minutes later, he absolutely smacked the living shit out of me and taught me a very valuable lesson.

That lesson had nothing to do with winning or losing—it had everything to do with being kind.

I was around 17 years old at the time, and this man was a 30-year-old professional racquetball player. He didn’t just let me win that first game—he gave me a taste of what it felt like to be on top of the world, even if only for a few moments. That kindness has stayed with me and continues to influence how I treat other racquetball players to this day.

After the third game—which was competitive—I walked off the court with my head held high, seeing my family and friends in the upper viewing area cheering me on. In life, when you get moments like that, cherish them.

Afterward, it was just me and the pro talking in the lower area. That’s when he told me about an upcoming tournament where I could truly gauge myself against players with similar skill levels. The tournament was being held at High Point Country Club in Bucks County. He gave me a phone number and suggested I call the tournament director to see if there was space available.

As it turned out, the tournament was the very next week—and they needed two spots filled: A Singles and B Singles. I was told I could pay at the front desk and that matches would start at 8:00 a.m. Saturday morning.

When I got off the phone, I felt the first real anxiety I’d ever experienced about racquetball. Though I had played for many years, I had never been formally trained—only coached by my father, friends, and family. I had never played where survival for the day was on the line.

For the entire week leading up to the tournament, it felt like I was going on vacation every night when I tried to sleep—you know that feeling when you’re flying somewhere the next day. Except I had it for a full week, thinking about pinch shots in the corner and solid ceiling balls. I was a wreck before I even stepped on the court.

To make matters worse, I decided to play nearly every day leading up to the tournament—which was probably not a great idea. It was likely my first experience with recovery pain and realizing how it affects your game. But I was young and elastic.

Saturday arrived, and I walked into the club to check in with a woman sitting at a small table labeled Sign In Here.

While checking in, a man was screaming and yelling in the common area. I don’t remember exactly what the dispute was about—some bad call—but I watched him smash his racket on the floor within a foot of the referee. He then threw all his gear into his bag and stormed out of the club. I never saw him again.

Being one of the younger players there, I was immediately coddled by two A-level players who wanted to make sure I wasn’t intimidated or scared. I was short, had a baby face, and this was one of the first times I was around unfamiliar adults without my father nearby.

Despite their kindness, my anxiety skyrocketed. I remember physically shaking when I was told I was up on court—my first B Singles match.

As I walked onto the court, I saw an extremely well-built, six-foot-tall man in his mid-to-late twenties named (I think) Mike. I could barely shake his hand. He told me he was already warmed up and that the court was mine.

Luckily, I had time alone to warm up.

When I finished, the referee walked in and asked me to choose one or two. I had no idea what he meant. After it was explained, I picked—and lost—the serve. My opponent, likely underestimating me, handed me the ball and said, “You serve.” The referee allowed it, and then left us alone.

The first thing I did was start talking to this guy who was about to pulverize me. I was incredibly uncomfortable. Then the ref yelled, “Zero–zero.”

I dropped the ball and hit a beautiful first drive serve.

Within minutes, my opponent grew frustrated as I cleaned up everything he left up. About fifteen minutes later, I had won my first tournament match ever.

We didn’t have smartphones back then, but I had an early digital camera. I took photos of the bracket showing I had moved from the round of 32 into the Sweet 16.

What a triumphant memory.

That feeling didn’t last long.

My name was announced for my first A Singles match. My opponent was named Jerry. When I arrived at the court, Jerry was already warming up. I told the ref I was waiting for him to finish so I could warm up.

That’s when I learned I had to warm up with my opponent—on opposite sides of the court.

This was completely new to me. At my club, you always warmed up alone on an open court. I walked in, introduced myself, and started on the backhand side.

It was a disaster.

My first backhand drive hit the corner and rolled between Jerry’s feet. He casually tapped it back and kept warming up. About 95% of my shots ended up on his side of the court, while he kept his on his side almost perfectly.

My anxiety, which had been at zero after my first win, jumped to about 342.

Jerry won the serve and kept it. “Zero–zero,” the ref said. Jerry hit a perfect Z-serve. I didn’t touch the ball.

On the next rally, I hit the ball directly behind myself. Jerry held up. I assumed it would be a replay—like it always was at my club.

Instead, I heard the word “avoidable.”

Confused, I questioned the referee. He looked at me and said, “That’s the textbook definition of an avoidable.”

That rattled me. I unraveled. Within minutes, I was down 5–0. When I finally got set up for a shot I’d practiced endlessly, I skipped the ball into the floor.

Fear took over.

I lost 15–2, 15–3.

Walking off the court completely defeated and ashamed, I suddenly heard applause. It nearly made me cry. One after another, players came up to me saying, “Great job—that was awesome to watch.”

I didn’t understand.

Then I learned Jerry was the #1 seed and the Over-50 Pennsylvania State Champion, who went on to win the tournament. The match lasted nearly 40 minutes, and I had pushed him through multiple game and match points.

My anxiety dropped to a manageable ten.

In my next B match, I played one of the men who had congratulated me earlier. For the first time, I was given instant respect before a match. He played cautiously, and I won quickly—two short games.

That win put me into the semifinals.

My father was so proud. I can still hear the excitement in his voice.

The next day, I lost in the semifinals to a better player. My body was wrecked—I wasn’t used to playing two days in a row. But there was a silver lining.

I qualified for the third-place consolation match, which I won—earning third place in Men’s B in my very first tournament.

To me, there’s only one way to start anything in life:

Jump in with both feet and don’t worry about the consequences—because those consequences become the building blocks of your future.

Challenge yourself.

Get out there.

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