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Columbia's Donovan Wins ITA/USTWA Writing Award
Courtesy of Columbia Media Relations
NEW YORK -- The Intercollegiate Tennis
Association (ITA) and the United States Tennis Writers’
Association (USTWA) announced the 2010 winners of their annual
writing contest, and recent Columbia women’s tennis alum,
Carling Donovan ‘10CC, took second place
overall with her essay, entitled "Tennis vs. Everything Else."
The competition consisted of two separate nationwide contests, one
eligible for Sports Information Directors and one available for
students currently enrolled in a college or university. The top
three articles chosen in each contest received cash prizes, an
awards certificate and the opportunity to be featured on
www.itatennis.com and www.USTWA.org.
A complete list of winners is available here.
Tennis vs. Everything Else
By Carling
Donovan ‘10CC
They were half right. As I looked out on the mass of faces, all
were heavily shadowed from below, topped with a fluorescent
brightness that rendered them close to indistinguishable. But they
were there: I could see bodies, I could make out pairs of eyes
glued to the podium spotlight just a few feet away from where I
stood—but still close enough that when I covertly glanced up
at the scoreboard screen, I could see a digitalized version of
myself. My dreaded nightmare of appearing on the Jumbotron at
various sporting events, ranging from the Kiss Cam (what if I was
sitting next to my brother?) to the Fans of the Game shot at any
venue, was becoming a reality. I never knew what my gut reaction
would be in such a state of exposure: would I jump and wave
ecstatically, or cover my face in awkward embarrassment? In those
moments of unexpected and anxiety- ridden showcase, how would I
perform?
They were half right when they told me I wouldn't be able to see
the crowd of close to 1,000 people who would be focusing their
attention solely on me. Yet, I could still see them, but I wasn't
blinded, which was a positive considering I wouldn't just be
standing there. Sure, I was just standing there now, which in
itself presented numerous other concerns: how did I hold my hands?
What should I do with these pieces of paper? Should I look at my
fellow speaker, who was breaking the ice and going first? Did I
look bored, excited, nervous, terrified? How does my hair look? I
spent enough time perfecting it in my room for the past hour, but
the ominous storm clouds rolling in minutes before I entered the
gym meant that deadly humidity was imminent. Also, I couldn't tell
from the hopefully inconspicuous quick study of myself on the
scoreboard screen, but something told me the bloated appearance of
my face when I woke up that morning was mostly hormonal and not
psychological. I hoped I wasn't shiny, that the quick bronzer my
makeup-artist-for-the-day friend brushed on hid any signs that I
was on the verge of pouring sweat. I looked again at Clay, giving
his speech and gripping the sides of the podium in a gesture of
nervousness, which conversely projected an image of cool, calm, and
confidence. Yet, I didn't think I could pull off that same
positioning: somehow that image of cool would be transformed into
an image of instability and distress. Sort of like how I had to
cross my legs while sitting on stage: I needed to be more ladylike,
less aggressive athlete.
But wasn't aggressive athlete what had earned me this position in
the first place? Weren't the Columbia Athletic core traits of
accountability, respect, inclusiveness, commitment, integrity, and
excellence what I exemplified, and thus got me elected? I wasn't
too sure about that—I think I got nominated because I had
more than a few friends and teammates on the Student Athletic
Advisory Committee—but it was ironic that my athletic
abilities were not what were on display that night. Instead of
gripping a racquet, stutter-stepping in my sneakers, and grunting
to release tension during a shot, I was standing before a crowd of
my peers, coaches, and alumni, gripping my typed speech, praying
that my calves didn't cramp while standing in those four inch
heels, and attempting to remain as still as possible without
appearing frozen. When I would feel the anxiety coming on, and
remember that all of my fellow athletes would be staring at me,
watching me, and inevitably passing judgment, I would take a deep
breath, fix my hair, and repeat "this is so much easier than a
tennis match."
For my entire life, since I was brought home from the hospital and
placed as a newborn close to courtside so my parents could get a
quick hit in, tennis had been the constant. No matter where we went
on vacation, or what activity was planned for the weekend, finding
the nearest tennis courts and reserving two hours for our playing
time were always priorities. I went through phases where I hated
being dragged to the local courts, because I would rather be
playing recess games with my brother in the park, or watching TV in
the clubhouse. Yet, there were also times when I would wander over
to the huge hitting wall, and spend long periods of time hitting
countless balls against the cement backdrop, dreaming of the day I
would win my first Grand Slam.
Tennis wouldn't always be the far off fantasy I imagined, but it
would continue to be the major event of most weekends. Soon I
wouldn't be driving down the street to rally with my parents, but
flying around the country to compete in national tournaments. From
the first match I ever played to my last collegiate contest, I
always experienced the whole gamut of human emotions. It would go
from almost crippling anxiety, to hitting the nerves out, to raw
competitive desire, to stumbling confidence, to a rising surge of
hope, and always culminating in either crushing loss or relieving
happiness. There was always a next stage, a next round, another
year, another age division. But now, as I stood on that platform as
the representative student speaker for the graduating class of
2010, it was over. I remembered how I would train hard, be pumped
to compete, and lose a heart wrenching three setter with the match
on the line because my opponent decided that it was her day to
paint all the lines. Now, I wasn't competing against anyone: I
didn't have to raise my level, outsmart or outhit the girl across
the net. All I had to do was recite a few paragraphs, and
occasionally glance up into the illuminated masses.
I stared down at my shoes, repeated, "This is so much easier than
a tennis match," and walked towards the podium after Clay said
"thank you" to the anonymous sea of clapping hands. I placed the
now crumpled pieces of computer paper onto the podium, took one
final deep breath, and began. "Tonight we acknowledge and celebrate
the end of another year as part of Columbia Athletics." Although I
could vividly relive stepping onto our blue courts for my first
practice four years ago, I had done so for the last time. I
communicated how those of us who were graduating would always be
athletes, that it was part of our identity. I evoked the sense of
pride we had in training, competing, winning, and representing our
school and our respective sports. I only fixed my hair a few times,
especially after slipping up and repeating a line, which I
attempted to casually laugh off. It was a mistake, but I would
persevere to the finish nonetheless. I hadn't won, I hadn't lost, I
had made it through. Just as all those wins and losses in tennis
would run together in my mind over the years, it was the
experience, the emotion, and the energy that I would remember after
my final season came to a close.
Despite my anxieties, the speech was a success—I even got a
few laughs. I realized once I sat down on stage, where I would
remain seated for the rest of the annual ceremony, that I could do
anything. I had never given a speech before, never mind in front of
that many people, but it didn't matter. After clinching 4-3
matches, after fighting through two winless years in the Ivy
League, after sacrificing all I had in an effort to retain every
player on the team during my senior year, I could do anything.
Although my role as an NCAA athlete had ended, the strength I had
during that speech, which I would bring to whatever new challenge
lay ahead, was drawn from those hours on the court. So whenever I
find myself blinded by the light, confronting that familiar gamut
of emotions, I can say to myself with assurance, "this is so much
easier than a tennis match."
