All throughout the season we were unstoppable. A 13–1 record at the end of the season was something to be proud of. The division we were in was dreadful, but we were proud, nonetheless. Maybe we should not be as enamored by that; it is usually a singles sport. Regardless, without losing to almost everyone, even the powerhouse Mountain View, we were proud. Diego could hit it like nobody else could, and I was faster than their hits could ever dream of getting past me. We had the chemistry to bring it far.

We made it to state. Excited and hopeful because of our record, we expected to be seeded. We did not. The bracket squared us up against a five seed, which was not ideal. Any of my coach’s griping that “this was unfair!” did not matter. We packed our bags, and the whole team piled into the van to watch. I was tense and nervous; my insides were churning. Diego tried his best to remain calm.

I stepped out of the van and the sun hit me. Even with my sunglasses, the sun did not yield. It boiled my skin with every ray. Sunscreen applied, check in completed, we anxiously awaited our first match. My teammates all gave their support, saying “we believe in you guys” and were “awaiting our big win.” At first, we practiced. Our touch would not be lost. We kept in tune with the ball, hearing it echo back and forth when it caressed our racquets. Feeling the reverberation with every hit, I was satisfied with the warmup. Stepping off the court, the smell of sweat and body odor hit me like walking into a middle school locker room. We awaited our call to action; we were ready to play.

We got on the court ready to play. All season led to this. Our parents were watching in the stands. Our best effort was needed. Even that may not be enough. As we awaited the first serve, my feet fidgeted. I swept the hair out of my face. Diego adjusted his headband. I spun my racquet in my hand. Every grip on the racquet did not feel…right. As the ball flew up in the air, waiting to be struck, I tensed up and waited to return.

We lost terribly. Not even close. We did not play our best. We could have put up more of a fight, but there was no chance we would have won. The only consolation is that we did win one game, so not a complete shut out. My parents tried consoling me with words like, “You’ll get ‘em next time” and “We’re proud of you regardless of the outcome,” but it did not matter. We lost, and there is no next time. While the game left a bitter taste in my mouth, (not just from defeat but from the sunscreen-sweat mixture dripping onto my tastebuds) I was still proud of our season and even with the poor outcome, I moved on.

Unlike my loss in tennis which I moved on from, I have a hard time moving on from other “losses” in life. I have only recently learned to be less of a perfectionist and stubborn about things like sports, even video games, and school especially. It is incredibly frustrating for me to fail at something I believe that I can do better at, but I need to learn to move on. What happened is in the past now and there is nothing that I can do to change it. No matter how hard or frustrating it is to lose, there is nothing I can do to change that outcome. The only thing I can do is to move on and learn from my mistakes. I need to think about what I did wrong and work on those aspects of my game instead of being frustrated. Any act of rage or sadness following a loss is a waste of time. Not to say that anyone should be a robot and not feel anything, that is not possible. But use those feelings to fuel a more logical response to analyze what went wrong and improve upon it. This is what the best professional athletes do, and a lesson can be learned from them.

Stephen Curry, one of the best shooters ever in basketball history, has made about forty-eight percent of his shots. For those who know basketball, they know that shooting percentage for a point guard is insanely high. Despite this fact, he made less than half of his shots! He fails more often than he succeeds yet he is still revered as one of the best to do it. Baseball is even worse. A .300 batting average and above (getting on base 30% of the time) is a mark of a great player, despite that meaning they fail to get on base 70% of the time! While the numbers may differ between sports, the conclusion remains the same. In order to succeed in life, ironically, failure must be accepted. Steph Curry does not stop attempting to shoot after a missed shot, and neither should anyone. Get right back up in the game, and take shots. Who knows when the next one may go in.

This is why a lesson could be learned about failing in life. It is okay to fail. There will almost always be another chance, and even if there may not be, there are plenty of other things in life that bring fulfillment. This is why I hate the movement towards participation awards. It does nothing but encourage mediocrity. It reduces the achievement that someone works for to something everyone gets. Why work for an award when the same result occurs no matter what happens? In real life a person is rewarded for succeeding, and if they fail, they try again. There is no point in trying again if given the same reward regardless of the outcome! Childhood should be for preparing for adulthood, not living in the fantasy land of undeserving rewards. Every famous or wealthy person (this is not the ultimate test of success, but a popular one) has had failure in their life, but the difference between them and any other person was their ability to bounce back from failure.