Fake It and Hope No One Notices: My Brief Career as a Tennis Fraud

I signed up for a performance camp at Rafa Nadal’s Tennis Academy in Mallorca.

Not for me.

For my children who are, unlike me, actually excellent tennis players.

But I couldn’t just stand on the sidelines. That’s not how I’m wired. I’m a former sportswoman, after all. So, I decided I’d play too.

Minor detail: I’d never played tennis. Ever.

The adult programme was for “good club-level players.”

Naturally, I panicked and turned to my daughter’s coach.

“Alex, can you teach me to look… respectable in 8 weeks, please? In between work and being a single mum?”

He nearly fell over laughing. But he agreed.

Eight lessons.

One banana-yellow racquet.

And a goal: survive the week.

Fast-forward to Mallorca: Everyone else had pro gear, elegant serves and perfect posture.

I had my handbag, a hotel water bottle and a pit in my stomach.

Day one: I faked confidence.

Sweated through hot flushes.

Shanked many of my shots.

But somehow, thanks to the one shot, the trusty forehand I’d accidentally nailed, I got bumped to the top court.

When the coach asked, “How many times a week do you play?”

I confessed: “Eight lessons total.”

He muttered something in Spanish and walked away.

Here’s the thing: This wasn’t really about tennis.

It was about joy.

The messy, midlife kind.

The kind that says: you’re still here.

You still get to try new things.

You still get to want things, just for you.

You still get to look a bit ridiculous and laugh anyway.

To feel the sun on your face, sweat on your back and a small thrill that says: I showed up. I dared.

I didn’t care if I was the worst one there.

And maybe that’s what reinvention actually looks like.

Not some grand life overhaul.

But saying yes to something that scares you and turning up anyway, racquet in hand, hot flush and all.