THE PARADOX OF VICTORY

Ardeshir Jeejeebhoy
Jul 16
2 min read

Updated: Sep 15

My father took me to my first tennis match when I was around ten. We didn’t have box seats or fancy club passes. Just two spots on the faded concrete stands of a small-town club whose courts looked more like cracked parking lots than the manicured lawns you see on TV. It was summer, and the heat rose off the court in restless waves. I remember clutching the sticky bottle of orange soda my father had bought me from the dusty kiosk near the gate.

I remember trying to follow the fuzzy yellow ball as it zipped back and forth, the players’ shoes squeaking on the baked clay. I don’t remember who the players were.

I don’t remember the score. What I do remember — clearer than anything is the man next to us: older, brown skin leathered by sun, a battered straw hat shielding his eyes. He wasn’t talking to us, really. He just leaned forward at one point, squinting at the match, and murmured to no one in particular...

“He’s winning more points but he’s going to lose the match.”

At ten, it made no sense. Points meant winning. That’s what I believed — what I’d been taught every day at school, where we counted stars and grades and test scores like coins dropped in a jar. The more the better. Win the point, win the game. Simple.

So I turned to my father and asked, “How can someone win more points but lose?” He didn’t answer right away. He kept watching the court, his fingers drumming lightly on my shoulder. Then he said, so quietly I nearly missed it...

“It’s not always about winning every point. It’s about winning the right ones.”