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            On Election Day, my partner showed up for our match in a MAGA hat. 

            For the most part, I had managed to keep my tennis playing and politics separate. I live in a deep-red county in a red state, so my liberal views are in the minority. I’m at peace with this and am always pleasantly surprised when someone even insults a Republican policy out here. I’ve also learned that, out here, if I’m talking to someone who would be injured by Trump policies or his racist rhetoric, that does not mean that person is not a Trump supporter. It’s about 50-50. So I find the less I talk to people about their political beliefs on court, the more I can focus on tennis and keep folks at racquet-length. 

            So, Tuesday. My partner shows up to our match in a MAGA hat. She’s been a citizen for about a month. I wasn’t completely shocked by this display. When she sent out the last lineup of the season, our captain signed off with “Let’s Make America Great Again!” with some red, white and blue heart emojis. Then came an invite to election-night watch party, to which my partner replied, “My husband and I are garbage ...” When I checked in for the match, some lady was standing in the office saying, “He can do it, he can win!” As soon as she saw me, she tossed out an invite to watch results (not to me), and made a real quick exit. Earlier this summer when I went to sectionals, it was after Trump was shot at. There were women playing on the courts with bandages over their ears. 

            Anyway. My partner. She’s got the hat on and she’s just beaming. I wanted nothing to do with that hat on my side of court, but what was I going to do? Tell her to take it off? Not play? Nah, screw that. I came to play and if my partner wanted to dress up like a clown, then I just needed to step over the elephant dung at the circus. We won, and she asked to take a photo with me, as it was the last match of our season and we had been undefeated. I agreed. 

On my way to the car, I muted that group chat. I don’t make a secret of my political beliefs and as quick as I am about keeping the peace, the ladies on that team were just as quick to throw their beliefs in my face.  

I don’t have anything profound to say. Now that the results are in, it’s hard to say what’s different. I am surrounded by what I’ve always been surrounded by. I’ve seen Trump signs for the last nine years out here, solid. I am not a political sign person. I don’t have any Obama, Biden or Harris memorabilia, except saved newspapers from those historic days. I do have team sports jerseys, a couple. That what this is to a lot of people. If you look at it that way, then that’s a safe fandom, right? How often does your own team come to your house and tackle you, then dance in your endzone (the backyard in this analogy)?  

But here’s what I’m tired of not saying. Tennis is my sanctuary. I go there to play and take my mind off my life, to strategize. Even when I’m losing, I’m usually having a decent time and feel generally peaceful when it’s over. I can’t play tennis by myself and out here, the players are who they are. They believe what they believe. I can’t help that.  

I also can’t help that my family and I are originally from a place that would be considered a shithole country. I can’t help it that I remember Charlottesville, Virginia, and the immediate attempt at mass deportations. I can’t help that I remember his efforts to undo health care that covered more Americans that need it and the fact that he doesn’t have a plan for take care of those people, even now. I can’t help it that women have already been sick and dying because they haven’t been able to get the healthcare they need because he stacked the Supreme Court. I can’t help it that I’ve been reading about Trump for most of my life, being from New York. The mainstream media is not out to get him – he's been an awful and untalented, if privileged, man for as long as I can remember. I can’t help it – and I haven’t heard a compelling argument against this – that I believe that a vote for that man is a tacit approval of who he is and what he’s done and what he plans to do to the least of us. 

And what does it mean that there’s no tennis team I can join, precious few people I can even just hit with, who share my values in this deep-red place where logic seems impenetrable? Probably the most important thing it means is that these people are not my friends. They hug me. They ask after my family. They warm me up for matches. We joke and strategize. They’ve met my kids and been to my house. They invite me to lunch. They wear their ignorance and fear and hate on their heads and in our group chats. And I ... have been accommodating about it. For what? To make a point about not being judgmental?  

I don’t have anything profound to say. Because I’m not quitting tennis. But maybe I can apply what I’ve been told about tennis for years – to leave it, and these people – on the court. Then go home and find my people.