*Thump**Thump*

I can hear my heartbeat pounding in my head. It pulses and shakes my skull, and yet this horrendous feeling is the least of my concerns. With my head down, I slightly open my eyes to see a few drops of viscous blood dripping onto the floor. Grabbing my towel, I feign wiping the sweat off my face while cleaning the syrupy red juice from my nose and upper lip.

Sighing heavily, I take a bottle of water, rich in electrolytes and manage a few sips before eating half a banana. Knowing I have little time left, I readjust my hat, check my laces, and grab my racquet before getting up from the bench and going to my side of the court.

As the match restarts, I take a comfortable stance before focusing on my opponent’s movements. Soon all noises tuned out, and the only sound is the ball bouncing on the opposite side of the court.

“Haa!”

With a grunt, my opponent manages a decently fast serve towards the edge of the center service line. In front of most opponents, he would’ve aced them, or at least induced a weak return but alas. With measured steps, I give a strong return towards his backhand. Fortunately for him, he can get to the ball, unfortunately, though I am already at the net to deliver a quick volley to end the rally. The crowd starts cheering, but I can’t hear them at all. Even the referee’s voice is as quiet as a mouse.

My opponent engages again, this time with a slower service, but one that allows him to respond quickly to my return. Our rally goes into the 30s before I hit a sharp diagonal shot that he can only watch go by.

He tries the same strategy again but I don’t play along. I place my weight into a two-handed forehand shot that he manages to get his racquet on, but his return sails into the sky before going out.

“Love - 40. Championship Point!”

Hearing the word ‘championship’ I feel my heart beating louder in my chest. Taking deep breaths and subtlety wiping the blood dripping off my nose I ready myself. My opponent is visibly unstable. However, I implore you not to judge him too harshly. My style of play is both physically and mentally taxing for opponents. I have no real weaknesses, employ an ever-changing offense, and have highly developed predictive capabilities. These traits make me the bane of most players even at the highest level.

*Thump**Thump*

I slightly flinch at the pain now resounding inside my entire body but continue to heighten my senses. With unsteady resolve, my opponent serves a strong and heavy serve to my backhand. Having anticipated it, I arrive with plenty of time. Taking a split-second to look at the man across from me, I focus on his feet, before giving a small but distinctively devilish smile.

With the identical motion of my backhand, I strike the ball, but unlike my usual backhand, the ball gently floats back across the net. It’s a mesmerizing sight. Like an illusion, the ball seems to hover before sharply dropping as it crosses the net and bounces lightly on the ground. The shot that I would bet my life on, the drop shot.

With the entire stadium silent, I raise my right arm along with my racquet into the air, before giving a triumphant roar.

“RAAAAAAAHHHHHHHH!!!”

“GAME! SET! MATCH!”

Soon the entire stadium is filled with cheers and applause.

I look up into the darkening sky.

[Mom, Dad, I did it! I finally did it!]

Unknowingly, tears began forming in my eyes before they race down my face. I felt both ecstatic and melancholic. At the event that brought my parents together, playing the sport that captured my heart, I won.

“This year's US Open champion is-“

*Ring*

A high-pitched ringed assaults my ears followed by a sharp pain in my head. Before I can even flinch a mouthful of sanguine fluid climbs up through my esophagus. I cough up blood as I fall to my knees. Struggling to stand, another round of pain rattles my head before more crimson life comes out of me. My vision starts blurring and I cannot hear anything.

Even kneeling became difficult as I fall face-first onto the hardcourt. Darkness begins to encroach on my mind. The natural reaction would be to fight it, to tell death that her warm embrace is not needed, but this is the opposite of my reaction. I’ve lived a full life. Good parents, decent friends, a real passion. I do regret never getting married or having kids, but all in all, it was a good life.

Soon, scenes of my entire life flash before my eyes before a deep and oppressive slumber takes me.

“Aaaaaahhhhh!”

My eyes fly open as I stop screaming, and try to manage my labored breathing.

“What kind of dream was that? Everything felt so real, as if-“

Suddenly an eerily familiar sensation racks my brain for what seems likes an eternity. I grit my teeth as I try to bear the pain. There is a feeling that if I pass out here, I would lose something important.

After some time, I am enveloped by a cooling sensation followed by a sense of realization.

“That was me...I died and now I’m alive? Reincarnation? Transmigration? Am I this new person on the old person?”

As these existential questions fill my mind, I take a look around the familiar yet unfamiliar room. It’s a simple room, with neatly organized books shelves, a drawer, a dresser, and a desk. On the left is a display of different lures used for fishing, and leaning on the dresser is a brand-new tennis bag.

“Seems like I was destined to play this sport,” I say to no one in particular as my lips shift into a wry smile.

I leave the bed and walk towards the window to watch the sunrise.

A few hours later, I make my way towards the bathroom but explicitly avoid looking into the mirror. In a few minutes, I prepare myself for the day, taking a few seconds to properly clean my rimless oval eyeglasses, before mounting them on my face.

Gently heading down the stairs, my attire consists of a black polo shirt, grey shorts, and white quarter socks, with my tennis bag slung over my shoulder.

Opening the white Yonex bag with silver accents, I verify the racquets, tennis shoes, towels, and other miscellaneous items before placing a few prepared water bottles and snacks inside. At the entrance of the house, I grab a pair of simple white sneakers from the shoe rack before heading out towards the bus stop.

Around 30 minutes later, I’m at the tournament grounds. There are youths all under the age of 13 gathered from across the region. Ignoring everyone, I head towards the registration booth inside the venue before greeting a middle-aged man wearing the official uniform of the group organizing the event.

“Good morning.”

“Good morning sir,” I say with a small bow.

I should mention that the entire conversation was in Japanese, a language that the past me studied and the current me uses as his primary language.

“Name please,” the man says with a smile, likely pleased with my manners.

“Tezuka. Kunimitsu Tezuka.”'