 Welcome to our first TennisAsia Monthly Newsletter ~ Sep 2026 ~ Why Matches Matter 
CHAPTER 2 : MY OWN
RACKET
A story about a boy, his first tennis racket and the moment tennis started to feel like his own. (5 MIN READ)
At first, I used the rackets from the club.
But after a while, I started noticing things.
- Some rackets felt too slippery in my hand.
- Some felt too heavy at the top.
- Some had strings that made the ball go ping in a nice way, and some made it sound like you were hitting with a frying pan.
I didn’t know if real tennis players noticed those things, but I did.
One Saturday after my lesson, I saw a boy unzip a bag and take out his own racket. It had a proper cover and bright strings and a grip that looked brand new. He didn’t throw it around or leave it on the ground. He held it carefully, like it mattered.
I remember staring at it more than I probably should have.
On the way home, I asked Mum,
“When do you get your own racket?”
She smiled, like she had been waiting for me to ask. “Aha,” she said. “So now we’re serious?”
I said, “I am serious.” She laughed a bit, but not in a mean way.
A week later, we went to the sports shop.
It smelled like rubber and plastic and new things. There were rows of shoes and tubes of balls and bags bigger than me. The tennis rackets were hanging on the wall in neat lines, and for some reason that made them seem important. Like you couldn’t just pick one because it looked cool. It had to be the right one.
A man came over and asked how old I was and how tall I was and whether I’d been playing long. I stood up straighter when he asked me, not Mum.
He showed us a few junior rackets. I held each one in my hand and swung them carefully in the air. One felt too light, like it might fly away. One felt too stiff. Then he handed me another one — blue, with a white grip and a little bit of green on the frame.
“That one suits you,” he said.
I didn’t know how a racket could suit someone. But this one did. It felt right straight away. I carried it all the way to the till myself.
At home, I leaned it against my bedroom wall where I could see it from my bed. That night I kept looking over at it before I went to sleep. It sounds silly now, but having my own racket made tennis feel different.
More real. Like I wasn’t just joining in anymore. Like I belonged there.
At my next lesson, I took it out of its cover as carefully as the boy I’d seen before. I hoped no one would notice, but I also really hoped they would. The coach did.
"Well then, Leo," he said, nodding at it, "someone's upgraded."
I tried to act normal and shrugged, but inside I was glowing.
I played better that day. Maybe it was the racket. Maybe it was just because I felt like I should.
I chased more balls.
I hit with a bit more confidence.
When I missed, I didn’t look around to see if anyone cared.
I just got ready for the next one.
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At the end of the session, Mum asked, “So? Was it worth it?”
I looked at my racket in my hand. My racket.
The grip already had a tiny mark on it from my fingers. “Yep,” I said.
And what I meant was: It wasn’t only about owning something. It was about feeling that tennis wasn’t just a place I went to anymore. It was becoming mine.
