https://www.sverigesradio.se/avsnitt/jesper-waldersten-en-morgon-blir-dag

Tennis

The sun opens the day with a fine cut, searching for my eyes with its light scalpel, but I hide. My body isn’t ready yet—bones and flesh want to stay put, spin around in idleness a little longer. Like a crouton in a sauce or a polar bear in an overheated sea. But the job must be done, life must be lived, air must change owners today as well.

So I meet the floor, creak my way down the stairs—not unlike Pinocchio, I think. Everything is hanging except my hair, standing straight up in a messy salute. I could have seen it in the mirror if I’d wanted to, but I take another path today, again. Easier that way. It lets me believe I’m young for a few more minutes.

I sit down with a long exhale, rinse off yesterday, warm water over my body, roll-on under my arm, toothbrush in my mouth with blue toothpaste. I shake my head, test my voice—still there, but dark as an alley. Maybe there were additives in the wine last night. French—you never know. Italian—definitely.

Today is lens day, unlike other days when it’s glasses day. I have tennis in the evening, and I need to see without frames and glass.
I love tennis. It makes me put the man aside for a while, turning into a happy dog. I chase every ball, tongue hanging out. There isn’t a corner of the court I don’t cover. Serves and lobs, backhands and smashes. Slice, drop shots with spin. And then the clean forehand, straight into the white cross. One shot like that is enough to give my entire day meaning.

To get the best effect during my hunt for the ball, I choose my worn-out blue t-shirt. When I sweat, a dark patch forms on my chest, first resembling a skull, then, after a few sprints to the net, changing shape into a heart. The symbolism is blatant and absolutely wonderful. Sometimes I take a selfie and send it to my wife. She replies immediately.

You’re never done with tennis—it’s too difficult for that. It’s like playing the violin, unlike padel, which is more like a recorder or a synthesizer.

I grunt, shout out my frustration, raise my arms, or lie on my back. My shoes have worn down a little more, my socks are wet, and my knees held up this time too. We part ways there at the door, people you play sports with—people you never see in ties or evening gowns.

I drive home through the night, back to my doubles partner and coach.
And now, finally, I dare to look at myself in the mirror. The air has changed, and my body aches just perfectly.