I was two points away from Regionals.
I played an U-19 Table tennis tournament recently, a tournament that was a rollercoaster ride for me.
I was the vice-captain of my school's U-19 team, and we had to qualify for the Regionals as per the given criteria.
The top 5 in the category would qualify, and the tournament had a format wherein the four quarterfinal winners would qualify directly whereas the four players who lost in the quarterfinals would have to fight in the 5th-position matches for the last slot.
Before the tournament even began we had warmed up.
A few coaches had witnessed and analysed our games, and one of the things they mentioned was that I had a weak forehand.
So I began warming up.
The first match began.
The person I was playing against was a complete weakling.
3–0.
I look at my next opponent and it is a national level player.
I was afraid.
I did not expect to defeat the national-level player, but I was scared nonetheless.
The match begins.
My forehand clicks in.
I am cooking him with my forehand.
Again. Again. And again.
Somehow I win:
3–0.
A national-level player.
The funny thing was that my forehand, which the others had called weak, was the forehand that was doing the most damage.
So now I enter the quarterfinals with confidence.
I get this tall guy who was a net-and-edge merchant.
The match was ridiculous.
I swear every set went to deuce.
Every. Damn. Set.
I would fight my way back and we would reach deuce and then there would be a net or an edge and another net and another edge.
I lost 1–3.
But if you look at that score, if you look at it as a 1–3 score, you would assume it was an easy victory for the other person.
It was not.
Every set was a fight.
That is how this line came to me:
"Hard work registers you in for the race. Luck decides how well your shoes are."
The four quarterfinal winners were going to the Regionals.
I wasn't one of them.
So now I had to fight for 5th.
The first placement match began, and I faced a reckless power attacker who tried to attack me with every hit.
I win 3–1.
The next match was a piece of cake.
Another 3–1.
So now after losing the quarterfinal, I had fought myself back into the 5th/6th final.
Who was on the other side of the bracket?
My captain.
I am the vice-captain, and he is the captain.
And we are playing for 5th place and a chance to qualify for the Regionals.
I start terribly.
0–2 down.
At that point I start thinking that this chance is slipping away.
But somehow I start fighting back.
Third game won.
Fourth game won.
Suddenly:
2–2.
Now it is one game.
One game for 5th.
He is chopping on the table.
I am attacking.
And I am absolutely obliterating his chops with my forehand.
And I actually see my captain's face astonished at how smooth my forehand is while I attack.
Which makes me laugh inside because earlier in the tournament people had literally been saying my forehand was weak.
Now I am standing there ripping through my captain's chops with the same forehand.
Then the decider reaches:
9–9.
It is two points, the winner of which will take 5th place and qualify for the Regionals.
I lose 11–9.
Finished 6th.
It is a heartbreaking loss.
Not because I was trounced.
I had just come back from 0–2 to 2–2, and was two points away from qualification and a new place.
But that's sport.
Sometimes you fight yourself all the way back into a match and the last two points do not fall.
Still, I am proud of the fight I showed.
I entered a match against a national-level player and had feared for the loss but somehow beat him 3–0.
The forehand that everyone had called weak became one of my weapons.
I lost a quarterfinal match where every set went to deuce, and then fought through the 5th-position matches and came back from 0–2 against my own captain in the match for Regionals and finally:
9–11.
6th place.
Two points short of Regionals.