“Just two more games,” I told myself as I made eye contact with my father, who was present courtside.

In the searing mid-day heat of July 2009, top-seed and fellow Lahore player Ushna Suhail and I had been battling away on the fast, cemented Court One of Karachi’s Creek Club in front of a crowd of about 20 people, my father and Ushna’s mom included.

The national ladies’ singles title was on the line – a first for either one of us.

I don’t remember doing much wrong that blustery day, a rare occurrence, considering my luck in the previous three finals. So, when my mid-court backhand slice drew an error into the net from Ushna’s racket, there was more relief than elation as I bagged my first national title.

It had been a long time coming.

I have been playing tennis for as long as I can remember, since the age of four to be precise. Growing up with two elder brothers, both decent players, and a keen father who introduced the sport to us, it was inevitable that I would get into it one way or another.

I have been playing tennis for as long as I can remember.

From sitting through five-set long Davis Cup home matches in my diapers, as I've been told, to inventing sports like ‘balloon tennis’, where you basically whack a balloon with your bare hands, and practicing against the backyard wall, I was always around the sport.

Little did I know as a four-year-old swinging away my 'junior', light blue wooden racket at sponge balls on the green lawns of Lahore Gymkhana Club, that I would be hitting tennis balls on a daily basis for so many years to come.

Getting up for drills at hours when most people are cozy in their beds, practicing in the afternoons, working out in the gym, travelling to tournaments all over the country, scheduling everything around tennis and repeating the routine everyday; this is the life that I chose for myself.

After a while you get used to the ugly tan lines on the arms, owning more tennis gear than formal clothes, the early morning wake-up calls, the long hours on the court and functioning like clockwork.

I was never in it for the money or the fame because when you’re spending three times the amount of the prize money to play a tournament, it all comes down to tennis being your passion and not really a profession.

As for the fame, tennis players in Pakistan are not exactly household names just because of the way the sports hierarchy works in this country. It took Aisam-ul-Haq Qureshi a run to the US Open final and a win over Roger Federer in a doubles match to finally make a name for himself in a cricket-obsessed nation like ours.

Gruelling rallies

It’s funny the way the brain of a tennis player works. I can’t recall what I ate last week, but I know exactly which shot I hit or missed on match point some five, six years ago. Match scores are etched in my mind.

The 2009 National Clay Court semi-final in Islamabad is one that always comes to mind. Pakistan number one, Sarah Mahboob, had only lost one match on the national circuit ever since claiming the top spot in 2005.

I was two points away from recording my first win over Sarah in Karachi a year before, but squandered the opportunity. It was followed by a heart-breaking third set, tie-break loss to her the previous week in the National Hard Court final.

Tennis, with its individual nature, can be a very lonely sport.

This time, leading 6-3 and 5-4, I reached match point. A perfectly executed backhand top-spin lob by Sarah denied me the second set and we were back on level terms. It felt like history was repeating itself all over again. I tried not to let the disappointment of dropping the second set get to me.

The Center Court at the Pakistan Tennis Federation (PTF) Complex began to fill up as the players on site sensed an upset brewing. We went toe to toe at each other, engaging in extended, gruelling rallies in the third set.

Another tie-break, and this time lady luck was on my side. A match that started in the afternoon finished under the rarely used floodlights as Sarah’s second serve landed long. It was an anticlimactic end to an otherwise high-quality match.

Having exhausted all my physical and emotional energy in getting that win, I was completely flat in the final against fourth-seed Sara Mansoor the following day, losing in straight sets. It wasn’t the result that I wanted but I was glad to see all my hard work, on and off the court, finally beginning to pay off.

I tried to hide my disappointment at the prize distribution. The four-hour drive back home on the motorway always seemed a bit longer after a loss. While my mom tactfully chose to remain silent in those situations, my dad was always ready with a post-match analysis laced with pep talk.

Losses are never fun. Some hurt more than others, especially since I am so hard on myself and national tennis in Pakistan can be so unforgiving at times that you can’t even bounce right back. Uncertain when the next tournament will come around, that extra time for self-reflection often does more damage than good.