A Week Later: What My First Tournament Really Taught Me

May 3rd

It’s been a week since I stepped into my first tournament. A real one. A real test. And not just of skill—but of presence, endurance, and honesty with myself.

I recorded a few voice notes right after it ended, and again a couple days later. But now, with some distance, this week has allowed me to see the whole picture. The full breath of what it meant. It’s crazy how just one event—one real plunge into competition—can distort, magnify, and re-center every ideology you hold about your game.

I didn’t go in lying. I told my partner I wasn’t ready. We were hitting every day, but I wasn’t doing the real things I knew I needed to do. The things I hold myself to. I wasn’t eating right. I wasn’t sprinting. I wasn’t doing the outside things. And the body never lies. That’s what showed up. Or didn’t.

What Happens When You Stop Pushing

The most brutal takeaway? You stop doing your performance work, it catches up. Simple. You stop training like you mean it, stop refining your movements and reactions, and you will be humbled.

I felt it almost instantly. I’d lost my feel for dominance. I wasn’t moving well, I wasn’t transitioning with confidence, and my body was cramping—every single point. Not because I’m not built for this. I am. But because I didn’t prepare like I was. I wasn’t sprinting, wasn’t in rhythm. And dominance doesn’t show up just because you want it to. It’s earned.

I used to keep my foot on the gas. Always. Not just in games, but in training. And somewhere in the past couple months, I let up. I was still playing quality—above my level even—but not training for it. Not doing that raw, pivotal work. And that’s what it showed.

The Day I Almost Broke (And Why I Didn’t)

We finished fourth. Not the podium, but damn close. And yeah—I blew third. Missed a return at 13-10 in the final game. It’s seared in my brain. One of those pivotal moments where you’re not mad at anyone else, just disappointed that you didn’t close.

But I’ll be real—the motto of the day? Play until you drop. And I lived that. After the first match, it became physical warfare for me. Every step hurt. My body didn’t want to cooperate. I was playing with a paddle I hadn’t used in two months because the one I trained with had just wrecked my confidence. I was clenching through pain, but not quitting. Not folding. Not giving myself an out.

There was no perfect setup. No ideal conditions. And that’s what made it real.

Dominance Is a Daily Decision

The Wednesday before the tournament, I’d gone on a rant about not feeling dominant anymore. That matters. Because dominance isn’t just a feeling. It’s a structure. It’s earned in the silence of training and the consistency of showing up.

I wasn’t taking the ball out of the air. Wasn’t speeding up on the right. Wasn’t even trusting my drop. My left arm felt numb. Pronation was limited. Extension wasn’t clean. That ability to embody the tool—whatever paddle I’m holding—was gone. And I hated that feeling.

Because I’m a feel player. Always have been. My timing, my reads, the ether of the game—it’s all internal for me. But when you lose physical trust in your body, the ether gets clouded too. That’s the truth no one wants to say.

From Clean Returns to Clouded Reactions

Even my two-hand speed-ups, which used to be filthy—precision counters, sharp drives, disruptive resets—weren’t there. Or maybe they were, but I wasn’t reaching for them. I didn’t trust my return, especially on the backhand. Everything felt almost.

And that’s the most dangerous zone to be in—where you’re not bad, but you’re not crisp. You’re not a mess, but you’re not surgical. The game starts to feel fuzzy. Your reactions blur. And that half-second? That’s all it takes to lose the edge.

Why I’m Still Glad I Did It

But here’s the thing: I’m still pleased.

Because I did it.

I’m the fastest one in the room to say “I just love training.” And it’s true. Training gives me a forever space. Competition? That’s a choice. But this tournament gave shape to what I’ve been chasing. It gave real data. It showed me not just where my game is—but where my mentality needs to be.

I didn’t show up and rip. I showed up with baggage—physical and emotional. But I showed up. And now, I know exactly what needs to change.

What’s Next: Building a Team, Shaping the Fire

I need to build a better team. Not just skill-wise, but people who push and poke and prod at the parts of me I’ve let sit still. And I need to lead that team—not just show up with rawness, but with structure. Push them beyond their limits, because I’m getting back to pushing mine.

That’s the call. Not to complain. Not to wallow. But to dominate again. And that means lifting, running, sprinting, sharpening the timing, refining the reactions. Getting back to that clean version of myself—back to playing like I’m preparing for something, even when I’m not.

Final Word: Play Through the Cramp

So what if I couldn’t move? So what if I couldn’t feel?

You still will.

That’s the line I’ll carry forward from this week. There’s no out. There’s no “well if I had…” There’s only: did you show up and did you play through the cramp?

This tournament? It was the sum of everything I didn’t prepare to do. And that’s okay. Because now I know. And I’ll never let that happen again.

10/10. Would do it again.
But next time?
I’m walking in with a single bag.
Nothing extra. Nothing missing. Just ready.