Finding the Flame Without Forcing the Fire

By Brett Adams | The 20th Ball

Where I’m At:

If I had to put a bow on April, I’d say I feel… plateaued.

Not lost. Not spiraling. Not even particularly frustrated. Just plateaued.

Some parts of my game feel electric—charged with intention, decisive, working. Other parts? Flat. Dull. Like I’m just… out there. Not drowning, not climbing. Just coasting with no flame underneath. But here’s the twist: I’m not mad about it.

That’s the good part.

I’m not beating myself up for not being where I like to be. That inner judgment used to bite hard. Now? Now I’m sitting in the pause with open eyes.

And that’s progress.

Body Check:

Truthfully, the body’s been calling for a break. Legs are tired. Hamstrings undertrained. Feet? They’ve been spoiled thanks to good insoles. Knees? Ignored. And they’re starting to speak up.

So yeah—the dip in intensity makes sense.

But tennis is back in rotation. That’s gonna help. It’s a donor sport for me. Restores the movement. The bounce. The range. The play.

Because at the end of the day—I’m a physical player. I move. I chase. I crash. I close. I creep. I live for the sequences where physicality and IQ overlap.

If I don’t feel physical, I don’t feel like me.

Training Mode:

This season is less about proving and more about rebuilding. Not even rebuilding, really—just reminding.

Reminding my eyes how to track again. Reminding my hands how to fire. Reminding my body how to trust the floor and fly again.

I’m hitting low-level games on purpose. For the rhythm. For the eyes. For the fire.

Poaches.
Drops.
Dinks that aren’t cute, they’re unattackable.
Sequences that punish greed.
Setting up fire fights that are mine before they start.

This is the real game again. Playing not for results but for reentry. Playing for that moment where everything syncs and the flow just… reclaims me.

Where the Fire Went (And How It Comes Back):

Right now, I don’t move when I dink. And it drives me crazy. Because that’s 2/3 of my game—anticipation and movement.

Usually, I’m:

On top of the ball.
Already there.
Already cutting off your next two options.

That’s missing. But I’m not panicked. Because I know how to get it back.

The more I play games that are real—games that expose the gaps—the more I get to write the comeback chapter. Higher dinks, more pressure. Forcing bad decisions. Pulling out all the smart shit I used to react to, and now being the one who causes it.

A New Joy:

There’s something fun about being in this phase.

It’s humble. It’s honest. It’s true.

Because it means I get to train in a way that prepares me for that inevitable moment where I fall into a hole again. And this time? I’ll know how to climb out quicker.

I’ve been here before. It took 5–6 months last time. This time? I know the trail.

The Favorite Tool:

My favorite training method is back on deck.

Here’s how it works:

I’m partnered with the weakest player.
Across from us? Two killers.
I gotta play half the court… and then all of it.

It’s chase-down mode. Precision mode. Defensive wizardry with a pinch of chaos.

It’s the best drill there is.

Finding My Game Again:

Somewhere along the way, I lost track of my game’s theme.

We’ve always played fast. Played loose. Played aggressive until we were forced to play conservative. And we tried to have fun the whole damn time.

I’m remembering that now.

I’m not training to avoid the struggle. I’m training to stay calm in it. That’s the game I’m building for.

When it’s fast, it’s boom boom boom boom.

When it slows down? It’s mine.

When I pop a ball up? I know it’s not coming back. That’s anticipation. That’s trust.

Losing to Win:

When I play with members, I want to lose.

Why?

Because I get to play truthfully.

They want the dub. I want the data.

Let them win. I’m collecting reads. I’m collecting gaps. I’m tightening the screws.

If it’s a justified loss? I’m thrilled.

If it’s unjustified? I don’t respect the shot—but I’ll make sure it never works again.

Closing Thought:

This isn’t burnout.

This is the in-between.

This is where you take the gloves off and recalibrate. Where you accept the plateau—not as the end—but as a bench on the climb.

This is where the joy of the game becomes clearer.

You don’t always have to want it.

But you better always be ready to want it again.