Zombie on the Court

The nickname "Zombie" followed me everywhere freshman year. Not because I was undead, but because I walked through hallways like I was trapped in some apocalyptic daze—hoodie up, headphones on, barely present. I was bearing the weight of trying to be invisible while simultaneously dying to be seen.

Then Sarah dragged me to the padel courts behind the community center. "You need to stop ghosting everyone and actually live," she said, tossing me a racquet.

Padel was this weird hybrid of tennis and squash that nobody talked about but everyone obsessed over once they tried it. The court had glass walls and the ball made this satisfying *thwack* when it hit them. I was terrible at first—swinging at air while Sarah's serves ricocheted off the backboard like she'd been playing since birth.

"You're thinking too hard," she called out. "Just hit it."

But that was my problem. I couldn't stop overthinking. Every shot was a social calculation. If I missed, was I embarrassing myself? If I tried too hard, was I trying too hard?

Then this senior—Marcus, who I'd been lowkey crushing on—walked by with his friends. I froze. Literally stood there holding my racquet like it was an alien artifact while the ball bounced past me.

"Nice form, Zombie," one of his friends called out. They laughed. I felt my face burn.

But Marcus didn't laugh. He stopped walking. "Actually, she's got good instincts. She just needs to stop overanalyzing everything."

He stepped onto the court. "Show me your serve."

That afternoon, I learned something about padel—and maybe life. The best shots weren't the ones I calculated. They were the ones I just let happen. When I finally stopped thinking, my body knew what to do. The ball would come, I'd swing, and sometimes—just sometimes—it would arc perfectly over the net and drop right where I wanted it.

"See?" Marcus said. "You're not a zombie. You're just waiting for your turn to play."

The nickname didn't disappear, but it stopped stinging. Zombie became this inside joke instead of an insult. Every Tuesday and Thursday, Sarah and I played padel. I started getting good—like, actually good. By spring tournament, Marcus and I were partners.

We didn't win, but that wasn't the point. The point was that I wasn't watching from the sidelines anymore. I was on the court, racquet in hand, finally present in my own life.