The Box
“Match.” This single, defining word spits from the referee’s mouth, cutting through the back glass wall. The consonants, loaded with meaning and despair, push their way into my ears. They immerse and embed themselves into my eardrums before registering in my brain. My chance of success is gone. My movements run with autopilot. Having done the same routine countless times, I barely think as I go through the customary motions that are expected of a good sportswoman after a match: A handshake and smile. Quick strides to the door before participating in a lighthearted conflict with my adversary about who leaves the court first, including a flurry of “Go ahead,” “You first,” “I insist,” “No, please.” Eventually, one of us surrenders with a laugh and exits the battlefield. The friendly gestures and expressions feel sharp and bitter as they leave my body. It feels like an act, tasks on a checklist. After crossing the glass door, I respectfully shake the hands of the two referees.