In loving memory of my father
May you rest in peace
Before:
October 2011
I was four years old, and it was a Sunday morning. My family and I got into the car and headed to the sports club. I sat on the cube-shaped, carpet-covered benches that rose like a staircase on the far side of the indoor tennis courts, watching as my sisters and brother hit a fuzzy ball around with funny oval rackets. I took in their exhilarated screams of laughter as the ball sailed over the net, and their frustrated groans when they missed.
Then it was my turn. I stood on the green surface of the court with the racket in my hand and my dad standing in front of me. My gaze lifted as the fuzzy ball flew at me. Nothing mattered but the ball. Instinct took over, and I swung.
Miss.
Miss.
Miss.
My dad came towards me and twisted the racket in my hand slightly to the left.
“Step forward,” he said, “into the ball.”
Again the fuzzy ball flew at me, ready to be swung at.
Miss.
Miss.
Step forward.
Hit!
My arms rose into the air, and I was struck by a sudden bolt of joy.
May 2017
My 10th birthday was a special moment for me. A one and a zero. Breaking the double-digit milestone. The routine was familiar: a big celebration with friends and family at my house, complete with balloons, chaos, and laughter. I was too young to appreciate it then, but looking back, I thank my father for setting the pace—spending hours at the BBQ and patiently organizing small children to take turns swinging at two piñatas.
The candies blanketing the ground.
Kids filling their little loot bags.
The laughter.
The adrenaline.
And two cakes: one ice cream, one sorbet.
My dad had set the stage for the journey that would be my life; with perfect synchronicity, he made order from chaos.
The party had the rhythm of life itself.
December 2022
My father was my secret Santa. I remember the wrapped rectangular box in his arms. When he held it out to me, a bright smile spread across my face. I ripped the paper off and the word RISK appeared from underneath. A board game. Then it was him and me, resisting the pull of life’s other demands. I was ahead, then he, then I, back and forth. He delayed his work so we could go on battling it out to see who would win. We went at it for hours. The game ended after I took control of all seven continents with my red-coloured soldiers. I felt the same bolt of pure excitement, the sense of moving forward.
During:
June 2023
It was 10 p.m. I was pulling the sheets over me, getting to bed early for my science exam the next morning. A voice called out urgently, “We need to go now!” Pants, hoodie, slippers, out the door, in the car.
Cold night air filled the car and surrounded the silence within. My stomach squeezed as the car raced through the streets. We didn’t know, but we did. “Come now,” they had said, “he’s in critical condition.” I looked out the window, wondering when we would arrive. Seconds felt like minutes.
No sitting in the crowded waiting room; we were rushed in and settled into a room deep within the bowels of the hospital by people in white coats. We sat and waited. Silence. Figures in white, blurred in movement, hurried past the room’s rectangular window. Inside, we waited surrounded by an eerie calm.
A doctor walked in and spoke to us gently. “We tried everything we could.”
Then my tears came in an endless stream. Thoughts, memories, questions, and scenarios raced through my mind, blurry like the figures through the window. I sat in my chair, elbows on my knees, palms over my face. Immobile. Unwilling to understand, yet knowing I could not change anything.
On the drive back, the silence was broken by sobs that kept coming, one after another. Again, I stared out the window, now seeking answers to unanswerable questions. I could only believe that this was all a dream and that soon I would wake up with a greater appreciation for the why of it all. But no, the dream was all there was. Nothing could fix this. Nothing. Time moved, but I was standing still.
After:
June 2023
A sleepless night, an incomprehensible loss, and a science ministry exam I was not allowed to miss. What else could go wrong? I went to school and wrote my exam with thoughts, images, and questions flooding my mind. Eyes squinted, holding back an endless rush of tears. Eyes on paper, reading and putting numbers into my mind to stop it from thinking.
This could only work for so long.
Afterwards, I lay on our couch at home staring at whatever my gaze fell on. I was vaguely aware of an endless parade of people and the constant ring of my cell phone. I felt like I was drowning in my thoughts—a deluge of inescapable questions. Even if my instincts told me to push them away, I stayed in those thoughts for a long time, waiting for him to send me a fuzzy ball.
July 2023
I went to Colombia for a tennis tournament that had been planned months earlier. It was a decision I could not rationally understand, but it’s what my gut told me to do. And in that decision, I found the drive to keep going, even when things were hard. I found strength and resilience in those matches. Just like he taught me: order from chaos. Go for the seven continents. I found him again on the court, in those challenges and in the way I overcame them.
2023-forever
My life has a different rhythm now, one that has me constantly adapting. My father gave me many gifts I hold deep in my heart.
Today, I have stopped standing still. I sense the passing of the seconds again. And when I need him, I can still feel him, gently adjusting my grip and whispering, “Step into the ball.”
Alec Barin lives in Montreal with his mother and three older siblings. He has been a competitive tennis player since the age of seven and has travelled extensively for tournaments around the world. His family is his source of inspiration, and he draws from his rich cultural heritage and the support of his extensive network of cousins and friends.