For many young tennis players growing up, the dream isn’t just to play at Wimbledon — it’s to stand on the same grass courts where legends have left their mark. For me, a 23-year-old from a small town, that dream comes true this week. Ranked World No. 99, I’m stepping onto the pristine lawns of the All England Club for my first-ever Wimbledon main draw — and yes, I still have Novak Djokovic as my profile picture.
To some, that might sound childish, maybe even a little unprofessional. But for me, it’s a reminder of how far I’ve come and who I’ve looked up to every step of the way. When I first made that picture my profile photo on my old social media account at 15, it was because Novak represented everything I wanted to be: fierce, relentless, impossibly flexible, and, above all, a champion who never gives up, no matter what the crowd or the odds say.
Back then, I’d rush home from school, grab my battered racket, and head to the cracked public court at the end of my street. My friends would tease me for wearing an old cap backward, just like Novak did in his early days. I’d mimic his two-handed backhand, his split-step, his stretching lunges on hard courts. I even tried his gluten-free diet for a week — though my mom’s kitchen was far less glamorous than the menus Novak had access to.
Years later, I’m no longer the skinny teenager dreaming through a screen. I’ve spent countless hours on court, hitting thousands of serves until my shoulder screamed, running sprints until my legs felt like jelly. I’ve travelled through the gritty Challenger circuit, staying in cheap hotels, stringing my own rackets, and eating pasta from gas station microwaves when the tournament’s official player meal fell short. I’ve learned to fight for every ranking point because at my level, every point can mean the difference between qualifying for a Slam or watching it on TV.
Reaching the Top 100 was a milestone I’d promised myself I’d achieve before I turned 25. I made it with a month to spare. And what was the first thing I did? I updated my profile picture — same old Novak photo, this time with a note to myself: “Next time, you’ll take your own picture with him.”
When the Wimbledon qualifying draw came out, I saw familiar names — guys I’d lost to before, guys I’d beaten on rainy days in front of five people and a dog. I knew the pressure. I knew that every match could be the match. Three wins later, soaked in sweat, I dropped my racket and fell to my knees on Court 12. I was in. Main draw. Wimbledon.
There are fans who think players like me are just filler for the big names, a statistic waiting to be brushed aside by the seeds. But they don’t see the mornings where I run hills at dawn, or the nights I ice my knees alone in hotel rooms far from home. They don’t know what it means to send my parents part of my prize money to thank them for all the borrowed money they spent on junior tournaments we couldn’t really afford.
This week, I’ll walk into the same locker room as Novak Djokovic. Maybe he won’t notice me — a rookie with a ranking just inside double digits. Or maybe he’ll nod, the way the pros do. I’ll probably be too shy to say much. But I’ll watch how he tapes his rackets, how he warms up, how he focuses before stepping onto Centre Court. I’ll study him the way I did through my laptop screen, only now, it’ll be real life.
My first-round match won’t be on Centre Court, and there won’t be millions watching me yet. I’ll probably play on Court 17, maybe Court 12 if I’m lucky. But to me, that patch of grass is Centre Court. I know I’ll have to silence the voice in my head telling me I don’t belong here yet. I’ll remember the cracked court at the end of my street, the rain, the teasing, the debt. I’ll look at my strings, bounce the ball twice, and swing the way I’ve practiced for years.
If I win a round — or two — maybe someone will ask me about my old profile picture. Maybe they’ll think it’s time to change it to a picture of myself. But I think I’ll keep it just a little longer. Because every time I see Novak’s face, I’m reminded that legends aren’t born on Centre Court. They’re made in the dark, the cold, the hours nobody sees.
And maybe, just maybe, this week I’ll be one step closer to becoming someone el
se’s profile picture.
