I started playing sports knowing I would never be a superstar. Competing at a D1 level in college may not be in the cards for me. But I keep playing all the same.

Sports are mere entertainment, one might say. Sure, in a vacuum, Forrest Gump's cross country run is just one guy moving his legs and arms for miles and miles. But in life, it's an inspirational show of endurance, a display of pushing past your limits, a celebration of human tenacity. Millions of people tune in every week to watch their favorite team or athlete, who can become heroes or pariahs at the kick of a ball, a swing of the bat. People track stats and talk strats, but what they're really drawn to is the story. The underdog ready to take the world on and the reigning champ who needs some humbling. Here is my sports story, not as an athlete and not as a journalist, but as a lucky son.

Sports isn’t just the players, after all; it’s the support as well, from family to the fans. And my mom is a load-bearing wall every step of the way. She’s not a great driver, so she dreads navigating the bustling streets of New York City. But because my dad is always traveling, my mom steps up as my tournament chauffeur, driving me to every event without any signs of fear.

So many weekends spent on the road – my childhood memory is forever the back of the driver’s seat and the silhouette of my mom hunched over the steering wheel, hands perfectly positioned at 10 and 2 o’clock, eyes intensely fixated on the road. A short ten-minute crossing over the George Washington Bridge inevitably turns into a two-hour journey. While my mom is constantly worried about being late to a tennis match and keeps taking deep breaths to calm herself down, the traffic never bothers me one tiny bit, as I know my mom has the magic power to get us there somehow.

I usually drift off to sleep in the car on our way back from a far-away tournament. When I open my eyes, it’s pitch black outside, with only the car’s headlights illuminating the road ahead, the two of us soaring through the dark like a shooting star. The car feels like the coziest place on earth – it feels like home, because when I look up, my mom is always there.

All parents cheer for their kids, but my mom takes it to the next level. When I first started competing in tournaments, I mentioned that I liked seeing her wave to me from the stands when I looked up. For every match afterward, my mom would strategically position herself right in front of the viewing window. Whenever I steal a glance, there she is, madly waving her arms above her head to rival the inflatable tube man at the local used car dealership. She’s typically quite shy in public, so I can’t imagine the courage it takes for her to stand out that much just to cheer me on. She says it’s easy because she’s a mom.

Her faith in me never wavers, even after my most miserable displays. Losses are an inevitable part of the game, and I’ve racked up some spectacular ones. Besides being on the wrong end of a dramatic comeback (losing after six, I mean SIX, match points), I’ve lost several sets without winning a single game. It’s called getting “bageled” in tennis, because a bagel looks like the number zero, and unlike an actual bagel, it always leaves the worst taste in my mouth. But every time I come out of a match after being bageled, my mom would run up to me with the biggest hug and the broadest smile. If you didn’t know the score, you’d swear from her expression that I had taken home the trophy.

Outside she thanked an opponent who bageled me for a good match, shouting from all the way across the parking lot nevertheless. Burying my face in my hands, I couldn’t help but ask, “I sucked tonight. Aren’t you ashamed of me?”

“Ashamed? I am so proud. The other boy was clearly more advanced, and you fought your hardest. I feel like the whole world should know you’re my son!” She then proceeded to play the song “Hall of Fame” from her phone in the car, singing the words, “Standing in the hall of fame (yeah), and the world’s gonna know your name (yeah)...”

When the song ended, she turned to me in all seriousness, and enunciated, “The world’s. Gonna. Know. Your name. You just wait.”

That's my mom for you.

She told me once that when she’s at my tournaments, she only goes to the restroom when I'm in the lead. It’s not superstition; she just doesn't want me to think that she left in disappointment because I was trailing, like so many other parents might do. She always wants me to see her beaming with pride whenever I look up at the stands, especially when I’m behind. It may seem like a trivial detail, but when a match goes to the finest of margins, those details mean the world to me, knowing that she's there, with me. All parents say that they're proud of their children, but it doesn’t feel genuine when they only show that when there's something to boast about. My mom, on the other hand, makes sure I know she’s proud of me, no matter what the outcome is, every single day.

Mom, I. Do. Know.

We get a blueberry coolatta from Dunkin’ after each tournament, win or lose. They say, “America runs on Dunkin’.” I say, I run on Mom’s love.