My high school tennis courts would spread before me like a green battlefield. My hands felt cold and numb as I stepped in alone. It was a home game, but the familiarity of the courts didn't comfort me then. Nervous energy vibrated around me, so tangible that if I reached into the air I could've grabbed it. High definition anxiety slipped through my fingers as my feet splashed in a puddle that my occupied mind didn’t notice. Wet socks, again. This had happened every game of the season.

It took me just a moment to find my teammates and less than a minute to walk over. I looked around, gauging the atmosphere. Clean uniforms and bright eyes stared back at me. Our postures were casual. We slung our rackets over our shoulders and jutted our hips to the side, a picture of athletic attitude, but tension lingered behind our smiles. Those courts were our courts, the asphalt our turf, the team -- our team. But though this ownership amped up the pressure to win, I feared disappointing my teammates more than the actual loss. I think most of them felt the same way.

Our opponents clustered on the other side of the nets. The colors of their clothes clashed with ours; I wondered which would triumph in the end. A voice pulled my attention back to the girls around me. Something inside me began to shift as I gazed into familiar faces. But it remained at the back of my mind as an unawakened ember.

The wind picked our coach’s golden curls up as she reminded us of our love for each other and our love for the sport. We played tennis because it brought us joy. We competed for the glory of the play and we played together for the glory of the team. Under her direction, we formed a tight circle. As we drew closer to each other, the green around me seemed to brighten from the warmth I felt from my comrades. The youngest amongst us began to tear up. My personal concerns vanished so that I could provide support for my teammate.

There it was — a spark.

The nets went up. I looked around at the team and suddenly, a wave of exhilaration and security hit me. We were here for each other — past the games, beyond winning or losing. Superseding the very time and place that we occupied was our togetherness, which was as carefully and tightly tied as our shoe laces.

Our circle broke and the games began. We were reduced to reflex, our minds were a swirl of color and action. Our hearts held the trust we placed in each other, built brick by brick from the hours we spent together in practice. Red — flash of a bird watching from the chain link fence and the tips of our wind-chapped noses. Orange — the fire in our eyes as we glared over the net at our opponents and the sweet burn of a good serve. Slam — the ball hit the court, a collision of lemon and lime. The expanse of blue sky threaded this day into our memories as my comrades and I reveled in the victory that was ours. We don’t lose at home.

Over the years I spent playing tennis in high school, I learned that it isn't the walls and space that make a home — it’s the individuals around you. As I look back, locations blend together in my memory, indistinguishable from one another. The people, though, the huddles, the triumphant smiles and playful punches, I remember as my greatest source of contentment and warmth. I remember it as home.