Stardate 03.03.2026
Long before I ever called myself a writer, I was a tennis player.
My first racket came from Walgreens — $9.99, paid for with paper route money. It didn’t last long. It cracked mid-match during my freshman year, and my coach handed me his racket so I could finish.
That moment stayed with me.
Eventually, I found racquets made by Wilson and never looked back. As my game improved, so did my loyalty. Tennis was my life. Four hours a day on the court felt normal.
My dad was the writer. He had the credentials. I had calloused hands and green strings.
After college, I was hired at a struggling tennis facility — cracked courts, declining memberships, ownership tensions. I was newly certified by the USPTA and barely knew how to sell a newspaper subscription, yet I told the general manager I could sell memberships. I believed in the courts, even if I wasn’t yet sure I believed in myself.
Politics followed. Owners changed. Priorities shifted. I walked away more than once from jobs that no longer aligned.
Each exit felt uncertain. Each step taught me something.
Somewhere in the middle of all that movement, writing found me.
I wrote a memoir about my father. Local writers helped shape it. A wrestling coach in Southern California opened his home weekly so I could learn the craft. I found a writing community — and then I had to leave it when we relocated to Iowa.
That goodbye was one of the hardest transitions of my life.
Alone again in a new state, I kept blogging daily. One post at a time. No guarantees. No applause. Just discipline.
Today, I look back in quiet disbelief. Over 6,000 blog posts. A memoir. Three books born on St. Patrick’s Day — my Irish triplets. And now, a coloring book releasing in just two weeks.
This still feels like a dream.
Through it all, Wilson remained part of the story.
Three Wilson racquets sit in my bag today, strung with green — the same strings the Bryan brothers once used. Wilson entered my life on the court and later entered my writing as a stand-in for my family during a cross-country move. He even bounced into my life when a volleyball fell from a van — a moment that felt almost scripted.
When I lost Wilson during the pandemic, I felt the loss deeply — not just as a character, but as a companion through transition. His absence forced me through a writer’s block I didn’t see coming.
And then something shifted.
The coloring book tells the story of where Wilson went — and what happened next.
Clarence said it best in It’s a Wonderful Life: “No man is a failure who has friends.”
Wilson became that friend for me during a season when I needed one.
Now he will become a friend to children in a local hospital — kids facing battles far greater than missed matches or creative droughts.
That’s the part that humbles me most.
What began as a $9.99 racket has turned into a mission I never saw coming.
“Commit your work to the Lord, and your plans will be established.” — Proverbs 16:3
I didn’t plan this path. I simply kept showing up — one percent better, one day at a time.
Wilson is more than a prop. He’s a reminder that purpose often hides inside our passions.
Join me here: https://substack.com/@michaelmulliganlivelong
🖖 Captain’s Addendum
Spock: “Fascinating. The captain’s trajectory from athlete to author appears statistically improbable.”
Bones: “Improbable? It’s human, Spock. You follow your heart long enough, and it leads somewhere meaningful.”
Michael’s Reflection:
For years I thought tennis defined me. Now I see it prepared me — discipline, repetition, resilience. Writing didn’t replace tennis. It grew from it. And Wilson? He simply helped me see that no chapter is wasted when it’s surrendered to purpose.
Mission Log: Sometimes the smallest beginnings — a cracked racket, a daily blog post — become the launch pads for unexpected callings.
Thank you for walking this journey with me. May you recognize the quiet threads of purpose already woven through your own story today.
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