What I Learned Sitting Court-side at Wimbledon

There is something special about Wimbledon.

The immaculate grass courts. The quiet anticipation before every point. The respect for the game. The simple tradition of strawberries and cream. It has a way of slowing you down and making you notice the little details.

A few days ago, my daughter and I found ourselves with front-row seats on Court 18, watching a girls' junior singles match between top seed Xinran Sun of China and Thea Frodin of the United States.

As a former professional footballer and someone fascinated by the psychology of performance, I wasn't just watching the tennis. I was watching the people.

From the very first few games, it was obvious why Sun was the number one seed.

She possessed effortless power and struck the ball with remarkable power from both her forehand and backhand, generating a level of pace that was extraordinary for someone so young. Her forehand exploded through the court. Her backhand was equally impressive.

She moved athletically, struck the ball cleanly and looked every bit the player you would expect to progress comfortably through the tournament.

To most spectators, she looked completely in control.

Then something unexpected happened.

Despite leading the match and eventually holding a break of serve, every small mistake seemed to trigger an emotional reaction.

A forehand drifting long.

A return clipping the net.

A missed opportunity.

Sometimes she reacted even after winning the point.

Her shoulders dropped.

She looked visibly frustrated with herself.

At one stage she walked to her coach, appearing close to tears, gesturing that she had completely lost her focus and didn't know what to do.

I remember looking across at her coach.

From where I was sitting which was a few seats away, he remained remarkably calm. Whether that was by design or whether he simply didn't know what to say, I couldn't possibly know. But it fascinated me.

Here was a player who, outwardly, looked very emotionally overwhelmed.

And yet...

She continued winning.

Her opponent had opportunities to recognise what appeared to be vulnerability, but never quite capitalised. Sun found a way to keep competing, held serve, won the set, and eventually came through the match comfortably.

As we left Court 18, I couldn't stop thinking about what I'd just witnessed.

For years we've been told that elite performers remain calm under pressure.

That confidence looks composed.

That emotional control is the hallmark of great performance.

But what if that isn't always true?

We often assume the best performers remain calm under pressure. Yet sport has repeatedly challenged that assumption. John McEnroe was rarely the picture of emotional composure, but few would question his ability to perform.

Perhaps the question isn't whether emotions appear. Perhaps it's whether the athlete has learned to compete alongside them.

What if frustration, self-criticism or even tears are simply part of the way some performers compete?

As coaches, parents and psychologists, our instinct is often to make uncomfortable emotions disappear as quickly as possible.

We reassure.

We distract.

We offer technical advice.

We tell athletes to "calm down."

But perhaps the better question is:

What is this athlete's relationship with their emotions?

Are those emotions disrupting performance?

Or are they simply an expression of someone who cares deeply?

Is intervention always helpful?

Or can it sometimes interrupt a process the athlete has learned to navigate for themselves?

Equally, there are moments when emotions do become overwhelming.

When frustration refuses to let go.

When one mistake becomes three.

When attention drifts away from the next point and towards the previous one.

Learning to recognise those patterns, understanding what triggers them, and reflecting on them afterwards may be far more valuable than trying to suppress them in the moment.

Perhaps that is where real development takes place.

Not by avoiding emotional waves...

...but by learning how to ride them.

As I watched the match unfold, I realised something.

Performance psychology isn't about creating athletes who never experience doubt, frustration or anxiety.

It's about helping people understand themselves well enough to continue moving towards what matters, even when those experiences inevitably arise.

I later discovered that Xinran Sun went on to reach the Wimbledon girls' final.

Perhaps what I witnessed on Court 18 wasn't a weakness at all.

Perhaps it was simply part of who she is as a competitor.

And perhaps our role as coaches, parents or psychologist isn't to remove emotion.

Perhaps our role is to help people understand it.

Because before we can perform at our best, we first have to understand ourselves.