Welcome to Issue 74 of A Good Reputation, a newsletter about telling better business stories. (Did someone send you? Subscribe here.) (Miss past issues? Read those here.)

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Hello Reader,

In an effort to be a loving and supportive wife in my former marriage, I reluctantly watched a lot of tennis—a true sacrifice, especially on free weekends when the last thing I wanted to do was sit in front of a television.

Despite growing up in Auburn, Alabama, a college football town, and enthusiastically playing all kinds of sports, I've never had much of an interest in watching them. And of all the sports, tennis was one I understood the least.

But for my ex-husband, an Indian-born kid raised in Australia, tennis was life. He grew up playing the sport five days a week and watching the pros on weekends. Attending Wimbledon was a big bucket list item when he "made it." And when asked what he wanted to be when he grew up, tennis pro was high on the list.

All that's to say that he really loved the sport, and I wanted to love it with him.

So I watched, learned about the mechanics, picked the players I'd root for, and tried my hardest to care about the game.

I decided I liked Rafael Nadal because he was cute and seemed sweet. I also liked Roger Federer simply because he was the best and polite in that Swiss way that I found agreeable.

But Novak Djokovic, who sat with them at the top during this era of tennis, I could not stand.

While he was an excellent player, I couldn't get past how brash and rude he was on the court. I hated the way he would throw his sweat towel at the ball boys when he was done wiping himself.

He played every match like a battle and took every defeat like death.

"It's just a game, jerk-ovic!" I'd yell at the TV. At the time, that version of him was the only Djokovic I knew or cared to know.

Then one day, ahead of a long overseas flight to Europe, I picked up a New Yorker magazine featuring Djokovic. I decided to read it so that I could bring something to the conversation next time I had to watch a game.

And that's when my entire perspective on the man—and my interest in the sport—completely shifted.

Turns out that Djokovic, who grew up in Serbia, lived through one of the hardest times in the country's history. At just 12 years old, he and his family spent 78 consecutive nights hiding from air raids during the 1999 NATO bombing of Belgrade. Every night, they'd wake up around 2 a.m. to shelter in the basement of his grandfather's apartment. Food rations and long lines meant the family sometimes didn't eat. And yet, in his determination to play tennis, he continued to practice on damaged courts surrounded by bomb craters, never knowing if the next one would land on his head.

He was the ultimate underdog because he came from a country with no tennis tradition and no family money to support an expensive sport. His family went into debt to make his tennis dream happen. And when it finally did, he had to enter a professional world already captivated by the dual supremacy of Federer and Nadal.

Learning about his story, his struggle, and his determination through it all not only changed my understanding of the guy, it made me more invested in the game.

Throughout the world of tennis—like any sport—there are juicy themes of perseverance, privilege, resentment, shame, loyalty, hope, loss, and second chances. I loved learning about them all and seeing these characters play out a part of their story on the court.

And while I still found Djokovic hard to like, I had a little more empathy and patience for his way of being.

Turns out, he wasn't just an asshole. He was layered, complicated character who I wanted to understand.

After that, watching tennis was no longer something I did just to be a nice wife. It became something I actually looked forward to—an opportunity to immerse myself in the worlds of these people who I grew to care about.

And all it took, as it usually does, was one personal story that made me want to know: "Who is this person, really?"

A Good Question

That question is the core question at the heart of any great story. And it's the one we're all out to answer about each other.

In his book The Science of Storytelling, Will Storr argues that character, more than plot, is the true engine of story, and that great storytelling is fundamentally an investigation into a character's true self—especially the self that's hidden even from the character.

The theory here is that we all operate from a certain set of unconscious beliefs, formed early in life (often through trauma or a formative wound), that we then use to make sense of the world and feel a sense of control over it.

However, this myth is usually wrong or incomplete in some way.

This disconnect—this gap between who someone appears to be and who they actually are underneath it—is what grabs us in storytelling.

While Storr mainly talks about how this shows up in fictional storytelling, that gap is exactly what a good personal story closes.

No matter where or how you show up, you have to see yourself clearly enough to identify what that flaw is, poke holes in your own worldview, figure out what changed you (or what you're still figuring out), and pull down enough of the mask to help others actually answer that question about you.

A Good Takeaway

I'll be honest: Since parting ways with my ex-husband, I haven't watched much tennis.

But it's not because I stopped caring about the sport. I just still don't like watching sports on TV.

All tennis really taught me—or to be fair, the New Yorker—is that unlike straight-up stats, data, or information, compelling personal stories have the immense power of helping us understand someone or something we don't. (Or at least try to.)

They take something or someone you couldn't care less about—or even hate—and give you a reason to pay attention, understand, and care.

But the thing is that, unless you're a famous athlete or have done something the press might be interested in writing about, no one is going to volunteer to tell that story for you.

It's up to you to get the people you're trying to reach to understand you, pay attention to you, feel connected to you, and care about what it is you're building or who it is you're helping.

One story was all it took to change the whole experience of tennis for me. And one story, told honestly, could be all it takes to change someone's experience of you.

So help us understand: Who are you, really?

A Few Good Resources

1. Need help answering that big question? There's JUST 3 DAYS LEFT to join my new membership community! Apply here. (Readers of this newsletter get a $400 discount with the code co-create.)
2. What makes a great personal narrative? Empathy, according to New Yorker writers. ​
3. An author who deleted her second brain on why you need reflection.

Hope you have a good one,
Renee