While walking through the front entrance of the center, the familiar rubbery stench of tennis balls immediately greets me, and the large fan above me rhythmically hums.

Faint sounds of balls hitting the rubbery ground echo throughout the massive warehouse-shaped complex. The faint hum of the newly installed LED lights and murmur of conversation fill the air in the viewing area. A small group of adults, reclining on an old, beat-up sofa, focus on their children’s ongoing matches. Ignoring distractions, the parents diligently focus on their children rallying back and forth.

Despite the dirty plexiglass window separating court and spectators, they seem bewitched by the activity.

The drinking fountain rattles, the front desk phone rings, and a microwave begins to beep, but nothing can break the trance the ball creates. Perhaps the parents wish to run around the courts themselves.

They remain entranced by their children sliding across the hard concrete to reach the next shot. The parents only stop once a point finishes to briefly discuss and critique the previous play. I watch amused, as their movements remind me of tempting a dog with a favorite treat.

I notice one of the players on a far court, playing with unmatched determination. No matter how difficult the shot is, he runs the ball down. After winning a point, he throws up a single clenched fist in a short celebration, and after losing, he lifts his leg and smashes his racket into his shoe.

Even through a solid wall, I still can hear some of the yells he lets out. The obvious frustration and elation infect spectators as well. A few members of the audience mutter brief words of encouragement or grumble about a mistake.

I wander up a rickety spiral staircase and through a stout set of wooden double doors onto an observational deck overlooking more tennis courts. The roaring of a giant air conditioning unit drowns out everything but the loudest of noises.

Signs of wear and tear show the building’s age as patches of fluffy insulation look close to falling out and rusty steel beams seem as if they might collapse. Nothing, however, can distract the parents.

Finally, I make my way back down the shabby set of stairs and begin to exit the complex. More members enter the building, and more parents proceed to the crusty couch, and players psych themselves up as they head to the courts.

Upon opening the door to the outside, the sharp, frigid air and the crisp smell of winter drag me back into reality.