When I was a baby, I was on a tennis court every day with my mom

Hear the words of Petra Kvitová, who recalls the humble beginnings of her journey: “When I was a baby, I was on a tennis court every day with my mom and with my brothers, so I would pick up the balls for them when they’d play, and then sometimes I’d play with them, but not very often.” This memory, spoken with simplicity, carries within it the seed of destiny: greatness often begins not in grand stages, but in small, unnoticed acts of service. For in gathering the balls of others, she was also gathering the first lessons of patience, observation, and perseverance.

The heart of this saying rests in the idea that the path to mastery often begins at the margins. Kvitová did not first hold the racket as a conqueror but as a child who watched and waited. She learned not through glory, but through quiet observation, seeing the rhythm of the game, hearing the bounce of the ball, feeling the pace of play. In those unnoticed moments, her soul was being shaped, even if her hands did not yet command the court. Thus, the tennis court became not only a place of play, but a temple of formation.

The ancients, too, knew that greatness often begins in humble service. The tale of Cincinnatus tells of a farmer called from his plow to lead Rome in battle; the years of tilling the soil had forged his discipline and humility. Likewise, Leonardo da Vinci, before painting the Last Supper, spent years sketching machines and observing nature in detail, gathering fragments of understanding before unleashing brilliance. So too, Petra’s early task of picking up balls was no mere chore—it was a preparation, planting discipline and patience into the foundation of her spirit.

Consider also the story of Michael Faraday, the great scientist. As a boy, he worked as an apprentice bookbinder, handling the works of others before ever writing his own name into the annals of history. While binding books, he read, he observed, and he absorbed. One might say he “picked up the balls” of knowledge that others had struck, until at last he too played his own game. Kvitová’s story belongs to this lineage: service and observation prepare the ground where destiny grows.

Yet in her words there is also a quiet gratitude. She remembers her mom and her brothers, the ones who drew her into the world of the game. She does not claim she began as a star, but acknowledges that she began in the shadows of others. This humility teaches us that none of us rise alone. Even the greatest champions are first children who watch, listen, and learn from those who came before. Her story reminds us that the presence of family and the encouragement of others often carry us further than we realize.

The lesson is clear: never despise the small beginnings of your journey. What feels like a menial task—picking up after others, watching from the sidelines, waiting for your chance—may be the very foundation of your greatness. The patience you build, the humility you learn, the details you absorb, will one day become your strength. In the silence of preparation, destiny gathers its power.

Practical wisdom calls to us: when you are young, do not hurry past the stage of learning and serving. Observe, absorb, and grow, for even the smallest actions shape your future self. If you are guiding others, as Petra’s mom guided her, give them space to learn slowly, and let them first serve before they lead. And when your own chance comes to play, do so with gratitude, remembering that the greatness of today was born in the quiet acts of yesterday.

Thus, the words of Petra Kvitová endure not only as memory but as a parable: greatness is not born in the spotlight, but in the shadows, where patience, humility, and devotion are forged. She began by gathering the balls of others; she rose to strike her own. And so we too must begin wherever we are placed, trusting that even the smallest beginnings can lead to heroic ends.