What a horrible tennis lesson!
Hold on … let me re-phrase that. Because the guy who gave me the lesson will probably read this and think: “Wait, what?!? Hold on … WHAT DID HE JUST SAY?!? I’m gonna’ find that guy!”
See? My coach isn’t the problem. Let me state that very loud and clear so he doesn’t come beat me up. He shall remain nameless to protect the innocent. HE is innocent. I am not. I’m guilty. Guilty of being a terrible tennis player or tennis learner. And for that reason, it was a horrible tennis lesson.
In my defense, I’ve never played tennis before. My daughter does. She takes lessons and plays on a team and knows how to keep score. I can basically sit there and watch a match and say technical and insightful things like: “Hey! It went over the net. That’s a touchdown, right?” or “Serve that ball good!”
My daughter does not allow me to come to her matches anymore.
And I don’t think she’s that keen on going out to the courts with me to hit a few balls around. Maybe it’s because she’s embarrassed when I hit one three courts over where some serious-looking folks are trying to have a serious match. Or that she spends most of her time running around picking up my errant flyballs.
So this Christmas, she gave my wife and me a gift of two tennis lessons with her coach. A good coach. A guy I’ve known for years. He coaches college players and lots of other people. He is very patient and knows what he is doing. But the dude isn’t a miracle worker.
Because it was bad. Like “not good” bad. Almost-gave-her-money-back bad. Almost-recommended-trying-a-new-sport bad.
OK, maybe it wasn’t that awful. It was our first lesson, and I feel like I made some progress. Forgot everything I learned right afterward, but for a brief instant there was quantifiable progress.
Only, I like to think of myself as fairly athletic, a quick learner and a natural.
Turns out I’m uncoordinated, lack the basic cognitive skills of a spider monkey and I’m only a natural if that’s what you consider a guy who is so terribly stiff that he looks like a rusty robot trying to swat a fly.
“Do you have, like, a back problem or something?” my coach asked. “Because if not, you might need to see someone.”
“No,” I replied. “In fact, this is probably the most loose and relaxed I’ve felt in weeks.”
My understanding of tennis was basically that it’s like baseball (actually false,) but that there’s a net on the end of bat (also partially false.) So I take that Grade A knowledge and line up in a baseball stance with the racket cocked over my shoulder and me spitting on the court. Then I try to blast the tennis ball somewhere into lower earth orbit where it will forever pester weather satellites.
“You know, your lesson doesn’t cover all the tennis balls we’ve lost so far,” my coach said.
“Hey, but that one almost hit a car!” I replied. He just shook his head.
I like a coach who says, “You know what, let’s try this. Maybe it will work because a lot of people who are doing whatever it is you’re doing find this to be a good solution.” So I try it, and one swing later he says, “Nope. Forget that. Not better. Let’s go back to the other one.”
I learned forehands and backhands and volleys and how to pick up balls on the court with one of those fancy basket carriers. I was invited to a tennis lesson for 3-year-old beginners. I was told in no shape or form should I ever go out into public and display my unique abilities.
Most of all, I learned to appreciate what my daughter has learned. How far she has come and why I should be more impressed. Because this tennis thing is hard! It takes skill and finesse. Control and awareness. And most of all, you can’t go around yelling “touchdown!” every time you actually get it over the net.