Every time I watch tennis on television, I get this urge to grab my racket and hit the courts. I see myself bouncing on my toes, crouched in the position, ready to take the serve. The urge doesn't last long. First of all, I don't own a racket, let alone a can of balls, and secondly, memories of my tennis days usually squelch any urge quickly enough.
My parents put me in tennis lessons at our country club. I guess I should be grateful I also didn't have to take golf lessons. My mother wanted me to exercise, I think. Or maybe she was hoping I'd be an athlete. After swim practice, we would change out of our suits and hike down to the lower tennis courts, which were located at the lower level of the parking lot. Almost everyone on the swim team took tennis lessons too. I think our parents were all hopeful. It at least made it more exciting to go with a bunch of my summer friends than to go by myself. Unfortunately, I was not a tennis player.
For one, it was hot. There we were on the court in the blaring sun during prime skin cancer burning hours. I would immediately start sweating. I'm like my dad, who would sweat in the middle of winter walking to the mailbox. We are sweaters.
So, put me out in the sunshine on a green court running after balls? Yeah. Sweat galore. Running down into my eyes stinging because I didn't have a fancy headband like tennis players on television. Well, truthfully, we didn't wear those because we thought them dorky. The best I had was a sweatband on my wrist. Better yet, the tail of my shirt.
Secondly, I wasn't good at tennis. We'd start out learning the forehand where we'd step forward, arm back, and hit the ball. Then we went to the backhand. The pro would show us the correct form, have us practice a few with him, break us into groups to practice, and then he'd turn us over to the wall.
The wall was a solid thing built on one end of the court. Its purpose was to allow people to practice without needing a partner. One could hit the ball against the wall, and it would bounce back as if you had an opponent. The problem was that there would be fifteen kids banging balls against this wall at the same time. Balls would fly crazily, bouncing every which way, and I'd spend more time dodging and ducking then I did returning.
Lastly, the game of tennis was boring. Too much standing. In line for a turn with the pro, and with only four nets, standing in wait to play the game. And if you hit a ball over the fence? Ugh. You'd have to leave and go outside to retrieve it. Sometimes I hit the damn ball over the fence on purpose so that I could escape the wall or the game.
My favorite part of the tennis lesson was when it ended and I could return to the pool.
I am glad I had the experience because it enhances watching tennis on television. I love imagining getting out there and tossing that ball high up, reaching behind with my racket to serve, crouching into position to return my opponent's ball...then most likely jumping out the way before it hits me.
More an athletic supporter than an athlete.
My parents put me in tennis lessons at our country club. I guess I should be grateful I also didn't have to take golf lessons. My mother wanted me to exercise, I think. Or maybe she was hoping I'd be an athlete. After swim practice, we would change out of our suits and hike down to the lower tennis courts, which were located at the lower level of the parking lot. Almost everyone on the swim team took tennis lessons too. I think our parents were all hopeful. It at least made it more exciting to go with a bunch of my summer friends than to go by myself. Unfortunately, I was not a tennis player.
For one, it was hot. There we were on the court in the blaring sun during prime skin cancer burning hours. I would immediately start sweating. I'm like my dad, who would sweat in the middle of winter walking to the mailbox. We are sweaters.
So, put me out in the sunshine on a green court running after balls? Yeah. Sweat galore. Running down into my eyes stinging because I didn't have a fancy headband like tennis players on television. Well, truthfully, we didn't wear those because we thought them dorky. The best I had was a sweatband on my wrist. Better yet, the tail of my shirt.
Secondly, I wasn't good at tennis. We'd start out learning the forehand where we'd step forward, arm back, and hit the ball. Then we went to the backhand. The pro would show us the correct form, have us practice a few with him, break us into groups to practice, and then he'd turn us over to the wall.
The wall was a solid thing built on one end of the court. Its purpose was to allow people to practice without needing a partner. One could hit the ball against the wall, and it would bounce back as if you had an opponent. The problem was that there would be fifteen kids banging balls against this wall at the same time. Balls would fly crazily, bouncing every which way, and I'd spend more time dodging and ducking then I did returning.
Lastly, the game of tennis was boring. Too much standing. In line for a turn with the pro, and with only four nets, standing in wait to play the game. And if you hit a ball over the fence? Ugh. You'd have to leave and go outside to retrieve it. Sometimes I hit the damn ball over the fence on purpose so that I could escape the wall or the game.
My favorite part of the tennis lesson was when it ended and I could return to the pool.
I am glad I had the experience because it enhances watching tennis on television. I love imagining getting out there and tossing that ball high up, reaching behind with my racket to serve, crouching into position to return my opponent's ball...then most likely jumping out the way before it hits me.
More an athletic supporter than an athlete.
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