When it comes to tennis, the kids aren't alright

Editor's Note: This is the fourth in a series of postcards that Daily Princetonian sports staff writers wrote about their experiences in the wide world of sports this summer.

I hear the distinct sound of candy wrappers coming from the pockets of my 11-year-old doubles partner as he reaches to pull out a ball.

Yup, it's just another day at the office.

Last summer, for the second year in a row, I taught tennis at Camp Sea Gull on the coast of North Carolina. The camp promotes itself as a sailing and boating camp, but it also has an extensive land program of traditional summer camp activities. This year, I was the head of our eight-person tennis staff.

We taught kids from ages 6 to 16, some of whom had never picked up a racket, while others had top-10 state rankings. Some of them worked hard and readily took our advice. Others preferred temper tantrums when the ball did not bounce their way.

A microcosm of my summer came in a series of lessons I gave to an 11-year-old first-timer. In his first five minutes of returning forehands and backhands, little "John" (I don't remember his name) demonstrated athleticism and hand-eye coordination comparable to that of a loaf of bread. (No offense, loaf of bread.) The boy did not get the ball back once.

I brought him over to my side of the net, and I showed him what form he should use on these elementary shots. Racket back early; step forward with your left foot; follow through over your left shoulder.

The boy was lost.

"Step with your left foot," I told him. "No, that's your right foot. That's still your right foot. Yes, that left foot. No, other direction."

I had him put down the racket and just practice footwork. Then, I had him pick up the racket and practice turning his body in anticipation of the ball, before eventually showing him the correct swing, step by specific step. And this was only on the forehand.

After 30 minutes of teaching "John" the fundamentals and sweating profusely, I was ready for a water break. We chatted, and I found out that he was from Charlotte and was good friends with another boy I taught earlier in the summer who is one of the best 11-year-olds in the state.

"I think I want to go hit with Will when I go back home," John told me.

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"Son, let's get that ball over the net first."

As soon as I began feeding him forehands again, I realized that the boy had only graduated from "loaf of bread" to "stack of bricks," as he whiffed on nearly every shot. Instead of feeding him shots, I simply dropped a ball beside and let him swing away. And yet he still managed to whiff.

"Keep that eye on the ball," I said. I had him watch the ball in my hand as I waved it in front of him.

We kept at this for a little while, and after more practice he got into a rhythm hitting forehands from my dropped feeds. We repeated the drill on the backhand, and though he had less success, he established a little rhythm on that side, too.

So once again, I fed John groundstrokes from the other side of the net. He framed the first but connected on the second, sending that god-blessed Penn 2 over the net and into the court.

I collapsed in celebration. (Only briefly, though. The court was scorching.) John still only managed to make two of the next ten, missing every shot that required more than one step of movement, but I was pleased with his progress and told him to come back some time for more practice.

That was when he started crying.

"I've been out here for an hour and a half, and I still can't hit the ball well," he lamented. "I'm never going to be good."

Luckily for me, he wasn't the first (or last) crier of the summer, so I was semi-prepared.

"Listen, dog." (I sometimes call folks "dog" because I sound like Randy from "American Idol.") "I can assure you I practiced a lot more than an hour and a half to get this good at tennis. I'm pretty sure I busted my tail every day for many summers in a row."

I reassured him that more practice makes better tennis players, and that he could personally seek me out for lessons. The waterworks ceased.

I hit with him almost every day for the subsequent two weeks, and just as I promised him, he got better (though not that much better — it's hard to teach hand-eye coordination).

Eventually he thanked me and talked excitedly about getting a racket of his own and taking more lessons at home. He probably won't ever be a great tennis player, but at least I've introduced one more enthusiastic soul to a lifelong sport.

Yes, just another day at the office.