Nubze

Spencer refused to play baseball this season. His mother and I agree he has to participate in at least one organized sport this summer. It turned out to be tennis. He actually seemed pretty excited about trying it.

So, I picked up a kids racket at the discount sporting goods place, and several tubes of balls, and we were set. It was several weeks until tennis camp started, but Spencer was enthralled with his new racket and balls. The weather was nice, so I thought I would expose him to the game in an attempt to spark more enthusiasm.

That first foray onto the courts…well, just say there is a reason I am not an instructor – for anything. I do not have the temperament or patience required to teach a 9 year old anything, let alone the complicated body mechanics needed to hit the ball over the net, but not over the fence.

After fifteen minutes – which seemed like an hour – all our ball tubes were empty. Where those balls are now remains a mystery. “Don’t hold the racket that way, you’ll hit the ball…” I repeated several times as I watched my son hit another ball over the fence encircling the court “… over the fence,” my voice fading as I watched the ball bounced down the street.

I do not know if the spawn of my loins was refusing to do as I say or was just having too much fun hitting home runs (rebelling, I had no doubt). In the end, the reason didn’t matter. I was frustrated, and he resented my hounding him to hold the racket correctly. We concluded the session, both mad at each other, and proceeded to stomp home from the neighborhood courts.

To my surprise, I did not completely destroy my son’s desire to learn tennis or to go to Nike tennis camp. He seemed to enjoy it. On the ride home that first afternoon after camp, I asked him how he liked it. I will not forget what he said to me: “Dad, it was fun to learn tennis from someone who knew what they were doing.”

I couldn’t agree with him more.