Play along: free tennis with a side of humility

By Laura Clark

Published: June 18, 2008

There’s a reason I hadn’t picked up a tennis racket since fourth grade, I learned when I stepped onto the Sweet Briar courts June 9 to participate in the Dennis Van der Meer “guinea pig” sessions.

It’s not because tennis is associated with country clubs, which like golf implies a certain eliteness. It’s not because tennis stars never seem to sweat, and they always look too cute in their matching outfits. It’s not because tennis isn’t a contact sport, which is relative to your reaction time, I would learn.

No, the problem isn’t tennis. The problem is my serious lack of hand-eye coordination.

But first meet Boris, from Bosnia, who was an excellent teacher that first day of lessons. He taught our small group of four how to serve, breaking it down by each motion. He seemed a little nervous, and befuddled by the fact that we didn’t have shorts “with the pockets.”

Boris was one of several tennis pros earning certification through the Van der Meer camp. We mortals were invited out to help them practice their teaching skills. And it was free – for us.

“It gives them the time to practice with real people, real faces, real mistakes,” Heinrich Bremer, a Van der Meer pro, said. “They’ll be nervous, but this is how it is in the real world.”

Well, I was nervous, too, and hence couldn’t keep the basic instructions straight. To serve: Draw a line. Scratch your back. (Hit the ball.) Scratch your leg. Now put it together, in one smooth motion.

Yeah right. But the worst was yet to come. Just as the racket was beginning to feel comfortable, the small groups came together for a little competition.

Each group was to show off their serve, and the winner would receive a small gold pendant.

So in front of some 25 people, Mary, Casey, Amanda and I went first. Stage fright rattled me, and my first serve was a flub that wouldn’t have made it over the net in a headwind.

Then a swing and miss, the ball bouncing off the court and me stupidly trying to chase it because I didn’t have another ball ‘cause I’m wearing shorts without “the pockets” and you know how you become so absolutely humiliated all you can do is grin and giggle in unstoppable fits, which really makes serving impossible.

My last one kind of nicked off the edge of the racket, inciting a “Ehhhh,” from Dennis himself. Mary was quickly named our winner, ending the day’s torture.

But I came back two days later, believing the best was still to come. This time I was with Carolina, from Brazil. She taught us the forehand stroke. When we practiced hitting back and forth to each other we had to say, “Turn. Find your rhythm.”

I don’t know about rhythm, but contact I found. Progress! The little drills were really fun. I learned how to follow through, knuckles coming up by my ear. I learned despite its friendly pastel fuzzy appearance, a tennis ball DOES hurt, especially nailing you in the belly button.

Like Monday, we closed with a big group competition. This time we played around the world by forming two lines and rotating through the line as we kept the volley going. Two mistakes and you were out.

My first hit was way errant. Like, it ricocheted off the utility box on the side of the fence.

I squished my giggle fits though, and tried to put on my Serena Williams game face. The next volley was right on. Then I was out, but by barely hitting past the baseline.

I left the courts that day with a new respect for tennis. This game could grow on me, I thought. Now armed with some Van der Meer basics, I should certainly practice.

But what sucker wants to play with me after this column?