This article was originally published in the Winter 2024 (Goldenrod) Edition of the Portland Tennis Courterly
Slouching Towards 1.5
by Amy Lam
Growing up in the mixed working- and middle-class suburbs of Los Angeles, I never once thought to play tennis in high school. I foolishly thought it was a sport played by kids whose parents had jobs in air-conditioned offices, not for those of us who received free school lunch. It seemed like a dorky sport with inevitable sock and t-shirt tans, and not the type of thing I’d ever decide to play ever. I was young, dumb, and too punk to have known the lifelong benefits of playing tennis.
But, in truth, even if I had aspired to become a jock, my athleticism began and ended with walking just fast enough around the track to avoid being chastised by the P.E. teacher but slow enough as to not induce my exercise-induced asthma. My current preferred form of exercise is occasionally running a few miles on a treadmill while watching Canada’s Drag Race. So you can imagine how I surprised myself last summer when I was so amped by watching the U.S. Open that, in between matches, I rushed to a Big Five and bought a $25 Wilson racket endorsed by Serena.
My partner and I went to one of the public courts by our house and started smacking around tennis balls that I had bought to toss in the dryer with our down comforter. With the sun in my eye, I flailed wildly across the cracked asphalt, lunging to hit the ball. Not a proper grip or full complete swing in sight. I have since taken the Absolute Beginners class—twice—through Portland Parks & Rec and can confidently say that I’m only marginally better than that first day with my brand new racket. My goals with tennis are modest. I have no illusions of ever winning a match, unless I’m playing against a child who equalled me in their lack of athleticism. I’m only looking towards the Gods of Tennis to grant me the ability to competently perform the very basics of the sports.
Here are all the things I want to get right, but feel weird and impossible:
Grip - Too many sports are reliant on being able to properly hold a thing. What a shame that a potential barrier to entry into a sport is because you have to learn about “grips” with names like “continental” and “quasi-noreastern.” I’m close to Sharpie-ing outlines of where my hand should go directly onto the grip tape.
Spin - About 90% of the balls I manage to hit across the net have so little spin that they appear to be flat two-dimensional neon drink coasters gliding through the air. Spin is a mystery to me. How can I brush the ball smoothly while smacking it with enough force so that it moves?
Direction - It’s truly a marvel when I see others effortlessly hit the ball in the direction they want it to go. Just imagining all of the micro-movements and control that goes into being able to tell a ball to have the right amount of spin and velocity that it would land exactly where you want it is incredible. Wow, much skill.
Serve - Is serving the toughest thing to learn as a beginner? It must be, right? Why is it like 38 small movements? I sometimes struggle to get my carryon bag into an overhead bin yet I’m supposed to be able to serve a tennis ball? Is there skill transfer between capably lifting one’s carryon bag and serving a tennis ball?
No more jiggle wrist - I’d like to have good form and become strong enough that my entire hand and wrist doesn’t feel like jiggly jelly when I hit an awkward forehand.
Foot. Work. - Truly shocked, even having seen how others play tennis, that I’m supposed to be moving all the time, like, in anticipation. This is tough for me because my favored mode of existence is sitting still, standing still, leaning still. So naturally, when I’m watching a ball come at me, my instinct is to figure out where I should go and stand very still until the ball is in a favorable spot for me to swing at it.
Satisfying pop sound - Having only been familiar with the sport from watching it on TV, I assumed that any hit on a tennis ball would make a solid pop. I was wrong. All I get is a sad thud.
Despite all of these challenges, I’d still like to try. After decades of being anti-sports, I get it now. There’s something appealing about running around and chasing a ball for no reason. Exercising one’s body is as important as exercising one’s mind and all that. I’m hoping to find a coach and take private lessons. It may not happen in the near future, or the farther-out future, but I can already envision myself confidently launch a ball in the vague direction I had intended it to go at least once or twice.