I didn’t grow up playing tennis in a formal sense. Sure, I took a few lessons, and my brother and I would occasionally grab our rackets and head to the park if a court was free. But let’s just say my technique was far from perfect. I vividly remember one time I swung hard, missed the ball completely, and instead, the racket met my forehead. I still have a scar under my eyebrow as a reminder. It was probably a cut that needed stitches, but I was too mortified to admit how it happened to my parents.
So when my daughter showed interest in tennis lessons, I jumped at the chance to teach her and her sister how to play. I had enough knowledge from my own childhood to show them how to hold a racket properly, and I could share priceless advice like, “Aim for the ball, not your face.”
I started with a lot of explaining, but I quickly realized the girls were eager to get into the action. We grabbed some balls and began by balancing them on the rackets. I then showed them how to bounce the ball and swing at it. The misses were almost cartoonish!
I had always promised myself that I wouldn’t be the kind of parent who pressured my kids in sports. I wanted them to learn at their own pace. Yet, in that moment, I found myself wishing they could master the skills faster. I took a deep breath and reminded myself how thrilled they were with whatever progress they were making.
My younger daughter lost interest pretty quickly and started practicing on her own, using some rather unconventional methods to hit the ball over the net and then chasing after it. This allowed me to focus on my older daughter, who had a determined look in her eyes. She had dabbled in tennis at camp and discovered she actually liked it—a huge moment for a girl who had shown little interest in organized sports at her young age. My wife and I weren’t going to force her, but if she was excited, we were all in!
I positioned her on the court just inside the “T,” halfway back to the service line. (Is that even the right term?) I showed her the “ready” stance—knees bent, racket in the center. I tossed her a few balls. One went into the net, and another flew way off target. Slowly, I started hitting the ball to her gently, and she began to connect. Progress was happening.
Then, out of nowhere, she returned a perfect shot! I wasn’t ready for it and stumbled to hit the ball back. And then—boom! Another volley! I wasn’t prepared and hit it right into the net.
My daughter lit up; she knew she had done something impressive. At camp, they played a game called Jail, where hitting a successful return kept you in the game. She had just avoided going to “jail” for the first time. I don’t think she even realized it was her first point in tennis!
We played a few more rounds, but we didn’t quite replicate that initial success. After a while, we decided to call it a day and collected the stray balls scattered around the court.
“How was that?” I asked her as we headed to the car. “How do you feel?”
She looked up at me with a big smile, and my heart melted. “Proud.”