‘If you can help me win on Thursday, then yes. I’ll take any scraps of knowledge you can offer.’
He slides a ball into his pocket and walks to my side of the court, until he’s standing next to me at the baseline. He smells of something I can’t pinpoint. Apples. Spearmint. Morning sunshine. As he positions himself in front of me, I notice I only come up to his shoulders. Was he always this tall? Or am I shrinking?
‘First things first. You need to relax.’
I pull a face. ‘I am looking for technical insight, not a pep talk about my emotional state.’
‘Thisistechnical. Know what the first thing I noticed was when I was watching you earlier?’
‘I dread to think.’
A smile flickers on his lips as it clearly occurs to both of us that this invites a flirtatious response. ‘Go on, do tell,’ I say, before he even thinks about it.
‘It was how tightly you hold your racquet. You don’t need to choke the thing . . .’
‘I thought youweren’twatching.’
‘So I peeped. The point is, to get power, you need speed. And to get that, you have to loosen up. Seriously.Just . . . relax.’
I look down at my hand and can see the whites of my knuckles. It strikes me that, for all my new-found appreciation of this game, there’s still a bit of me that is fourteen years old, nerves as tight as the strings on a bow as I step up to serve. I wiggle my fingers and soften my grip around the racquet’s handle.
He nods. ‘Second thing to note is: when you step up for this shot, take your time. You’re in control at this point, so there’s no need to rush. All you need is to mosey on up and have a moment to gather your thoughts.’
‘You want me tomosey?’
‘Absolutely. Moseying is exactly what’s required in this situation.’
I snort. ‘If you say so.’
‘Then you look over and decide the exact spot in the box that you’re going to land that ball.’
‘I’ll settle forin.’
‘Inis always good,’ he laughs. ‘Let’s try right in the middle then.’
He bounces the ball a couple of times, then, with apparently zero effort, his legs bend, his arm stretches, his body uncoils and he fires it over – at what is very probably 140mph. It lands bang in the middle of the service box.
I shake my head and tut.
‘I know. I’m such a show-off,’ he grins, which makes me laugh. ‘Honestly though, it’s easy when you’ve got the knack. Come over here.’
He steps aside and I move into place.
I loosen everything. My limbs, my shoulders, my grip. I hold the image in my head of the serve he’s just performed and essentially decide my best approach is simply to copy it, like I’m doing an impression of him.
The result is . . . well, it’s astonishing. The serve isn’t perfect, but it’s as close as I’ve ever been. Hard, fast, and in the precise centre of the box.
‘Good lord,’ I splutter, staring at my racquet in disbelief. When I look up, there is a big, goofy grin on his face.
‘My advice is: do that, every time. My current prediction on the basis of what I’ve just seen is that you’ll win 6–0, 6–0 on Thursday.’
I step forward. Bounce the ball four times. And then . . .
The next serve is brilliant too.
‘Jeez,’ he laughs, incredulous. ‘Why didn’t I become a tennis coach for a living?’
I continue to practise. And while not all of them go in, there is a definite improvement. When I hit one that ends up way too long, he asks me to show him how I’m holding my racquet.
