There are very good reasons why children aren’t allowed to be coaches.
Truth is, they would be good at it. BUT they think everything is funny. And everything they think is funny usually involves making people do extremely ridiculous and cruel stuff while they point and laugh … then dream up something even more ridiculous. “OK, why don’t you hang upside down from that sketchy tree branch while you shoot your next basket … AND THE BALL’S ON FIRE!!!”
My daughter and I went out to hit some tennis balls the other morning. It was one of those mornings when it was clear out, the temperature had already hit 96 degrees and the humidity was about the same as you would find on the bottom of a lake.
I am what some commonly refer to as a tennis idiot. It means I understand the beauty and grace of the sport, but when I play it, I have the beauty and grace of a rhino on an icy lake. Plus, I think the whole objective is hitting the ball seven zip codes over.
Apparently, my daughter says, it doesn’t. Who knew?
So, I asked her to teach me a few things. She takes tennis lessons, played on her middle school team and doesn’t see every strike of the ball as a chance to rendezvous with the International Space Station.
She liked this idea.
“OK,” she would say in her coach voice, pacing back forth while tapping the racket in her hand and fully forming the idea in her head. “I want you to hit the ball off the wall, do three barrel rolls, run to the end of the court, hit yourself on the side of the face with your racket, make a noise like a crow, and then repeat it 10 times. GOT THAT!”
“What the heck is this?!?” I complained. “I’ve never seen any tennis players do things like this! I just want to improve my forehand.”
“HEY!!!” she barked. “No sass from you. Drop and give me 20.”
Whew!
But it was great — a tennis lesson with a nice bout of heat stroke. Kids are actually wonderful teachers, once you’re past the cruelty. They’re patient, love to be in charge and have great ways of explaining things: “So pretend you’re petting a cat, then sweep like you’re buttering a cake and aim for somewhere near the moon … but don’t actually hit it up there.”
Got it.
I learned something. Mainly that if I stop and listen sometimes — be patient, accept instruction, don’t assume I have all the answers and let the kid actually lead the way — good things come of it. My forehand improved dramatically … and we even found some of the balls I hit, three blocks over.
I was drenched in sweat by the end, and the green balls looked pink to me. (The paramedic said mild heatstroke does this, and would wear off about the time the shoulder pain from the forehands kicked in.) “No pain, no gain,” said my tennis coach, and then she told me to do more barrel rolls.