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From: The Racketeer 47, October 2002

Lethal Spin [11]

by Frank Raistrick

Bête noir
Rushcliffe Leisure Centre was my least favourite coaching venue, but ironically it was the most successful one that I was involved in, with over fifty children and six coaches. The courts were grey concrete, the nets were in a bad state, and there was the Jungle, an area of overgrown greenery which swallowed up any ball which landed in it - and there were many. It was part of the old Nottingham to Loughborough railway line, long disused.

My course from hell, though, was the result of a call from the comprehensive school attached to the centre. The sports master asked me if I would do a course of six Thursday afternoons for fifteen-year old boys. I should have known better, but I was enjoying coaching and had a good rapport with youngsters.

The master had told me that the school would provide balls, but I was horrified when I went to collect them. Their method was to give each of the twelve boys one ball, for which he had to pay a 30p deposit, but they were terrible, black with no fur at all. Also the racquets all had broken strings, but there was no alternative but to make do.

My bête noir turned out to be a boy named Simon, over six feet, and the clear leader. He had a clever way of taking the mickey which made me want to strangle him. When I gathered them all together to explain what we were going to do, he told them all to listen and take note as I was a qualified coach, who would know what he was talking about, but his tone was mocking.

As I talked, he moved round behind me and I suddenly felt a hard blow on the back of my head. He had thrown his ball at me, but was all apologies, saying that it had slipped out of his hands and he hoped that it hadn't hurt me, which brought laughter from other boys. I tried to ignore him, but when I started to demonstrate the forehand, he hit a hall high in the air over into the jungle.

'Oh dear!' he said. 'You are going to have a job teaching me, sir. I must be the worst player in the world.'

'You're in a mess now,' I said. 'You've just lost your ball and also the deposit on it.'

'Don't you worry your head about that sir,' he said, and took a ball from one of the other boys. 'Let me try again'. He repeated the shot into the jungle.

His calculated insolence continued all through the six weeks, and I began to dread Thursdays. Some of the other lads laughed at my discomfiture, but some genuinely wanted to learn, and there was a lot of real talent. I told the Sports master what a pest Simon was, but he said there was no harm in him, and I had to get him on my side. I don't know how I got through the six weeks, and I now have a deep sympathy for the teaching profession.

At that time we had a very keen committee of the Coaches Association, and as the Chairman I came up with the brilliant idea to take tennis to areas which had none. The most obvious was Clifton Estate, with no tennis club near, and one of our coaches, Jean Walker, offered to start a centre there. She arrived for her first session to find an encouraging number of children, but as soon as she started, a posse of young cyclists rode up, gathered up all the balls and rode off into the sunset. As far as I know, there is still no organised tennis in Clifton.

Squeezy Ryder Thinking about the Ryder Cup, when it was held in America in 1987, Sam Torrance was a member of the team, and had just married the stunning Suzanne Danielle, whom he had met while she was making a film in Hollywood. They were absolutely besotted with each other, and kept disappearing to their hotel room and coming down late for meals. Tony Jacklin, the captain, called the team together the evening before the match and told Sam that he had decided to give him a rest. 'So you're playing,' he said.

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