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From: The Racketeer 51, October 2003

Lethal Spin [15]

by Frank Raistrick

Tennis parents
After the euphoria of the fiftieth edition, it's back to more mundane matters, while I think of a subject for the one-hundredth issue - maybe the editor will have made a permanent place in the First Mixed by then.

Meanwhile I'd like to discuss the vexed question of tennis parents - a cross which all coaches have to bear. I'm not talking about the infamous famous ones such as Messrs Dokic, Williams or McEnroe, but of normally normal parents who try to fight battles for their offspring.

I was once coaching a group of youngsters at Mapperley Park, and had them lined up to take turns at racquet control. There were a lot of them, and I had a helper, David Gregory who at twelve years of age was a useful player. Unfortunately, he wasn't content with demonstrating his skills, but took the mickey out of the less talented players. One, the worst of these, took exception to this, and I was shocked to see out of the corner of my eye, his racquet lifted high and cracked down on David's head. I rushed over and asked him what on earth he was playing at, but before he could answer, a large, florid-faced man was down on the court. 'He's my lad and I've told him to lay one on the big-headed little bugger.' 'Not with a metal racquet.' I protested. 'He could have killed him.' 'Serve him bloody right - nobody takes the mickey out of my lad. He didn't say mickey, though. Amazingly, David must have had a very hard skull because he suffered no ill-effects, but he didn't take the mickey any more.

Coincidentally, I was the unwitting target of David's mother, normally a very friendly and courteous lady, but not on this occasion. I used to go down to the County Courts to help out with the Junior Tournaments, and was co-opted on to the committee, although I had nothing to do with the organisation. On the first day, no sooner had I walked through the gates, than Denise collared me, demanding to know why her daughter, Amanda wasn't seeded. Apparently she was included in the same group as Isobel Wild, the number one seed, which meant an early exit for Amanda. I protested my innocence, but Denise was really annoyed with me, and I made a quick getaway, Unfortunately Isobel, the outstanding girl of her generation was always in Amanda's way - it happens frequently.

One of the funniest episodes, although I didn't think so at the time, was at British Legion. I was the junior coach there and urgently needed some decent tennis balls, so I went down to the Tennis Centre, where Richard Joyner very generously filled my hopper with sixty nearly new balls - I was over the moon, as they say.

Saturday morning was for juniors, and we were packed out with over forty children, and on this particular morning I was the only coach, so I needed eyes in the back of my head. To my dismay, when we collected the balls in at the end of the session, we seemed very short, and a count showed that we had lost eleven. It was normal to be two or three short, but this was a blow, and a thorough search yielded no more.

Tuesday was Junior evening, and the same thing happened - we were down to forty-one of my precious balls, As I walked to the car disconsolately a girl of about ten accompanied me. Her name was Anne and she was a delight, She called herself my assistant and always helped me to carry my ball hopper to the car. She was very maternal and looked after the younger children, always being the first on the scene if any of them fell over on the abrasive surface. 'Frank,' she said, 'I know where your missing balls are. Little Thomas has been hitting them into the tree.' Thomas was a newcomer, a four-year old whom I had accepted reluctantly. Just occasionally you found a four-year old co-ordinated enough to play, but Thomas wasn't the one. He wasn't good enough to rally and unfortunately, without help, I was unable to spend time with him, so I just set him off hitting balls into the back-netting.

On the next Saturday there was another coach present so I watched Thomas closely, and sure enough, he began lobbing halls into a large tree near the clubhouse. The foliage was thick and the balls just disappeared, so I went over to him and told him to stop. He said that he liked doing it, and while I was pondering what to do. his father came over.

'What's the problem?' he said. So I told him.

'I can't see he's doing any harm,' said father. 'He enjoys that'.

'We'll soon have no balls left,' says I. 'We've lost twenty in two sessions thanks to Thomas.

'Such a fuss over a few lost balls,' says Daddy. 'If they mean so much to you I'll gladly pay for them. They're not brand new so I reckon a tenner will cover it, and my son can carry on with his game.'

'That's not the point,' I said. 'I made a special journey to get those balls - they're a special favour to me, and I daren't go and ask for more.'

He went away grumbling, and I gave little Thomas a stern warning on pain of being banned, but to my astonishment when I looked, he was at it again. I marched him into the clubhouse and told him to stay there. Luckily, his father was feeding balls to a group on another court and thankfully didn't see his son get the red card - I didn't want another barney with him.

I was demonstrating different spins to a more advanced group when I next heard from Anne, who said that Thomas was crying his eyes out in the clubhouse, so I hurried inside. His tears dried miraculously when he saw me, and he asked to come back, saying that it was his first offence. Trying hard to look stern and not laugh, I told him that this was his last chance and that he would be banned from the club altogether if he hit any more balls into the tree. Anne saved the day by coming out and lobbing gentle balls for him to hit.

I hadn't finished with the father from hell, but more of that later.

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