Double Fault at Roland Garros

by Jim Plautz

“Pete, what do you think about a full time tennis camp?” Mary asked as we finished dinner Monday evening.

  “That would be great,” Lisa chimed in. “Do I get his room?” Lisa was 15 going on 25 and a pretty good tennis player in her own right, but until recently had never taken the game seriously. Soccer was her sport.

  “No way, sis. I’m not giving up my room just so you have a more room to play with your dolls.”

  “Okay, that’s enough, children. Let’s get back to your mother’s question. Pete, what do you think about going to a Saddlebrook or Nick Bollettieri’s for a year?”

  “Live there?” Pete asked. “Why couldn’t I just stay here and drive out there every day? It would be a lot cheaper, wouldn’t it?” Saddlebrook was only about 30 minutes north of Tampa.

  “That’s an option,” Mary answered, “but the people we talked to don’t recommend it. They feel you need to devote yourself to tennis full time if you are going to get to the next level.”

  “You talked to them already?”

  “Pete, you remember last year when you beat that Canadian boy at the New Port Richey tournament?

  “Craig; he trained at Saddlebrook, didn’t he?”

  “He still does, in fact. His coach, Sammy Baston, came over after that match and left us his card in case you ever wanted to give them a try. I called him Friday and your mother and I drove out there this morning. They have quite a program.”

  “What about school?” Pete asked. “I heard that they are pretty weak and some colleges don’t give full credit for some of their classes.”

  “We asked about that because we had heard the same thing,” Mary answered. “Their headmaster told us they had problems three years ago because a few of their teachers didn’t have current teaching certificates. They corrected the problems and beefed up their program and the school. The school is now fully accredited.”

  “It wouldn’t be easy, Petie. They play tennis for two hours in the morning, go to school from 10 to 3 and then practice tennis again from 3:30 to six. Everything revolves around tennis.”

  “It sounds like a drill camp,” Pete responded with a frown.

  “Don’t they get burned out and sick of tennis?” Lisa asked. “I know I would.”

  “A lot of them do. Sammy said the turnover is high. They lost eight kids last year, but most of these kids are the ones that realize their game isn’t good enough to compete at the next level. Some of the kids make it and these are the kids you read about that are now on the tour. A few like Hingis, Sharapova, Agassi and Sampras basically grew up in tennis camps.”

  “It’s got to be your decision, Pete,” Mary said as she sat down next to him and grabbed his hand. “Don’t do it because you think we want you to, you need to want it for yourself. Okay?”

  Pete was silent for almost a full minute, as he weighed his decision. It was all I could do to keep silent.

  “Let’s try it,” Pete proclaimed in a strong voice. “Ten years from now I don’t want to say that I could have made it on the pro circuit, but was afraid to take my opportunity. When do I start?”

  Two weeks after his decision Pete moved into a dormitory room at Saddlebrook. It was only 15 miles from home, but it felt like 1,000 miles. Despite Lisa’s pleadings, we told him his room was ready for him if he decided to come back home.

  Five months later Pete lay awake wondering if he had made the right decision. Lisa had been right. Four to five hours of tennis six days a week, was boring. Worse, his tennis game wasn’t getting any better.

  The first couple weeks were fun as he got to know the other kids at Saddlebrook. His two roommates were okay and showed him around the grounds. This was their second year at Saddlebrook and they were well into the routine. Pete showed them a few restaurants and nightspots in Tampa and introduced them to a few girl friends from high school that they ran into in Ybor City. School was easier than the advanced classes he had taken at his old high school, but Pete didn’t mind. He was usually too tired from tennis to concentrate on homework assignments.

  Pete soon found his spot in the camp’s pecking order and ended up on court two or three. One teaching pro was assigned to each court. There were four boys per court, placing Pete’s ranking in the six-to10 range. A couple kids were clearly better, but Pete thought he could beat the rest if he played his best tennis. The problem was that he wasn’t playing well, and after a few weeks was playing on court three almost every day. To make it worse, his Canadian friend, Craig, was assigned to court two after easily beating Pete in a head-to-head challenge match.

  The situation came to a head two months ago when he had been called into the camp director’s office after another disappointing practice. The director, Fred Liu was waiting along with the head pro, Sammy Baston, and Ron, another teaching-pro who was Pete’s instructor on Court three. Pete knew immediately that something serious was up. Was he being kicked out of Saddlebrook?

  “Pete, have a seat,” Liu started. “We want to discuss your progress over the eight weeks and tell you what we can do with your game to improve. We do this with all our kids after we have had a chance to work with them a while.”

  Sammy knew this wasn’t completely true, but thought his boss did a nice job of getting Pete to relax. It was never easy to tell these kids the truth. They came here thinking that they would be the next Roger Federer or Serena Williams, and soon found out that they didn’t have the game. Pete had some promise, but he wasn’t going to make it without some major changes.

  Pete sat down and waited silently. What is this about?

  “Sammy, turn on the video. Let’s take a look at Pete’s strokes in slow motion and tell us what you see. Ron, chip in whenever you want.”

  Sammy stood and grabbed the remote. “Pete, in the next hour or so, we are going to dissect every part of your game. You might not like or agree with everything we say, but please hear us out. We can talk about it after. Okay?”

  “Let’s get it over with,” Pete replied sitting back in his chair. He had a bad feeling about this.

  The video showed Pete warming up before practice. The camera focused in on his feet. “See how open your shoulders are on your forehand,” Sammy lectured as he paused the video. “That results in loss of power unless you whip through the shot on your follow-through. You don’t do this all the time, but when you do your forehand is inconsistent.”

  “I kept track of your errors in your match against Craig last week,” Ron added. “I counted thirty-five unforced errors on your forehand side alone.”

  This one-two attack continued through every phase of Pete’s game. “You’re dropping the head of your racquet on your volleys, you are a step slow getting to the ball, you aren’t getting your racquet back soon enough on the overheads, you don’t break your wrist, you aren’t getting your legs into your serve,” and so it went for 70 minutes. Pete was close to tears.

  Mercifully, the video finally ended and Fred Liu called a much-needed time out. “Pete, I ordered some sandwiches and cokes. Let’s take a 10-minute break before we continue. I’m sure you need a few minutes to gather your thoughts. I know we were pretty rough on you. We can get your input and see what we can do about fixing some of these weaknesses when we come back.”

  A half-hour later Sammy Baston delivered the coup de gras and Pete found out what the meeting was all about. “Pete, we want you to convert to a one-handed backhand.”

  “No way,” Pete shouted emotionally, “the two-hander has been my best shot since I started playing. Now you want me to drop the only shot I can depend upon. No way!” he repeated as he got up to leave.

  “Hear us out Pete,” Liu ordered. “Sammy, why don’t you explain our reasoning?” Pete sat back and looked over at Sammy. His face was readable to everyone in the room; I thought you were my friend.

  Sammy knew that Pete wouldn’t like it, but was a little taken back by his vehemence. However, he believed that the change was in Pete’s best interest and continued with the message. “Pete, your two-hand
er is a nice shot when you get in position, no question about it. You can hit it all day without missing, and that has been enough to get you this far, but it’s not enough to get you to the next level. The kids you’re playing now aren’t bothered by the heavy topspin. They are taking your short balls and coming to the net. You need a more aggressive shot off your backhand side.”

  “We also believe the grip used on the two-hander makes it difficult for you at the net,” Ron chimed in. “Your volleys aren’t consistent because you are forced to change your grip.”

  “We haven’t even mentioned the fact that the two-hander causes you to be a step slow going to your left,” Sammy added. “You are fast, but not fast enough to give up the half-step.”

  There was complete silence for a few moments as they waited for Pete’s reaction. No one so much as twitched as Pete searched for a response.

  “Let me sleep on it,” Pete said finally. “It’s too big a decision to make on the spur of the moment. I also want to talk with my mom.” He made the 30-minute drive home in 20 minutes.

  “Pete, what a nice surprise,” his mother exclaimed as he walked in the front door. “Is there anything wrong?” she asked with a mother’s intuition. “Come here and give your mother a hug.”

  “Not a thing is wrong, Mom,” Pete said as he threw his dirty laundry on the floor, “except they just told me that my game sucks and they want me to change to a one-handed backhand. Other than that, I’m doing great.”

  Lisa came bouncing out of her room just in time to hear what her brother said. “Get real, don’t let them do it,” she said with conviction that only a fifteen-year old girl can muster. “Tell them you would rather cut off both hands. I’m serious.”

  Pete saw that Lisa wasn’t kidding and burst out laughing, which broke the tension and got the women laughing too. It was good to be home.

  “What made you such an expert in tennis?” Pete asked Lisa giving Lisa a brotherly embrace.

  “Didn’t you hear? I’m the club’s new prodigy or something like that. I’ve been taking lessons from Gregg for a couple months. I could probably beat you now.”

  “That will be the day,” Pete answered with a grin. “You wouldn’t even get a game off me. What started this? What’s his name?”

  “She is getting pretty good. You would be surprised,” Mary interjected, “and his name is Randy. Now let’s get back to your problem.”

  Three hours later they were still at the kitchen table. Lisa had gone to bed an hour ago, her mind unchanged. Her last words were, “don’t let them do this to you.”

  “Okay, Mom, I’ll give it a try for a few months. Changing to a one-hander paid off for Sampras; maybe it will work for me. If it doesn’t, I can always go back to my two-hander.”

  They didn’t say it, but both knew that if it didn’t work out, Pete’s tennis career would be limited to college tennis and the satellite tour. He would need to pay his way into Roland Garros.