Lessons, anyone?

I used to have a backhand. I suppose I still do, only it’s the wrong kind—the kind that gets more of its power from the right hand than from what should be the dominant left.

I am equally dismayed and challenged. I did take lessons a little over four years ago and for a couple of years, until it became too difficult to find a time when my coach and I could play and the skies would remain light enough. All of the courts he coached at in London were sans lights, so stretches of time in the year proved impossible to play. (Note to self: we’re approaching the season where, gasp, it is already dark at 3:30 pm BT.) I settled on keeping up my game without the weekly lesson, finding colleagues and more recently a regular partner to get in a game at least once a week. My current, slightly younger regular tennis mate and I are about equal in our skill level—when we keep score, it almost always ends within a game or two of each other. She knows my weakness; I’m not as fast as I’d like to be so the cross-court or drop shot are virtually always winners (though I do make a valiant sprint for it).

(I know her weakness, too, but in the event she reads this, I think I’ll keep it a secret.)

Where we play indoors we are often in the middle court watching others being coached. It’s what you might expect at 7 or 8 pm on a weeknight: the twenty-something men with big, powerful serves who grunt as loudly as any female pro or the lovely young things with all the gear and no idea, but hey, they’re giving it a go and looking good doing it.

After one recent session my regular partner suggested that we ask the coach instructing in the next court if he’d be willing to give us a lesson occasionally to improve our game. We’d both seen him coaching before, and I had a sense for his style—not aggressive, yet always gently pushing, pushing. We lingered, she asked, he agreed, and so this is where I find myself lacking at least one crucial stroke.

I have to say Kostas is lovely. He is small, compact, smooth in his game; quite good to watch as he has excellent form. He is equally generous with praise and evaluation (critique felt too sharp a term) on court, and friendly and conversational off the court. In the first lesson, which went by so quickly I was amazed, he analysed our grip, studied our main forehand and backhand strokes, provided some excellent tips, and at the end of the hour told us both we did well and should practice. And he smiled.

(To me that meant, well, OK, you weren’t rubbish and if you ask he’d agree to continue giving you lessons.)

Though slightly disappointed to find out that my backhand has been wrong for all this time, I buried the feeling and without hesitation suggested we do it all again in a few weeks’ time, after some practice. It was a few hours later that I wondered if I was throwing money at an impossible task unworthy of my dosh. There was so much new to remember—the correct “sweeping” motion of the backhand while learning to make my left hand the one that did most of the work; coming to the ball (as I have always had a tendency to be a bit behind, or too close to it), and the right time to not whack but swing through depending on the height and drop of the ball; the point, the pause, the follow-through.  I’m a bit tired just recalling it. And it’s not that I didn’t do some of that—perhaps not with consistency, or even noticing when I was not.

I couldn’t help but think that my first coach gave me a bit of a bum steer!  In hindsight I think that every coach has his or her own methods, and I know that I improved in the time I took lessons with him. That and he is a lovely Brit, a nice guy who always had funny stories and was quite genuine. Sometimes I miss that we haven’t stayed in touch but for the occasional exchange on Facebook (mostly me remembering his birthday or liking something he posts). He kept me interested in playing the game, and that counts for something.

My new sometimes coach, on the other hand, is a bit more formal, a former Davis Cup player for Cyprus. When he sees something he doesn’t like in my game, he stops, heads over to my side of the net, provides some feedback, and watches. Carefully. I try hard not to do that again.

At the end of the second lesson he was kind to say that he noticed we both had improved, and that it would take time for these were small but fundamental changes to become routine. I am heartened, so much so that I decide to book him for an entire hour for myself while my tennis partner is away on business. I know I will be exhausted and in a small way I dread the complete attention to my game—now, when he’s given my partner an assessment, I’m half listening and half trying out my own stroke, waiting for him to shout “next!” and know it’s my turn to step up to the T. I won’t get that opportunity when it’s just him and me. I am equally fearful of the time when I will have to show my serve. (Visible shudder.)

But I’ve decided you can teach an old dog new tricks, and I’m going to have a few more lessons and try to improve my game fundamentally. And while in the throes of that line of thinking (dog, tricks), I’ve also decided to dust off my extremely elementary French and practice that skill with a website called Duolingo, recommended by a colleague of mine who is also trying to get beyond the basic five phrases you use. I don’t know that I’ll stick with it—much like the tennis—but it feels like a good use of my spare time.

All this while I diligently study from my Life in the UK 2013 edition as I am just about three months’ shy of my visa expiring and will need to pass the test to stay in the country. That and complete the 35-page form and cough up £1346 should I be fortunate enough to land a premium appointment, otherwise only £1046 but then live without a passport for up to six months. I think I figured out how to “work” the online booking system to my advantage (thanks to some posts I’ve read and a bit of trial and error), so I’m ever so slightly more confident than I was previously that I may secure a date in Croydon in November or December ahead of having to go the postal route and say adieu to my passport and the ability to travel outside of Britain. (That said, I’ve never been to Wales so it’s on the table for a winter holiday possibility.)

Wish me luck . . . on all accounts!