The Tennis Lesson

Cosmo’s thinking is that, since summer is synonymous with vacation, it is antithetical, even anathema, to learn anything, even for “fun.” In past summers we’ve signed him up despite his protests for swimming and theater classes. But he is eleven years old and 103 pounds, and his desire for independent decision-making must also increase in weight. (Moreover, even if the Cabaret Theater hadn’t gone bankrupt last year, he really is over the experience of sharing the stage with 30 kids, most of whom are younger and don’t know their stage right from wrong.)

Cosmo gets exercise walking the dog, riding his skateboard, and wrestling with his dad, but I’d like to see him do more. I gave him some options: fencing class, swimming with friends, or tennis with me. He chose the latter. So Tuesday morning we head out with rackets, a new can of balls, bottles of water, and the dog, to the courts, which are about three blocks away.

This wasn’t a lesson in the sense that I was there to teach him something. Like any good lesson, this was not about technique; and what we learned may not be what we think we learned.
And since this isn’t really about tennis, I won’t make this about Cosmo, either (he might not appreciate that last blog, come to think of it!), but I need to start there.

In short, we both stunk. But whereas I—une femme d’un certain âge—don’t have any illusions about my tennis-playing abilities, Cosmo expects to be good at whatever he undertakes. And why not? He’s handsome without trying, smart, loved, and generally happy without trying. When he falls short of his expectations, though, he doesn’t know what to do with his intense frustration. It has nowhere to go but back on himself, and the failed attempt (as he sees it) becomes a referendum on his character. He’s a terrible tennis player, so he must be a terrible person.

It’s a twisted logic I know too well; this is so painfully me at his age. (And for many, many years after.) I remember actually throwing the tennis racket (he at least has more scruple about that than I did), ripping up the botched piece of sewing, and trashing the drawing that didn’t look exactly like the lumberjack I found in a magazine ad for art school. (“Can You Draw the Lumberjack? You May be an Artist!”) I remember feeling that I was good at nothing, and therefore good for nothing. And nothing anyone says can shift that nothing out of your head. That nothing is a boulder you keep pushing and pushing until you realize that you can let it go and watch it roll easily downhill. It sounds easy—easier than hitting a stupid yellow ball with a stupid racquet. Until you have to do it.

Thank god for the dog, is all I can say. She has another non-lesson for us: if a ball comes your way, grab it, even though someone’s going to take it away again.