THE TRIALS & TRIBULATIONS OF A TEACHING PRO WHEN THE WCT HITS TOWN

It’s fun being a tennis pro when the WCT comes to town. Friends offer free tickets, publicists send press releases, students flatter me by asking who I think will win.

To the teaching professional, however, a nagging question persists when the world’s best players arrive in Dallas: am I “really” any good or do I do this because I wasn’t good enough to play tennis for a living?

No, I’m not a bad player. Some people, including my mother, consider me to be rather talented. I think of myself as a good player, though I definitely have a few opportunities for improvement. But, like many of my fellow teaching pros, I dwell in a humble substrata of the accomplished players, detached from the fringe of glitz and glamour that will be on display during finals tennis palookaville week.

I’ve come to grips with this lately, it’s even been a source of wry amusement. I don’t agonize over my shortcomings. I’m not maladjusted. I don’t kick my dog. I’m basically happy with what I do and feel lucky to be able to make a living doing it. You may wonder what a tennis pro does if he doesn’t play at Wimbledon. The best description of a teaching pro or working pro, as my friend says, is a combination guru-coach-cheerleader-administrator-psychiatrist-educator, not necessarily in that order. Our fundamental aim is to get people to play better tennis, mostly by natural means and thereby make them happier human beings. To the extent we are successful, or are perceived as successful, we get paid.

We are independent contractors who may be employed at racquet clubs, private country clubs or public parks. Done right, it is a job that requires a considerable expenditure of energy on all fronts-mental, emotional, and physical. People who come into the business looking for a more relaxed lifestyle find the opposite. There is a low degree of job security. There is a high degree of skin cancer and job turnover – the former because of the long hours spent in the broiling sun; the latter because in any line of teaching, tennis teaching included, there is a large incidence of burn-out. Generally speaking, we work hard for the money. I work hard for my money.

You may wonder why I do it and frankly, sometimes so do I. A common assumption is that I can’t do anything else. Sandwiched between stints as a pro in such wintry outposts as Chicago and Detroit, and a gritty tour of duty on the satellite circuits, was a brief dalliance with journalism. But I’ve always come back to tennis after considering alternatives. So, the best I can figure, it’s in my bones for keeps.

My introduction to the game came relatively late and almost by accident. As a once promising 14 year old baseball player, my bench time had begun to dwarf my playing time, and I was in the market for a more participatory sport. A friend happened to be taking tennis lessons in the public park and he let me borrow a racket. One thing led to another. I wound up playing Division 1 tennis at Murray State University in Kentucky. I’ve won tournaments and lost tournaments. I’ve beaten players with world rankings and lost to turkeys. The best match I ever played I lost losing just one break in the third set to past WCT finalist Johan Kriek. Three months later Kriek got to the quarters of the U.S. Open and I was struggling to win a tournament in my hometown.

I’ve never had a world ranking but at one time was ranked #8 in the south. This year I’m ranked in the Top 10 in Texas in the 25 and over age category. I’m 32 and feeling more tired than I used to at the end of a long week. There are thousands of guys just like me. Some I know won’t go to the matches. A buddy of mine has a thing about paying money to see guys he may have played in a tournament along the line. Not one of us believes we can’t hack it with the big boys on a good day. If only the big break had come; if only the old man hadn’t pulled the credit card.

I’ll be there wishing it was me out on the Reunion Arena floor, but that’s as close as I’ll ever get. And I’ll be rooting for Connors because he’s getting old like me. But, you know, I still don’t think his serve is that tough. And listen, I’ll be honest with you. I know I can handle any of those pretty boy Swedes when I’m right.