coree sPencer

King oF the courts

My dad always tells me that nothing feels better than winning. He claims that tennis is a metaphor for life. Gladiators like Jimmy Connors and Bjorn Borg struggle in front of a crowd, and after the struggle, one is a winner and the other a loser. And that’s life.

My dad, Dick Spencer, has played tennis for over twenty years. He coaches the boys’ tennis team at Minnechaug High School in western Massachusetts, where he’s also an English teacher. According to my dad, he’s one helluva coach. After his team wins a major tournament, the players give him the broken racket award—a spray-painted tennis racket smashed by an opponent from the losing team. He has his high school players read the book, The Inner Game of Tennis, so—like him—they’ll be thinkers as well as winners.

I’m a girl who couldn’t care less about tennis. I prefer to hang outside the tennis courts, throwing a Frisbee with my two sisters while Dad plays. On occasion, he’s forced to play mixed doubles with Mom, but Dad finds playing with a woman frustrating. According to him, every married man has his own mixed doubles handicap—a wife.

Sometimes I watch him play against his best friend, Mr. Holt. I find tennis completely boring, that is, until either my dad or Mr. Holt, or both of them, lose their temper. For me, that’s when tennis gets fun. They curse at themselves, at each other, at God, or at the tennis ball. If that doesn’t work, they have an all-out tantrum, flinging their rackets into the net or kicking their thermoses full of ice water.

It’s 1978, the summer before I enter ninth grade, when my dad gets a job teaching tennis to the residents of the nearby town of Enfield, Connecticut. For a few years now, he’s been trying to lure me into playing the Sport of Kings. I have absolutely no interest in playing tennis, but I live for ice cream—especially soft serve, which I rarely get, because the only stuff my mom buys is cheap, store brand ice cream on sale at the A&P. He tells me that if I help him with the lessons, there’s a pretty good chance he’ll buy me an ice cream cone at the Dairy Queen on the way home. So two days a week, on Tuesdays and Thursdays, I help my dad with the kids in the afternoon, and the adults in the early evening. In exchange for the mere possibility of soft-serve ice cream, I have to do three things. First, I unload all the city-owned equipment from our VW van and bring it down to the courts: fifty tennis rackets, four large buckets of balls, two huge thermoses of ice water, and a bag of plastic cups. Second, I toss balls for the kids to hit. The third part of my job is to run around gathering up all the balls while Dad teaches backhand swing technique. I do this for two hours for the beginners and intermediate kids. Then the adults show up and I do the same for another two hours.

I work up a sweat sprinting all over the four tennis courts, scooping up balls. I stop and think of the reason why I’m there—chocolate soft-serve ice cream dipped in chocolate jimmies. Dad sees me just standing there, a dopey grin on my face, daydreaming about my ice cream reward. He scoots over, brings his tennis racket back and whacks my butt, shouting, “Hey—come on! More hustle, Coree!”

The only time he’ll break a sweat is if there are a few attractive ladies in his adult class. That’s when he might hit a ball or two himself, just to show off and maybe take his shirt off to wipe perspiration from his face. My dad’s convinced word has gotten out about him—the tall, handsome, muscular tennis instructor who sometimes shows off his bare chest. Every week, a few more middle-aged ladies show up for adult tennis lessons.

One day after I drag equipment down to the courts, I ask Dad, “Can I hit a few balls too?”

Dad whips around, a Cheshire cat grin on his tanned face. “Go get a racket.” I pick out a blue Stan Smith wooden racket from the box of equipment.

With glee, he tosses neon yellow balls to me. The first one comes at me and when I hit it, it makes an odd pinging sound.

“Agggh!” he bellows, pointing to the middle of his racket head. “Aim to hit it on the sweet spot, the center—not the wood!”

He throws another ball. I swing wildly and smack it into the net.

“Come on Coree, you can do better than that!” he growls.

I grit my teeth and wallop the third ball with all my might. It sails over the chain link fence of the tennis court and into the field behind it. He slaps his forehead.

“Geez, you play worse than your dang Mother!”

From then on, I’m allowed to join his kids’ class, but I’m still his lackey, unloading and loading all the equipment and gathering up all the tennis balls.

I start to look forward to tennis lessons, and not just for the occasional ice cream cone. I quickly join my dad’s intermediate kids’ class. After a few weeks I even volley against some of the players in his adult class.

That summer, we spend so much time on the courts that I watch Dad’s tan get darker while my sunburn peels and then I burn again. On days off from our twice-weekly fatherdaughter teaching gig in Connecticut, we spend several hours on our local tennis courts. We pack sandwiches so we don’t have to go home for lunch.

I wrap the handle of my Stan Smith wooden racket with blue gauze tape so I get a better grip—and because my dad does this too. I’m a pretty quick learner; I can run fast and hit hard. But my dad claims I need to use my head more. He says my brain is as important in tennis as running fast. I think I’m doing just fine slugging it across the net and hoping for the best, so why should I bother to use my brain, especially out here in the hot sun?

He insists I read his tattered paperback copy of The Inner Game of Tennis. I don’t make it past the first few pages. It’s all mumbo-jumbo to me. First he wants me to use my brain to play tennis, and now he wants me to use my inner self too?

I’m a huge frustration for my dad, because for a fourteen-year-old girl, I play pretty well against him, without using either my brain or my inner self.

He’ll stop right in the middle of a volley against me and scream. “Think! Coree! Where do you want to PUT the ball?”

I shrug my shoulders and yell, “Over the net?”

He just shakes his head.

We continue playing for hours every day we can, my dad growling, grunting, and sweating like a lawn sprinkler. I’m on the other side of the net, smiling, quiet, except for when I get to call his serve out of bounds. This is the most time I’ve ever spent alone with my dad. It’s exhilarating that he wants me around, that he needs me to play tennis with him.

When I’m lucky enough to get soft-serve ice cream, my dad and I sit at a picnic table outside the Dairy Queen and he reminds me that he was this close to becoming a professional athlete. He coulda had a chance, but gave it all up when he got married and started teaching. Then my Mom gave him three daughters, so we pretty much killed the possibility of him ever getting on the cover of Sports Illustrated. I think he secretly believes that someday he, Dick

Spencer, will go to Wimbledon and beat all the top players half his age because he alone understands the inner game of tennis.

At home, the two of us watch tennis tournaments on TV. My dad acts out the anguish of every close volley, every overhead smash, every bad call, writhing on the couch or jumping up and shouting to me. “See that shot Jimmy Connors hit into the net? I coulda made that shot! With my eyes shut!”

On some evenings, we play so long at our local courts that we’re late for supper. We volley back and forth endlessly. We always finish by playing a tennis match, best two out of three sets. Occasionally, I win a game. I relish these small victories against him, realizing I could never win an entire set or match against a man who claims he can beat Jimmy Connors—with his eyes shut.

One late summer afternoon, Dad drives our VW van to our local tennis courts. I’m in the passenger seat so I get a front row view of him seething when he sees all six courts are filled with assorted local rank amateurs. For fifteen whole minutes, which for Dad is like an eternity in Hell, he glares at these people playing a wimpy game of tennis.

“Look at those two housewives,” he scoffs. “They’re just tapping the ball back and forth like two little girls!”

“What about me, Dad?” I ask, “I’m a girl?”

“You’re different, Coree. I taught you how to play like a man.”

I look out the rolled-down window and I grin—that’s the nicest thing he’s ever said to me.

I join my dad wincing at the two housewives wasting everyone’s time.

Dad can’t take it anymore. He gets out, slams his door, grabs his equipment and thermos out of the side of the van. I get my racket and follow behind as he pushes open the chain-link gate with a bang. The two of us stalk around the ladies’ court while they finish up. Dad drops the thermos on the asphalt with a loud thud. For the first time the ladies turn and look at us.

He glares back while they saunter past us to get their water. White towels are draped over their shoulders, even though there’s not a drop of perspiration on them. He’s already bouncing a tennis ball loudly, as if he can drum these two housewives out of here. I feel bad. I know we’re being rude since tennis, as I’ve read in Dad’s tennis magazines, is a gentlemen’s sport. Dad thinks it’s okay for women and girls to play tennis, but we have to know our place. He rooted for Bobby Riggs over Billie Jean King five years ago in the Battle of the Sexes. He still claims Riggs got robbed after losing to Billie Jean in three sets.

Once the ladies leave, I get my terrycloth wristbands on. I twirl my racket. My knees are bent and all my muscles are ready to receive my dad’s rage when he serves to me. I like it when he’s mad because he messes up more.

The ball comes at me like a bright yellow blur and I return it using my backhand.

Dad grunts like Jimmy Connors. I barely make a sound. I just smile at my dad when I make a good shot, and grimace when I miss one. I’m silent rage, but I play angry, just like my dad.

My tread-bare Converse All-Star basketball sneakers pound the asphalt court noiselessly. Dad’s brand new white Adidas tennis sneakers squeak when he stops short to hit a forehand.

That day, all my shots go over the net and stay inside the court. I don’t give Dad any breaks. Maybe I’m finally using my brain because I send one shot to the left corner and the next shot to the right corner, as if I planned it. Dad’s grunts get louder. This attracts other players who are packing up to leave. But not us, because we keep ending up at deuce. He won the first set and I unbelievably won the second. It is the third and deciding set. Even kids on their bikes grip the chain link fence and lean on it to watch this spectacle of a grown man doing battle with a teenage girl.

I’m out of breath only because I’m giggling. It’s so undignified in this Sport of Kings, but I’m coming so close to beating my dad for the very first time. I’m almost scared. And I giggle when I’m scared. And worst of all for my dad—there are witnesses.

I know, even from way across the net, that my dad wants to wipe this smile right off my face. And he almost does. He sprints to the net and smashes an overhead shot that whizzes past my cheek. I duck and smirk even more, because he’s so mad—and he’s losing his game. I sprint back just in time as his shot lands on the line and in-bounds. I wallop the ball back way over his head while he stands at the net.

“Agggh!” He shouts as he turns around and scurries back to the baseline. He’s so off balance he almost falls when he swings, but even worse—he hits the ball into the net.

I stand on my baseline, twirling my racket, a grin on my face. I have the advantage on deuce again. This is for the match point.

I return my dad’s next serve. He swings and I hear an odd ping. I know he hasn’t hit it with the sweet spot of the racket but on the wood. I look up as the ball comes back to me, sailing way over my head. I turn and watch it plink on the chain link fence behind me. It’s so far out of bounds he can’t even reasonably argue that it’s in.

I hear gasps from the onlookers. I turn around and smile at my dad.

He’s stunned.

I throw my arms skyward, waving my racket over my head. Then I jump up and down, shouting, “I won! I won!”

All I can think is, my dad has lost to a girl—a fourteen-year-old girl! Just like Billie Jean King beat Bobby Riggs, I beat my dad!

From way across the net I see his face, so red from fury, from the heat, from playing so hard—and now from this humiliation. He slowly raises his racket over his head like an angry god and he smashes it down onto the asphalt. But it just bounces right back at him, undamaged. He grabs it, raises it, then smashes it down, again and again and again. Then he looks at the mangled, mess of a racket, satisfied it will never be used to play tennis ever again. With one last grunt he flings it into the net.

People are shocked. I’m not sure if it’s because I beat my dad, or because my dad killed his tennis racket, or maybe both. I stand there, my arms still up in victory and a wide grin on my face. Dad yanks up the thermos, stalks off, and kicks open the gate of the tennis courts.

He opens the side door of the van and throws his stuff inside. Then he hops in the front seat and slams his door. He burns rubber out of the parking lot. I’ve also just lost my ride. I’ll have to walk the mile home. I don’t care.

I’m still standing with my arms up, not wanting this moment to end. I remain rooted, my shabby sneakers sticky on the heated asphalt, knowing the memory of my victory will start to fade away the second I move. Dad is right, winning does feel great.

People are leaving, pulling out of the parking lot. I drop my arms, go around to the other side of the net and pick up his sad, broken racket. I feel bad for it. I know what it’s like to be on the receiving end of my dad’s anger.