Learning How To Play The Game of Life

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Last week, I took my daughter, who is nearly 6, for a tennis lesson. At the tennis club, I happened to see a mother I casually know as she was watching her two daughters having a lesson of their own. Her girls were older, maybe 10 and 12, and their tennis was — to be perfectly honest — terrible.

Balls were flying all over the place. Their gangly bodies were going backward when they should have been going forward, and vice versa, and their strokes were awkward and inconsistent.

They were also, I noticed, having a great time. They seemed carefree and uninhibited. Their mother — the opposite of the archetypal soccer mom — could not have cared less about the efforts of her girls or the results of their lesson. When we weren’t chatting, she was busy on her BlackBerry.

And as I watched, I couldn’t help but think of my own tennis skills, which are less than stellar. I, too, had my fair share of tennis lessons as a child, which I remember similarly enjoying. But despite being married to a very good tennis player, I haven’t picked up a racket in years. Tennis is, in part, about consistency. And I’m about as inconsistent as they come.

Part of me wanted to turn to the mother and ask, “Why bother with this lesson? Besides a few hours here and there, your girls are never going to play tennis.” I felt guilty for even having this boorish thought. Just because I haven’t picked up a racket in years doesn’t mean they won’t. And just because as an adult I’m too self-conscious to play mediocre tennis, it doesn’t mean they will be when they’re my age.

Of course, another part of me enjoyed watching the girls take pleasure in the sport, the exercise, the beautiful day, and the companionship of playing together. For them, it seemed just as pleasurable to hit the ball into the net as it was to hit the ball over the net. There was no pressure, and part of me wanted to exclaim: “Isn’t this what childhood is all about? Being exposed to different sports? Learning to do something different and not feel any performance anxiety?”

As I then sat and watched my child hit a basket of balls into the net, I kept trying to untangle what it is I want for my own children. I certainly don’t want them to feel as if they have to excel at every sport they engage in. Part of the fun is participation, and another part is trying something new. Yet another part of the fun is running around and laughing when the result stinks, and feeling great when you achieve — even fleetingly — excellence.

But at the same time, if I think back to my own childhood, part of the fun was improving. And part of the fun, for me at least, was doing something well.

A friend whose son is at sleepaway camp in Maine commented on her child spending time playing hockey and learning archery. “I just

looked at him with all these gear on and thought to myself, what a waste of time. Is he ever going to do these things outside of camp? Of course not,” she exclaimed.

Another mother of a boy at camp happened to comment to me about her son’s experience with new activities, but with a different outlook. “He’s learning to fence, and shoot a bow and arrow, and play lacrosse. Where else would he be able do these things? I’m so happy that he’s having these opportunities,” she gushed.

Maybe it’s like chocolate and vanilla. There is no right or wrong flavor, but people certainly prefer one to other.

My daughter had a group lesson this week, and her tennis was — to be honest — terrible. The balls, when she hit them, went all over the place. I noticed that she looked just the tiniest bit uneasy. Maybe that was my interpretation of the situation, colored by my own experiences.

I’ve decided that when it comes to tennis, there’s no point playing if you can’t play decently. And you know what? I wish I could play decently. So this week, while the weather is beautiful, my daughter is going to have an extra tennis lesson or two.

But I’ve made another decision. On the court next door, I’m going to have a lesson, too.

sarasberman@aol.com


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