A group of enthusiastic kids and adults, interested in learning the game of tennis, participated in the second Tennis Fun Day, held at the Arsenal tennis courts in Pittsburgh on Saturday August 28, 2021. Tennis Fun Day is a city-wide tennis outreach and community service event organized by a group of high school tennis players, with a little help from their parents. Its goal is to promote an interest in and grow the game of tennis, and to encourage young kids to be more physically active and healthier. The United States Tennis Association’s Allegheny Mountain District and Dick’s Sporting Goods sponsored the event.
The volunteers collected over 75 donated tennis racquets that were restrung and refreshed with new overgrips donated by Gamma. The USTA’s AMD generously provided brand new children’s racquets, balls, and prizes for the kids. All participants went home with a tennis racquet and prizes.
High school volunteers organized the set up and ran the on-court drills and games. Tennis professional Janis Finn donated her time to oversee the on-court activities and to provide the adults with three hours of high-level tennis instruction.
A hearty thank you to the above-mentioned entities and individuals. A special thanks to my co-organizers, Stephanie Le, Chrissy Gargani, and Dana Patterson, as well as to Carter Chui for assembling and organizing the high school tennis players who participated with enthusiasm and positivity. Thanks to all of the volunteers and all who showed up to make the day a huge success.
I won’t say that it’s weird, but it’s weird. Indian Wells, cancelled. Roland Garros, rescheduled. I have my fingers crossed for the Western and Southern Open, where I hope to see those of you who my Junior Tennis Star and I were delighted to run into last year. But I know that other folks have more serious matters to worry about, and I don’t mean to diminish what is occurring in the world by writing this article.
I offer you several movies, television shows, and novels for your Social Distancing Days, one of which involves tennis. Don’t search on Netflix. What Netflix’s algorithms offer are movies called “Pandemic,” “Outbreak,” and “Containment.” Not something I’m going to watch. Consider The French Lieutenant’s Woman, starring Meryl Streep and Jeremy Irons. I am obsessed with Irons from Brideshead Revisited, one of my favorite novels of all time, written by Evelyn Waugh. Waugh’s novel is an extreme departure from his silly, slap-happy Bertie and Jeeves series of stories that were dramatized by PBS. Bertie Wooster was an early role for Hugh Laurie, of House fame. Brideshead Revisited is the best coming-of-age novel, even better in my opinion than Michael Chabon’s The Mysteries of Pittsburgh.
In the movie adaptation of Brideshead Revisited, Irons plays Charles Ryder, the upper crust Oxford student who meets and even upper-crustier Lord Sebastian Flyte. Flyte carries a teddy bear and introduces his coterie to the luxuries of fine wine and plovers’ eggs at Oxford, whilst trying to escape the watchful eye of the family’s priest-spy. Flyte and Ryder become bosom friends which relationship seems to teeter on a near- intimate one, but Flyte’s alcoholism eventually takes control, removing Flyte from his closest friend, his family, and society. Ryder, abject with the loss of his dear friend, suffering from a father who prefers artifacts to his son, and married to a hum-drum, society-climbing wife who doesn’t understand his artistic temperament, seeks solace in Flyte’s sister, Julia.
Julia has her own ghosts: she is tormented by her Catholic religion and a boor of a husband who she married out of rebellion (“It’s just that he isn’t a real person at all; he’s just a few faculties of a man highly developed; the rest simply isn’t there.”) Both Ryder and Julia toss off convention and engage in a long-term affair, seemingly to console each other for the loss of their respective friend and brother. Yet Ryder and Julia’s relationship never cements into a deep, sustainable love. Sebastian and Julia’s ancestral home, Brideshead, is the setting. The novel Brideshead Revisited has something – a turn of phrase, imagery in a scene, and even a turtle with diamonds set in its shell – which speaks to everyone, guaranteed. And the 1981 movie, relatively true to the text, will not disappoint.
The same for 1981 The French Lieutenant’s Woman, which is a two-fer movie, with two parallel and competing story lines – the movie story versus the real-life story. Irons plays an actor who plays Charles Henry Smiths. Henry Smiths succumbs to the crafty she-witch played by Streep, who the locals call the French lieutenant’s whore. Despite the local lore, however, Streep’s character is unblemished yet she revels in her social ostracism, eventually beguiling the obsessive Henry Smiths.
Irons playing the actor who plays Henry Smiths is equally obsessed with Streep’s actor-character, and he wants to leave his wife and family to live with her. Streep, also in a committed relationship, presciently knows that their relationship will end at the end of the filming of the movie. Confused? I’m not surprised. So watch the movie where you will learn that both of Streep’s characters control both outcomes; i.e., the women win. Leo McKern, of the Rumpole of the Bailey television series based on stories created by John Mortimer, with his wonderfully big, bulbous nose that makes him such a great character actor, plays a supporting role.
Court tennis or real tennis comes in when Henry Smiths consults his attorney about the lawsuit he is facing after breaking his engagement because of his obsessive love for the French lieutenant’s woman. For an explanation of court tennis, please see my article from last year here. Irons, with a racquet that looks true to the ancient game, takes out his frustrations and receives a dressing down from his solicitor, as they knock the balls off of the awnings of the real tennis court. Irons plays court tennis like Ryan O’Neal’s character Oliver Barrett, III in Love Story plays squash. The court for both becomes the vehicle for their emotional expression. Barrett plays well when life is good; he falters when Jenny is dying. Did you know that Erich Segal wrote the novel Love Story as a companion for the movie?
When I was younger, I did gymnastics. “Do” was the verb that
went with “gymnastics.” You don’t “practice”
gymnastics, like you do yoga (or law, for that matter), and you don’t “play”
gymnastics like tennis, soccer, softball, volleyball, or most other sports.
That one word anomaly should have been the give-away.
I recently finished reading the book, “Little Girls in Pretty Boxes: The Making and Breaking of Elite Gymnasts and Figure Skaters.” The book, authored by Joan Ryan and first published in 1995, allowed me to synthesize the many scattered thoughts I had about my experience with gymnastics, which thoughts were just always beyond my mind’s ability to understand. I intuitively knew there was something wrong with the sport, but now I have a better understanding.
The book was reprinted in 2018, after the Larry Nassar events and the perverse fascination with, “How could he have gotten away with what he did for so long?” But the perversity lies not only with the Nassar events, which is a given, but gymnastics itself. The book is danse macabre, page upon page of heartbreaking stories of young gymnasts’ lives plagued with eating disorders, low self-esteem, self-harm, and mental health issues. It tells of smuggled food to starving girls who are barely eating enough to sustain themselves for workouts that last longer than you or I might spend at our job on a given day. In addition to the punishing physical demands of the sport, it mentions the emotional and sometimes physical abuse the young gymnasts suffered. At one point, the author posits that child labor laws should be applied.
It’s a sordid tale and rightfully vilifies the overly-ambitious coaches, such as the Karolyis, who were reportedly only affectionate to their gymnasts when the cameras were on them, but screaming at them at their “ranch,” which name conjures pastoral images but which, according to those who lived there, was far from that. The book tells about villainous coaches demanding their gymnasts perform with broken bones, weighing them every day and, if not to their liking, telling them they were fat, or lazy, or whatever abusive phrase they believed was motivational. It also appropriately places the lion’s share of the blame on the sport’s oversight organization, now called USA Gymnastics, which then and now continues to deny the profound problems with the sport and which organization allowed Nassar to thrive for years.
Each of the young ladies’ stories in the book begins with, “When I was watching the [name a year] Olympics on TV, I dreamed of being an Olympic gymnast….” and ends with an explanation of why the gymnast “retired” from gymnastics at the age of 16 or 18 or 26. The only story that didn’t begin or end that way was that of Julissa Gomez, who didn’t have the chance to tell her story because she broke her neck on a vault, was paralyzed and died several years later from complications.
Gymnastics is short lived. Its stars are children with elfin-sized bodies. Do we want to hold children up as icons? – young creatures whose brains have not yet even fully developed (think what happened to Michael Jackson or Brittany Spears)? Those child-star gymnasts “retire” before most people graduate from college. Do parents really want their child to “retire” from a sport at age 16? I never “retired” from gymnastics, I quit. I, and all of my gymnastics friends nowhere close to the ability of those elite gymnasts memorialized in the book, knew that at some undetermined point in time – maybe 9th grade or maybe even 11th – we would need to quit because you couldn’t surpass your physical limitations (height, weight, diminishment of recklessness, and development of fear of bodily injury), and so there was nowhere else to go. And even in my gym, where the coaches were kind and compassionate, we also had weigh-ins while at the same time watching one of our own struggle at a very young age with an eating disorder and related mental health issues.
Gymnastics is not a lifetime sport. When you quit gymnastics, you can’t ever go to the gym on day when you have nothing else to do and do an arial or a back handspring. The second you walk away, your abilities start to fade, and they fade quickly. The money gladly given over for sparkly leotards is all wasted and there truly is nothing tangible to show. Okay, so maybe I can do a headstand and handstand in yoga, but those are truly the only vestiges of years spent at the gym. But parents can’t help but look at those beautiful, tiny, lithe gymnasts on the television and dream, “I’d like my daughter to be just like those darling girls.” If you’re one of those parents dreaming big dreams for your child, run, do not walk, away from gymnastics.
On Saturday, September 14, 2019, a group of enthusiastic kids, parents, and adults came out to the Highland Park Tennis Courts for the first ever “Tennis Fun Day.” Tennis Fun Day is a city-wide tennis outreach and community service event organized by a group of junior tennis players, with a little help from their parents. Its goal is to promote an interest in and grow the sport of tennis, and to encourage young kids to be more physically active and healthier. The USTA – AMD Council sponsored the event.
The junior tennis player volunteers collected nearly a hundred donated tennis racquets that were restrung by volunteers at the Mt. Lebanon Tennis Center and refreshed with new overgrips donated by Gamma. The USTA and generously provided additional, brand new children’s racquets, red balls, and Net Generation prizes for the kids. Children went home with a tennis racquet, a red ball, and a tennis prize!
High school and middle school volunteers organized the set up and ran the on-court drills and games. Indiana High School Boys Tennis Coach Phil Palko gave the adults an unexpected surprise with three hours of high level tennis instruction.
A hearty thank you to the above-mentioned entities and individuals. A special thanks to my co-organizers, Stephanie Le and Chrissy Gargani, and to Harrison Chui for assembling the zany high school tennis players who participated with enthusiasm and positivity, who were wonderful with the kids. Thanks to all of the volunteers, and all who showed up, for making the day a huge success.
Thanks also to the Highland Park Tennis Club for allowing us to use their wonderful courts, and to the HPTC folks who came out to participate, chat, and give encouragement, especially Dana Squelch-Costa. Thanks also to Jose Mieres, the City of Pittsburgh’s Director of Tennis. Look for the next Tennis Fun Day to be held in the Spring, 2020.
Over twenty years ago in the late summer I was sitting in a rural field where a propeller plane was towing a glider plane off of the ground, taking it into the air and releasing it at the desired altitude, so the glider could float and soar on the thermals like a hawk for about 15 to 20 minutes before landing back in the field. The venue was a glider plane club, and the glider plane pilots waited most of the day for their one turn to fly the club’s plane. I thought, “Pick any any hobby, any pet, any instrument, any sport, … anything…. and there will be fans who follow.”
Fast forward to two weekends ago. My Junior Tennis Star and I were driving into the venue of the Western and Southern Open in Cincinnati for the first time ever, and I was so very, very excited. Yet it was only after the tournament was over — after spending nearly 12 hours at the venue one day, after having filled the empty water bottle about 40 times, and after my Junior Tennis Star dutifully carried the mammoth tennis ball everywhere hunting autographs — I realized: I am that fan and I love tennis.
One of the reasons why I love tennis is because, well, it is absurd at times. I love that in a pro tennis match there are nine line umpires plus the chair umpire. I love that those line judges hunker over during their time on the court with just one thing to do – to watch one line.
I love that ball boys and girls scramble all over the court to scoop up the rejected balls because the pro saw a piece of felt out of place or a rubber tag along the seam (or whatever they look for when inspecting the balls). I love that the ball boys and girls run in with a towel or supply a ball with a slight nod of the head.
I love that the ball girls and boys stand military-style with their arms behind their back during the play. If you haven’t seen the video of the ball boy who hit his head on the back wall but bounced to attention so as not to distract the pro, here is the link. It epitomizes the absurdity of it all.
Think of it: you have two players on the court, and you can have up to ten officials at any given time. It’d be like my entire work group in my kitchen, staring at my Junior Tennis Star and me as we eat dinner. She’d over-pour her glass of milk as she always does, splashing it on the counter, and someone would yell, “Fault!” That’d be weird. But we accept it in tennis.
I also love the warm-ups, the five minutes before the match where each of the gladiators gently hit with, and directly to, each other. There is no assertion of dominance in the warm up; instead, it is a time-honored routine that has been described as a “choreographed dance.” David Foster Wallace, in his essay called “Roger Federer as Religious Experience” explained that “[t]here’s a very definite order and etiquette to these pro warm-ups, which is something that television has decided you’re not interested in seeing.”
Imagine Brady and Brees playing catch with each other before a rare Pats-Saints game. That’d be weird. But we accept it in tennis. But if none of this has persuaded you that there are parts to tennis that are absurd, you have fans like the couple pictured above who glued tennis balls on a hat just because they love tennis.
I don’t make New Year’s resolutions in January. I make them in September. Forever my opportunity for a new beginning is the start of the school year. Of course I’m not in school any more, but it’s something that has stayed with me.
Each school year was preceded by back-to-school shopping. My mother and I would take the trolley Downtown to pay annual homage to the trinity of Pittsburgh department stores, Kaufmann’s, Gimble Brothers, and Joseph Horne Company. Yes, there was Saks Fifth Avenue (confoundingly on Smithfield Street, showing that in my world’s view, there was no place bigger than Pittsburgh), but we never shopped there. And while we would visit the trio of department stores other occasions during the year, we only shopped in the Downtown flagship stores one time per year — in the waning days of summer.
Each trip began with a reminder that if I got lost, I was to go to the Kaufmann’s Clock. It would have been easier for me to remember if “clock” was spelled with a “k.” The quest for Buster Brown brown Mary Janes with arch support, a cardigan, and a plaid jumper (on which the 4” x 6” index card with “Lynn Ann Ellenberger, Mrs. Watson, Bus 9” would soon be pinned), was punctuated with a meal at the Smithfield Cafe. You didn’t have to carry your department store purchases; they would be delivered to your house the next week by the department store’s delivery service.
On one bus ride home during my first academic year known as kindergarten, my new friend and I were distracted and she missed her bus stop. I, in solidarity, but more likely because I, too, was confused and not paying attention, exited the bus with her, a few stops before mine. She went one way and I the other. To avoid a scolding to try to make it seem that I had gotten off at the right stop, I proceeded to walk past my house on Vista Glen Drive and up the hill toward my actual bus stop (the “plan” being to then spin 180 degrees and stroll casually down from the bus stop to my home to make it appear like any other day), when my mother stuck her head out of the house and said, “Where are you going?” I should have cut through the back yard, instead of marching up the street.
I was not chastised by my mother for my inattentiveness and said deceitful plan, and when school the next day proceeded as usual, I began to relax, believing that I had successfully avoided reprobation. But at bus boarding time, the principal was standing next to my bus. “Who are the two girls who got off at the wrong stop yesterday?” The choices appeared before me. I could hold my breath and continue to stare at the tips of my now-scuffed Mary Janes, effectively denying my role in the event. Or I could look up, confess my mistake, and blame Paula Nation (no lie – say it a few times) for diverting me on the bus with her shenanigans, and take whatever punishment for which I was surely deserving. Or, I could do both and raise my hand two inches and hope that no one would notice my gesture, which is what I did.
In addition to school clothes, there were also school supplies. The 64 box of crayons (only $2.98 today) was the holy grail of the supply list — eight were expected but 64 were special. Silver and Sky Blue came out of the box first. A few years would bring pristine notebooks with bold, primary colored cardboard covers in which I would practice writing in cursive, “Lynn Clark, Lynn Clark, Lynn Clark, Lynn Clark,” dreaming of signing Esso gas station charges in my tan Volkswagen squareback wagon after marrying my fourth grade sweetheart Jimmy Clark.
Recently I was shopping for school supplies for my Junior Tennis Star. I was admiring – no, envying — the beautiful, decorative and graphic covers on the tablets, the pastel erasable highlighters, and glitter gel pens. Unicorns, rainbows, tie-dye, sigh. The school supplies are so beautiful. I thought, “Why shouldn’t I also have a new tablet?” So I bought the notebook pictured above: “Take Chances.” This is my New Year’s resolution. So, in addition to the usual sorts of New Year’s resolutions that I will undoubtedly make in the next few weeks – to cook healthy meals daily, to learn a slice, to do yoga at least twice a week and tennis three, and to spend more time straightening my hair in the morning, I promised myself that personally and professionally, I will take chances.
Congratulations on your performances at Wimbledon. I cannot wait to watch your fourth round
match against Simona Halep, world no. 7, to find out what the rest of the
tournament holds for you. During your
matches, you have kept me on the edge of my seat and brought tears to my
eyes. I, as well as celebrities such as Reese
Witherspoon, Michelle Obama and Jaden Smith, watched your performance on
Saturday against Polona Hercog, and I, like the rest of the world, am enamored
with you.
I have a few words of advice for you. No, not tennis advice. It’s advice from a mother. When I see you on the court, I see my daughter in you: confident, vulnerable, strong, and on the verge of great things in life. There will be many people, like me, claiming you and your successes as their own. I, like any mother, want you to succeed in life, not just on the court.
You are strong. I saw your determination and strength of spirit when you were down 5-2 against Hercog in the second set, and you fended off two match points. I saw your fierceness and resolve when you came from behind to win the second set in a tie breaker. I saw you fight to victory in the third against a very crafty and seasoned opponent. In the future, when it’s not going your way, strive to hide your fears and emotions. They are obvious on your face. And, as you will soon come to learn, the cameras are trained on your face. The commentators will use your emotions against you, as will your opponents. Take note of Roger Federer. You will never know if he is winning or losing from his expressions. Whatever your future holds for you, a poker face on the court and in life is sometimes necessary.
You are lovely. My daughter is delighted that you wear your hair in box braids, like she sometimes does. Young girls of color will copy you. Girls will do their nails like yours. But you are certainly not Cinderella, as you have been dubbed. There’s no glass slipper in tennis, no fairy godmother, and certainly no prince worth dancing with. Instead, it’s about years of raw, hard work, and your parents’ sacrifices, because there undoubtedly were many. You are not anything that anyone calls you, except what you want to be called. You control your narrative. Carefully manage your celebrity.
Beware of instant gratification. Your career should not be about today, this Wimbledon or the next match. Yes, you arrived at a major in such a monumental way, but plan your career as an arc of time plus staying power. Think about the Williams sisters. They have been a known name in tennis for over twenty years, and have been playing for much, much longer than that. Carefully manage your monetary winnings. You will make money, but your power will be beyond what you have the ability to purchase. You now have the power to influence the way people think and act. I see that you are exploring this with your #prayforsudan post and a link to UNICEF’s website, reporting about the deaths and abuse of children in Sudan amid the political and military unrest. This is a cause worth shining a light on. You can do much good, including in the United States.
Dear commentators, please do not make assumptions about this
young lady based on the color of her skin.
Please do not say, as I have heard, that Coco Gauff is “articulate” and
“well spoken.” It presumes that she
would not to be. Perhaps when you say
that, you mean that she is very engaging with the media, which she is. Or maybe you mean that she stands out when
she’s on camera, which she does.
Please do not say that she is “well brought up” and “respectful,” as I have heard. Again, it presumes the opposite. Please do not reference her supportive parents as if this is novel or unexpected. The parents of any 15-year playing Wimbledon are, by definition, supportive. They, of course, would have mentored their daughter over the years to bring them to the moment when they are sitting court-side at the All England Club, sharing in their daughter’s struggles and successes, and doing a dance and pounding their chest after a particular 23-shot rally that turned a match around. Dear tennis fans, please keep all of this in mind when you watch Coco Gauff play tennis and interact with the audience and the media now and as she develops over the years. Do not make assumptions about her background, strength, or athleticism based on her complexion.
Dear Coco, I promised I wouldn’t give you tennis advice, but I happened to be with a group of high-level junior tennis players taking a break at a clinic when I was writing this article. I asked them what their advice to you would be. They said, “Go for it” in your match against Halep because you are the underdog against former world no. 1 Halep and you have have nothing to lose. Another also said, “Play loose.” “Look to move forward;” you have good hands and should play the net more. One young man said, “She’s so good, I’d like her to give me advice.”
I also asked several tennis pros and coaches what advice they would give you. One said, “Swing big and hard. Hit as big as you can and keep attacking.” Set the tone of the match and don’t just respond to your opponent. Another said do not let positivity and enthusiasm derive from your opponent’s failures; instead, both must originate with you. Look confident without showing your emotional ups and downs. A third would not give you any advice. Change nothing. You have a champion mindset; keep thinking that way.
Dear Coco, as you take on Simona Halep, I will watch and rejoice, whether you win or lose. You have made your way into my heart, as well as into the heart of millions of others around the world.
Check out my “Wimbledon Whites” selections in my pro shop.
