Blog: Order On The Court: Confessions of a tennis player

Give me a court -- any court -- and I'm happy

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I’ll let you in on a little secret. 

I play pickleball — a lot. Pretty much daily. Hours a day, bringing order to chaos on the court that is pretty much most pickleball games — the best ones anyways.

But I digress. 

So I will tell you, but you have to promise not to tell anyone about my inconvenient truth. Certainly not to one of my regular pickleball partners or one of my Play To Win Pickleball students.

The thing is, I started playing tennis many years ago. Hit, hit hit, forehand, hit, hit, backhand, hit…stop to run after a miss-hit ball. Hit, hit back and forth. Until I became the Roger Federer of the George P. Mackie Public School back wall. 

Now that I think about, getting decent court time was an issue even back in those days, the Dark Ages, before pickleball was invented; well not really, it was first played in 1964, and even I’m not that old. 

So tennis has been in my blood for a long time. Like when I got a summer job in high school, putting up the stands at the Canadian Open Tennis Tournament and watching Rod Laver and John Newcombe hit the ball back and forth on the grass court. Hit, hit, hit….back and forth.

I remember chasing down a white Dunlop tennis ball and handing it back, casually of course, to Rod and thinking to myself, “Damn, that short red haired man has a huge forearm.” 

I mean, it was bigger than my entire thigh, an arm so powerful, the old Dunlop wood racket was weaponized in his fierce some grip like an Australian Thor’s Hammer.

A decade later and I was sitting in an actual sit in the stands at the Canadian Open watching Bjorn Borg play an insolent headbanded John McEnroe. Hit, hit, hit…back and forth. 

Thinking. “Damn that guy from Sweden hits a mean two-handed backhand. 

The stroke was a thing of beauty, Bjorn’s backhand. All powerful, and beautiful in its simplicity and effortless grace. 

It was then, I realized, tennis, all court sports, actually, would become a lifelong pursuit and passion of mine.

This led to stints getting certified as an instructor with the Ontario Lawn Tennis Association, before they dropped the “Lawn” in their name, as they ran out of grass courts to play on in Canada.

I started my best summer job when I was still studying journalism, at Ryerson Polytechnical Institute, before it became, Ryerson University, and way before its namesake became so controversial, it’s now called something completely different, who’s name escapes me.

I put on tennis lessons on the slick wooden floor of the basketball courts for eight players at a time, before there was a lack of available court space. 

Do you notice a pattern developing here. The lack of court time and difficulty in finding a place to play isn’t a new phenomenon. It’s been an eternal struggle, most of my life.

My love of tennis led me to, well the actual love of my life, Maureen, who will tell complete strangers that we’ve been married, um, I forget the exact number of years, but it’s really a lot, because we met at Ryerson and she was one of my early students.So fact #1, play pickleball, find the love of your life. It happens….

This also led to the sweetest summer job a guy growing up in Scarborough was allowed to have…. Head Tennis Instructor at an exclusive summer camp in Parry Sound. 

One moment, I’m trying to drown out the loud music while studying in my student residence, at Neil Wycik. The next I’m in a fabulous summer camp, 21 years old, and surrounded by attentive summer campers and tennis staff. 

The novelty, of someone actually listening to me at that age, and actually caring what I had to say, was intoxicating.

It went totally to my head. I even started wearing Izod sweaters and Crocodile tennis shirts. 

So getting back to the big secret.I’m a member of a whole bunch of pickleball clubs in Ottawa — Valley Stream, RA Centre, Ottawa Pickleball Association, Elmridge — the usual suspects..but I’m also a member of, gasp, the Rockcliffe Tennis, and play both tennis and pickleball, regularly at Elmridge.

I’m often in these post-match social chit chats after a double game (I play at the Men’s B Doubles Inter-Club level in tennis), drinking a non alcoholic beverage. I nod knowingly when the men tennis players, perspiring heavily, speak in conspiratorially voices of the damn pickleballers taking over court time. 

“Yes, damn pickleballers,” I agree to the group, hiding the fact, I’m actually one of those pesky picklers taking up 2-3 hours a day of precious court time. 

“So demanding,” I say, adding my comments for the tennis group, who nod sadly, wondering what the world is coming to, with the silly plastic balls, short paddles, and smaller courts.

Then, in the same afternoon, after a particularly competitive match, at Valley Stream — I mean, is there any game played at that club, that isn’t particularly, uniquely competitive, I take time out to cool down in the 32C weather.

“Tennis players are becoming a dying breed,” says one of my partners.

“Yes, I add with enthusiasm. “Like dinosaurs. They don’t even know their days of getting available court times, is coming to an end. A new breed of court players, us pickleball players, are going to inherit the earth, and all the courts on it.”

“So true, so true,” the picklers agree with knowing nods of their ball capped heads.

So there you have it. A pickleball player who not only has a past in tennis, but still plays tennis! And loves both games. I’ve even been know to darken the odd squash court occasionally. 

I’ll end this month’s blog with a tip about all three popular racket (and paddle) sports.

One of the most distinguishing features of all three. Is the intimacy of the court, the close surroundings of the court and proximity to partners.

Squash is defined by the closeness of this pas de deux. You’re continually playing with a human body and a swinging graphite racket, inches from your head. The ball travels periously close to your face at times, as you move out of the path of a lethal blade of the racket face.

Pickleball is the middleman in this ballet of court chaos. Close quarters at times, stepping out of the way of an errand carbon fibre paddle, trying not to get beaned in the back of the head when you poach a lob from your partner.

Tennis is the game of kings, and played, fittingly, at a distance from one another. Really no need to bother about getting hit by a partner’s racket, or beaned in the back of the head when he or she is serving — unless you’re really asking for it.

What they share in common, is the chaos of their courts.

Our effort, as avid court men, and court women, is to bring a sense of order to these courts.

And that’s what I will be talking about in my future blogs. 

Bringing Order to the Courts….See you soon. And remember, this is strictly hush, hush.