The Tennis Coach – Part 1: Deuce

The indoor court was silent and gleaming under the dimmed floodlights, the green surface unmarked, the net hanging taut across the middle. A basket of yellow balls stood by the baseline. Beyond the glass wall, the clubhouse was dark.

Marguerite stood at the net with her racket under her arm. She was forty-nine, a former national champion who now coached the club's most promising juniors and one very particular adult. Leo was thirty-six, a barrister, tall and athletic and anxious, who had told her over a post-match drink that he had never felt so calm as in the hour when she corrected his backhand.

"Come here," said Marguerite.

He came to the net. She handed him a laminated card. Rules of the Court. His limits and hers: no marks, nothing painful, no real humiliation, nothing beyond the club, no one else. The word was Deuce.

"Say it."

"Deuce."

"If you say it, the Coach puts down her racket. I am Marguerite. We sit in the stands with a flask of tea."

"I understand."

"And every half hour, I ask if you wish to continue. You answer truly."

"Yes, Coach."

"Not yet." She put on a long white tracksuit jacket and a visor, and her face went still. Her voice dropped, low, level and absolutely sure. "Mr Brandt. Your footwork has been appalling."

"I am sorry, Coach."

"You will be." She pointed at the baseline. "Stand there. Racket down. Hands behind your back."

He stood on the line, the floodlights glinting off the empty court, his breath loud in the huge hall. She walked slowly along the net, bouncing a ball against her racket, once, twice, a measured tock that echoed. She said nothing at all. The ball bounced again.

"Are you content, Mr Brandt?"

"Content, Coach."

"Good. The drills will be long."

Continue the story: Part 2 – Advantage.