Maj walks ahead, swinging her brand new tennis racquet in the sullen humid air that puddles around her feet, “Why can’t we just go to a tennis court?”
Kallan is somehow walking and twirling at the same time, the bright pink of her racquet flashing in the sunlight as she swishes it through the air above her head, “Yeah, Mom! We want to play tennis, not bounce balls against a wall.”
“I know . . . but you’ve never played tennis before. It’s better in the beginning not to play against anyone; you need to learn how to control and hit the ball before playing an actual opponent.”
Maj eyes me suspiciously, “And you know this from your vast experience as a tennis player?”
“No. I know this from my vast experience as a mom.”
Kallan races ahead to the shaded area alongside the back wall of the school building, “So if I get good at bouncing and hitting, you’ll let me play at a tennis court?”
“Yes.”
“Alright.” Kallan runs to claim a spot against the wall, carefully selecting one of her fuzzy new tennis balls and holding it high, “This ball is named Round Albert!” She pounds Round Albert against the wall with a single violent swing that sends Round Albert sailing into the air high above her head and into the grass beyond the cemented play area, “Whoa, Round Albert! Get your booty back here!”
Maj is critical, “That child has no sense of restraint.” She turns to me, “So exactly how many times have you played tennis, Mother?”
“That would be zero.”
“No, I mean in your entire life.”
“Hmmm . . . still zero.”
“Seriously? Great.” She lays her tennis racquet and balls on the ground and crosses her arms, stares at me, “I’m done here. Let me know when you have arranged for me to take some lessons from someone who actually knows what she is doing.”
“Maj, I am not in the mood.”
“Mother, you bring no skills to the table. No skills. I will not be incompetenced in such a flagrant manner.”
“Pick up the racquet before I bonk you on the head with it.”
Ma glares at me, but she picks up her racquet, “When I am a famous tennis star, I am going to speak to people of this coercion and violence.”
“Oh for god’s sake . . . I have played racquetball . . . it’s enough like tennis that I can show you the basics. If you can serve and consistently hit the ball to yourself off of a wall, then I will talk to Daddy about lessons. Not before.”
Kallan comes gasping up to us, “All Round Albert does is bound away and make me chase him. I need another more cooperative ball.” She squats to consider the other choices, finally settling on Chubby Susie. Maj and I watch as Kallan slams Chubby Susie into the wall from a distance of about four feet away. As the ball zips past Kallan and out into the grassy field, Kallan wails, “Chubby Susie! Come back, Chubby Susie!”
I turn to Maj, “Alright, your sister is actually trying to play. Last chance, babe. I said I would help you first, but you are wasting time. What’s it going to be?”
She considers, “How exactly have you never played tennis?”
“In a nutshell, I blame childhood dysfunction and the crumbling walls of our Michigan living room.”
“That makes no sense.”
“Even so.”
“Alright, fine . . . but you better know what you’re doing.”
So then I show her how to hold the racquet and how to bounce the ball against the ground with the racquet and how to bounce the ball up into the air with the racquet . . . “Mother, I fear you are just making up random vaguely tennis-related behaviors for which I will be rudely mocked when I perform these actions in public.”
“Hush, Maj.”
I show her how to bounce the ball and gently swing to hit the ball into the wall and then reposition herself so that she can hit it as it returns. I show her how to hold her body as she serves and how to return to the proper stance as she waits for the ball’s return and how to hit the ball gently so that she maximizes control . . . “Mother, I have seen this game on television, and it is a far more aggressive and speedy sport than you seem to realize.”
“Hush, Maj.”
When she has trouble hitting the ball after her initial serve, I back her away from the wall and stand in front of her, maybe ten feet away, “I’ll throw the ball to you, and you try to hit it back to me. I’ll catch it and throw it back to you, and then you hit it to me again.”
I throw the ball, “Mother, you threw the ball right past me. No way I could have hit that.”
I suggest she hold her racquet a bit higher and I throw the ball again, “Mother, what’s the point of this exercise if you are going to throw like a blind rhino?”
I throw the ball again, and this time she hits it . . . very hard and high over my head, “Mother, I thought you were going to catch the balls I hit to you.”
I throw the ball again, and she takes a step and trips on her racquet, “Mother, I believe I have perfected this part of the lesson. Let’s move on.”
I ignore her and throw the ball again. This time she does an odd backward dance in which she switches the racquet to her left hand and swings and misses completely. After she retrieves the ball, I ask, “What was that, babe? Last time I checked, you are not so much ambidextrous.”
“Duh, Mother. That was my backhand.”
So then I explain about how a backhand swing actually works, and I show her how to do it. I then step back and throw her the ball again, and somehow she fumbles the racquet mid-swing and it goes sailing through the air. Maj is disgruntled in the extreme, “See what you made me do, Mother?”
“Maj, that was all you.”
“No, Mother. I did exactly what you told me to do. EXACTLY WHAT YOU TOLD ME TO DO.”
“Nope. You so did not.”
Her voice is dripping with condescension and sarcasm, “Mother, I did exactly what you told me to do. I stood right here as you instructed me to hold the racquet like this,” and here she flops the racquet in the air like an empty fire hose, “and then you told me to switch hands as the ball approached,” and here she tosses the racquet from one hand to the other, “and then hit the ball like this,” and she does an odd sideways leap and spin and then releases the racquet into the air as she swings wildly.
I watch the racquet crash to the ground and then I look back to Maj, “Ummm . . . I did not tell you to do any of that.”
“Yes, well . . . I must say . . . I am getting sick and tired of always having to explain to you what you just said or did, Mother. Just because you have no memory of your words and your actions does not mean that you did not speak and act. I do not know what is wrong with you, and if I were you I would be worried about these little breaks from reality you seem to take more and more often these days. I think perhaps a doctor is required and perhaps a lobotomy or perhaps shock therapy and also I do not think you know as much about tennis as you imagine.”
I take a deep breath, “Maj, I know you like to master new things immediately, but that does not mean you get to treat others shabbily when it turns out the new thing involves frustration.”
“Enjoy your vocabulary while you have it, Mother.”
“What?”
She puts her fingers to her temples and makes a sizzling electric sound, “Zzzzttttttttt.”
I laugh and pick up the ball, “You want to try again?”
“Only if you admit that that you said and did what I say you said and did.”
I bounce the ball a few times and shake my head, “Well, then . . . you are S–O–L.”
Maj shakes her head as well, “Nicely done, Mother. Swearing, memory loss, hostile incompetence . . . tennis is definitely your sport. I was ever so wrong to doubt you.”
“Maj, tennis may not be your sport, either. You know what you might like?” I throw the tennis ball I am holding as hard as I can out into the grassy field, and then I reach for her other two tennis balls, throwing each of them to separate distant points, “Yup, I’m thinking Fetch may be more your speed.”
Maj is rigid with fury, “You cannot do that, Mother. You cannot behave this way. This is reprehensible and corrupt of you! You cannot be cruel to your child, Mother. I AM YOUR CHILD.”
I put my fingers to my temples and make a sizzling electric sound, “Zzzztttttt . . . maybe you are and maybe you aren’t. So hard to remember the lesser details of what they tell me once was my life.”
“Mother, you are insane.”
I point and speak commandingly, “FETCH, DOGGIE! FETCH!”
I turn away from Maj to find an eager Kallan awaiting my instruction. She is holding up a tennis ball, “I named this last ball S–O–L.” I raise my eyebrows and she hurries to explain, “Don’t worry . . . I pronounce it rhymey . . . SOL BALL.”
“Alrighty, then.”
“Mommy, can you teach me that weird dancy-bird thing Maj was doing? That looks hard.”
Snort.
