When you’re a club pro, you’re not just a tennis coach—you’re a therapist, a babysitter, a marriage counselor, and occasionally, a referee. You think your job is to teach people how to hit a decent forehand, but then you find yourself breaking up arguments over line calls like you’re mediating a peace treaty. One particular incident still haunts me, not because it was the craziest thing I’ve seen, but because it was so absurdly on-brand for country club life that it deserves to be etched into the annals of tennis history.
It was a sunny Friday afternoon, and I was giving a doubles lesson to two couples—let’s call them Tom and Linda, and Dave and Susan. On paper, they were there to “work on strategy,” but what they really wanted was to passive-aggressively show off and subtly critique each other’s games. I could tell from the second they stepped onto the court that this wasn’t going to be about improving their shot selection—it was going to be about settling scores.
We started with some basic drills, and things seemed fine at first. Tom, a Type-A executive with a killer serve and an even deadlier ego, was blasting balls like he was auditioning for the U.S. Open. Linda, his wife, had that tight-lipped, weary look I’d seen on so many club wives—like she was two missed volleys away from snapping her racquet in half.
On the other side of the net, Dave was doing his best to look relaxed and nonchalant, even though I could tell he was dying to one-up Tom. Susan, meanwhile, was chirping away with helpful comments like, “Watch the ball, honey!” and “Maybe try bending your knees this time.” You know, the kind of advice that makes you want to scream into your towel.
Things started to unravel during a competitive doubles point. Tom hit a big serve, Dave barely got a racket on it, and Linda had a sitter at the net. All she had to do was tap it over, and the point was theirs. But instead of hitting it gently, Linda swung like she was trying to decapitate the ball—and it sailed out by a mile.
Tom froze. You could practically see the steam coming out of his ears.
“Why would you hit it that hard?” he snapped, loud enough for the neighboring courts to hear.
Linda’s eyes narrowed. “Well, maybe if you didn’t serve it so hard, I wouldn’t have felt like I had to crush it!”
“Oh, so now it’s my fault?” Tom shot back.
Before I could jump in and defuse the situation, Dave chimed in with a smug little chuckle.
“Hey, at least she’s swinging. Susan usually just freezes up at the net.”
Susan whipped around to face him. “Excuse me? Maybe I freeze up because you never cover the alley!”
And just like that, it was a full-on couples’ meltdown. Tom and Linda were bickering about who missed more shots, while Dave and Susan were rehashing every doubles match they’d ever lost. Meanwhile, I stood there holding a basket of balls, wondering if it was too late to quit and become a barista.
Eventually, I managed to calm them down and steer the lesson back on track, but the tension lingered in the air like a bad smell. When the lesson finally ended, Tom slapped me on the back and said, “Great session, Coach. We really needed that.” Linda shot him a look that could’ve melted steel, and they stalked off without another word.
As I packed up the balls, Dave sidled over and said, “Do you do private lessons? I think Susan and I could use some one-on-one time.”
I wanted to tell him that what they really needed was couples therapy, not more doubles drills, but I smiled and nodded. Because that’s the first rule of being a club pro: Never get involved in the drama. Just take the check, nod politely, and try not to laugh too hard when they inevitably end up on opposite sides of the net at next week’s mixed doubles event.
