Look, I’ve seen a lot in my years as a club pro. Tantrums over line calls, grown men fake injuries to avoid losing, and women who’d rather sacrifice their Yonex than their pride. But nothing—and I mean nothing—prepares you for the chaos of a well-meaning husband with the volume control of a malfunctioning bullhorn.
Enter Greg.
Greg wasn’t technically a member of our tennis scene. He didn’t take lessons, he didn’t drill, and he certainly didn’t know the first damn thing about proper etiquette. But what he did do was show up for every one of his wife Carol’s matches like he was storming the beaches of Normandy.
Now Carol? A solid 3.5—textbook strokes, always on time, the kind of woman who bakes cookies for round robins and apologizes when she hits a net cord winner. Sweet, quiet, and—as we would all come to learn—a woman married to an absolute sideline menace.
The event was our annual mixed doubles mixer—low-stakes, fun-focused, filled with retirees, Chardonnay moms, and dads pretending they “used to play in college.” We paired players randomly to keep things spicy, and Carol was teamed up with Ray, a perfectly decent gentleman who had all the emotional range of a parking meter but could hit a respectable slice.
Greg stationed himself just outside the court like a commander surveying a battlefield. He had a foldable chair, a neon cooler, a pair of wraparound sunglasses, and the energy of someone who thinks yelling is a personality trait. From the first point, he started in.
“YES, CAROL! YOU’RE A QUEEN OUT THERE!”
“UNLEASH THE THUNDER!”
“DON’T LET THAT GUY WITH THE DAD BOD INTIMIDATE YOU!”
The entire court—hell, the entire facility—froze. We had juniors on the next court looking over like they were about to witness a hostage situation. Poor Ray looked like he’d seen a ghost. And Carol? She winced like she’d been slapped with a wet overgrip.
We tried to give Greg the benefit of the doubt. Maybe he’d calm down. Maybe he’d tire himself out. But nope—he escalated like he was being paid by the decibel.
Between points, he was clapping so aggressively that a lady in the pro shop called me to ask if someone had fallen. After every missed shot, he’d audibly groan like he had shanked a backhand. And after one particularly average volley, he screamed, “THAT’S MY GIRL! SHOW ‘EM WHAT DOMINANCE LOOKS LIKE!”
Buddy. She just dinked the ball over the net. This isn’t WrestleMania.
Things went nuclear when Carol missed an easy overhead. Greg stood up, hands in the air like he was summoning the tennis gods, and shouted, “CAROL! DO NOT LET THIS BE YOUR LEGACY!”Things went nuclear when Carol missed an easy overhead. Greg stood up, hands in the air like he was summoning the tennis gods, and shouted, “CAROL! DO NOT LET THIS BE YOUR LEGACY!”
Carol stopped. Ray stopped. Everyone stopped.
I walked over to Greg and said, “Okay, Gladiator, time to go.”
“What? I’m just encouraging her!”
I nodded slowly. “Sure. And I’m just teaching tennis. But if I screamed at every missed forehand, I’d be doing a solo podcast by now.”
He started to protest, but I held up my hand like I was swatting away a particularly persistent wasp.
“Greg, if you really love your wife, do her a favor—let her play in peace. Go grab a smoothie. Maybe a Xanax.”
To his credit, he left. Eventually. Muttered something about how nobody at this club had “the heart of a champion,” which was hilarious coming from a man whose most athletic endeavor that day had been dragging a cooler across a patio.
Once he was gone? Carol relaxed. Her shoulders dropped about three inches, she cracked a smile, and—shockingly—started crushing it. They won their match, and she actually said thank you to Ray after.
Later, as Carol was packing up, she came over and said, “Sorry about Greg… he just really believes in me.”
I gave her a half-smile. “He’s got the belief part down. Now if he could just dial it back from ‘hype man at a rap concert’ to ‘supportive husband who doesn’t make children cry,’ we’d be in business.”
She laughed. Kind of. Then asked if there was a “spectator time-out” policy. I told her we’d start one… and name it after Greg.
