Doubles Tactics: Back to the Basics

As you gain experience in a sport, your natural tendency might be to presume that you've mastered its fundamentals and no longer need to take note of them. That may be true to an extent, but as your mind centers on more complex elements, it may dismiss some essential building blocks along the way, hampering your ability to apply new principles. The outcome is that you're spinning your wheels without gaining mileage, and frustration is your inevitable destination.

Tennis in no exception to this pattern. It's a fast-moving, intricate sport that requires you to do a lot at once to make things click. Doubles presents even more concerns, as you have to cooperate with a partner to overcome two opponents at the same time. Taking a random strategical approach rarely renders positive results, and a revisitation of the basics can be of benefit to players of all levels.

I recently watched a five-minute video that nicely enumerates the key elements of doubles without bogging the viewer down in  detail. The video was produced by the David Lloyd School of Tennis, a reputable academy founded in the UK. The British invented the game, so Lloyd must know what he's talking about. The link to the video appears at the bottom of this post, but here's a rundown of its central tenets.

Communicate well: Doubles isn't an introspective affair that welcomes silent brooding. Interacting with your partner is the best way to stay alert and engaged. Calling balls by saying "I've got it!" helps avoid on-court collisions, and encouraging your partner throughout the match keeps spirits high. Bear in mind that no one misses shots deliberately, so criticizing your partner is the fastest path to destruction.

Be consistent: A common misreading in doubles is that every point should end after two or three shots. But just as in singles, there's a time to keep the ball in play and a time to put it away. The urge to go for winners can lead to lots of unforced errors, so try to keep your head on straight and accept that you aren't Roger Federer.

Be accurate: Doubles is a war of geometry. Because you have two players to pass on the other side of the net, finding the angles is paramount. Try to take advantage of openings down the middle, and capitalize upon moments when poor communication traps your opponents in the same half of the court.

Maintain good position: Knowing when to charge the net or hug the baseline can be the difference between a win and a loss in doubles. The position you select will depend upon factors such as the strength of your opponents' serves, the quality of your partner's serve return, and so on. Obviously, holding solid court position requires ongoing communication with your partner.

Play to your strengths: It's important to recognize your team's capacities and disabilities. If your partner has an offensive serve return, treat it as an opportunity for attack. If he or she doesn't, prepare to step back and defend the point. Your strategy should adapt to the specifics of each serve/return paradigm.

Exploit your opponents' weaknesses: I'm reminded of warm-ups before matches. My team is always scouting the oppositions' strokes and searching for vulnerabilities. "This guy has no backhand" or "The other guy doesn't move forward well" are examples of the flaws we look for. If we perceive no initial failings, we search for them as the match develops. We also presume that the other team is engaging in a similar process, so such analysis is a reciprocal equation that can also be used against us.

Here's the link to the video:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=d0wjV3YaPcw    

    

  

              

  

The Courts Are Clear, Thanks to Maksim and Oprah

In the wee hours of last Thursday morn, in the midst of our unseasonable and unprecedented snowstorm, a bizarre event befell my wife and me. As we lay fast asleep, our mammoth German Shepherd, whose custom is to lounge beside our bed, leapt up and began to bark ferociously, seemingly without cause. He was drawn to a window that looks out on our front yard. Curious and concerned, my wife climbed out of bed, threw back the shutters, and investigated the scene. Her findings were both alarming and confounding.

“There’s a guy in a yellow bathrobe jumping up and down in our yard,” she said.

I yawned and rubbed my eyes. “Are you sure it’s not your dad?”

“Whatever. This guy’s disguised in goggles and a snorkel, and he has a quiver filled with arrows on his back, though I don’t see a bow. He’s also holding a torch of some sort, which appears to be a burning tennis racket. And I think he’s wearing Hello Kitty snow boots. He’s probably a friend of yours.“

“How tall is he?”

“About eight feet or so. Maybe even taller.”

A feeling of illness rose in my stomach. Getting up reluctantly, I walked as slowly as possible to the window, hoping not to see what I anticipated. Moments later, my greatest fears were confirmed. The lunatic in my yard was Maksim Lecic, founder and CEO of the Rochester Tennis League. My day was done for before it began.

I put on a coat, a pair of lumberjack boots, and a Canadian trapper’s hat and ventured outside to address the emergency. When I reached my yard, Maksim was building a snowman that resembled Al Franken and was singing a Justin Bieber song. Already I regretted my decision to confront him.

Noticing me –- and sneering as though I was an interloper on my own property -- Maksim threatened to arrest me if I didn't leave the premises. Then his insanity became even more palpable. 

“It’s snowing again, and we have RTL matches to play,” he said. “We have to make it stop.”

“No problem. I’ll drop God an email. I’m sure he takes weather requests.”

“We have to melt the snow.”

“Sure thing. I’ll dash out to the garage and get my flamethrower. It’s on a shelf next to my grenades and bayonets.”

“I have a plan.”

“I don’t want to hear it. I suspect the FBI has already wired your snow boots.”

“You have to help me. You will help me.”

And with that cryptic statement he reached into his pocket and withdrew a bottle of ketchup. Realizing he had accessed the wrong pocket, however, he screeched like an exotic fowl, restored the ketchup to the first pocket, placed his hand in another pocket, and produced a can of lighter fluid. I knew his tennis-racket torch had to be linked to some sinister aim, and my prediction came true in a heartbeat. 

“My plan looks something like this,” he said.

Racing toward a helpless tree, he doused its bark with toxic fluid, waved his flaming racket around the trunk, and set the scene ablaze. The timber incinerated in seconds, surprisingly to my pleasure. I intend to replace the tree with rubber shrubbery, as I loathe raking leaves in October.

Still, it was time to intervene, and I had to act quickly. Lacking expertise in the behavioral sciences, I concluded that enlisting the authorities was my only option. I phoned the Big Barn Looney Bin and patiently awaited their arrival.

The Big Barn Looney Bin is just that, a big barn that houses loonies. It’s a squalid den of vice and misery, but it's the only place prepared to detain someone as deranged as Maksim. In addition, the Big Barn has a makeshift wading pool, so I thought Maksim might find some application for his goggles and snorkel. It’s important for a psychotic to achieve a sense of productivity, especially when he has a penchant for pyromania.

As I stood in my driveway, Maksim worked calmly on his snow woman, which was starting to look like Michelle Bachman. He was bellowing the second verse of some Whitney Houston song when the Looney Van pulled up to the curb. Relief washed over me, and I looked forward to returning to bed.

Without warning, a rather burly chap emanated from the van, tackling Maksim upon sight. I could hear Maksim weeping gently, but I knew his turmoil would eventually give way to tranquility. I was thinking the same for myself until a Looney official addressed me.

“Sir, your friend has no identification, so you’ll need to serve as his primary contact.”

“Please don’t publicize him as my friend. I have a reputation to uphold in the local community. Also, I’m leaving town soon.”

“When?”

“About thirty seconds from now.“

“Where are you going?”

“Into an oncoming train or off the highest cliff I can find. I need to erase this experience from memory.”

The warden didn’t approve, requiring me to stick around. I watched the van pull away in the dim morning light. Maksim’s contorted face, made even stranger by his goggles and snorkel, was plastered to the back window. Damp and depleted, I went back inside and had a bottle of Scotch for breakfast. I should have downed two bottles, for nothing could have fortified me for the onslaught that followed.

Right around noon, just after I had swallowed ninety-thousand milligrams of ibuprofen in an effort to combat my pounding head, distressing news arrived by telephone. A Looney Bin administrator reported that Maksim had covered himself in Vaseline and had slipped through an aperture in the back of his cell, earning his liberty by covert means. How he attained the Vaseline remained a mystery, but I informed the administrator that Maksim’s robe was practically a Wal-Mart made of cotton, containing a vast array of pharmaceuticals, auto supplies, and lawn furniture. She seemed impressed, inquiring where she might find a similar garment.

I scrambled to pack my bags, knowing that my chances of escape were poor. Carrying a toothbrush in one hand and a new bottle of Scotch in the other, I leapt into my SUV, revved up the engine, and put the pedal to the floor. Unfortunately, the transmission was in drive rather than reverse, and I left a gaping hole in the wall of my garage. After scolding myself, I backed out slowly, regaining my composure and pondering my destination.

As I drove down Highway 52, I thought I smelled lighter fluid, an illusion I attributed to post-traumatic stress disorder. But when I glanced through my rear view mirror and saw the tip of a snorkel bobbing up and down, I knew my fate was sealed. Maksim had broken into my garage and stowed himself away in my vehicle. The horrors of hell couldn’t have been so unsettling.

Caked in Vaseline, Maksim slithered into the front seat and started barking commands.

“Take me to a hardware store!”

“For what? You’ve already got a tool chest in your robe.”

“Follow my orders. Now!”

He snorted, snickered, and sighed. Then he reached into his pocket, pulled out the bottle of ketchup, and paraded it as though wielding a weapon. Fear overwhelmed me. I had on a nice jacket, and ketchup stains are hard to remove.

“Okay. Please don’t open that bottle.”

As I waited in the parking lot of Ace Hardware, I thought of fleeing but realized the futility of the maneuver. You can’t run away from a boob in a bathrobe. He’ll track you down every time. As I weighed my alternatives, Maksim returned with two large lollipops and three-million pounds of wood chips. Something they injected him with at the Looney Bin must have given him superhuman strength. He tied down the lumber on my utility rack and fell into the front seat.

“Would you like a lollipop?” he asked.

“No.”

“Take me to Soldiers Field.”

“But I was hoping . . .”

Take me there! Now!”

He started to reach for the bottle of ketchup, but I gave in before you could say “unnecessary cleaning bill.”

There’s a time in every man’s life when a transcendental revelation descends upon him, often against his own will. His doubts transform quietly into unquestioned truths, and the supernatural seems as tactile as a bottle of beer. What happened at Soldiers Field was such an experience for me.

The snow-covered parking lot at Soldiers marked the end of our drive.

“Stay in the car,” commanded Maksim.” And hold this until I get back.”

He handed me a Frisbee that bore the inscription “Hawaii is a nice place to eat a frog.” The force of the sentiment remains beyond my grasp. Like the enigma of the Holy Trinity, I’ll never unravel it.

Trudging through the slush, Maksim unloaded his inventory of woodchips, evenly distributing them on the frozen courts. He kneeled on the ground and lifted his head to the heavens, entreating every deity in the history of Western Civilization. His mastery of classical literature surprised me. He invoked Zeus and Jupiter, Hermes and Metis, Cronus and Phoebe, and the fearsome Poseidon, king of the sea. He even gave a shout out to Oprah Winfrey, who probably possesses more power than all gods combined.

Having completed his archaic ceremony, Maksim bathed the woodchips in lighter fluid, struck fifty matches, and sparked a pyre that produced enough carbon monoxide to make an elephant lose his lunch. Within five minutes, the snow had vanished, and the courts were ready for tennis. I can’t help but think that Oprah played a critical role in the restoration. It's not as though she has anything better to do. 

Makism is currently on display at the Sociopathic Museum of Tennis History. You can view him for an admission fee of ten dollars. If you give him a lollipop, he might sing a song for you. But please practice extreme caution when approaching him. He sometimes pees on people.