Tennis team clinics often resemble a highly athletic book club, where actual ball-striking is merely an interruption to the constant stream of dialogue and confusion. The warm-up alone involves five minutes of hitting and fifteen minutes of dissecting someone's serve grip, their weekend plans, or an impassioned debate over whether the ball was really in. As soon as the coach tries to explain a new cross-court strategy, the entire group enters a state of collective amnesia, immediately forgetting which side of the court they're supposed to be on and which partner is serving. More time is spent with hands on hips, squinting at the coach and saying "Wait, whose ad is it again?" than is spent in any actual rally. It's a delightful chaos where everyone leaves having burned a few calories, made a few friends, and learned absolutely nothing about the new strategy.

Well, consider that my unforced error of the season. I just "double-faulted" straight into your inboxes with an email meant for a completely different court. Since I’ve clearly lost my grip on the "send" button, feel free to delete that masterpiece and pretend I have better aim in real life than I do digitally. I’ll be over here taking a self-imposed penalty lap!

Before a tennis player actually hits a serve, they often perform a ritual so complex it looks like they’re trying to summon a rain god or unlock a secret vault. Some players become human dribbling machines, bouncing the ball exactly 17 times—if they stop at 16, they clearly believe the ball will explode. Then there are the "adjusters" who won't toss the ball until they’ve tucked every stray hair, straightened their socks to the millimeter, and performed a very specific tug on their shorts that borders on a wardrobe malfunction. You’ll see players who turn their backs to the net to have a private conversation with the back fence, while others blow on their fingers as if they’re about to defuse a bomb. By the time they finally toss the ball, the opponent has aged three years, and the audience has forgotten which set it is, but to the server, that specific sequence of nose-touching and ball-sniffing is the only thing standing between an ace and a complete existential crisis.