SoulPancake

[SP EXCLUSIVE]

Jackson’s first lesson ended with a few three-shot rallies and a homework suggestion: “Observe some of your rules and break one. One, just for fun.”

“Break rules?” he asked suspiciously, as he tapped his last shot barely over the net. “Can you give me an example?”

“Like: ‘I have to do this’ or ‘I should do that.’ Those kinds of rules,” I explained. “Murder would go beyond our scope.” I thought that was funny, but his consternation remained fixed.

We had our next meeting three weeks later after his family vacation to the South Carolina coast. “Did you break any rules?” I asked the wiry 36-year-old, while we rallied to warm up.

“No,” he admitted. “It was honestly too hard. Rules are just too habitual.”

“That’s how they become rules,” I laughed.

“They are so ingrained,” he repeated, his play stiff with premeditation. His over-6-foot body seemed stuck.

“Let’s break a sweat,” I proposed. As we upped the intensity, his play remained deliberate, his legs moved sandpiper-like—short, quick, tight steps and abrupt stops. His arms, similar to a turtle’s, poked out to hit the ball and then retracted. After the five-minute, silent exchange in the end-of-summer heat, I asked, “How was your trip?”

He swiftly gulped water and said, “Full of weather.”

I thought the response odd and tried a different tact. “What was your favorite moment?”

“Well, maybe not my favorite, but it was the most alarming, the most memorable,” he began, dabbing sweat beads off his forehead. “While watching all the cousins playing on the beach, my mother said, ‘Somehow, I love those terrible kids.’” There was a pang in the emotiveness of his response.

“Would she say that about you?”

Jackson just laughed nervously. “Let’s hit some more tennis balls,” he said. But after another five minutes, he was again worn out and thirsty.

At the net, I asked my question in a new way: “Were her kids terrible?” He gave me a very rigid nod.

“I got it,” I said. “Let’s rally some more, and I’d like you to hit incorrectly.”
“Incorrectly?”
“Yes, hit wrong. Hit against all the lessons you’ve taken.”

The first “incorrect” shot came off his racket like a cannonball—hard and heavy, low over the net, and into the court. His knees flexed and his racket, still in his hand, flew around his body. To Jackson, incorrect seemed to mean “unleashed.”

“WOW!” Jackson’s eyes popped. “I’ve never felt that before.” He was transformed: He looked his full height, his shoulders settled below his ears, his smile not forced, and his swing did not retract before he finished. He looked involved, rather than panicked. His stamina increased.

“You want to know something that happened on the trip?” he offered.
“Tell me as I volley,” I said, and I moved play toward the net.
“I didn’t stop my kids from building their Legos wrong,” he said, hitting more shots steadily in a row.

My eyes squinted with curiosity. “You broke a rule!?”
“Well,” he diminished, “it’s not that I broke a rule; it’s just that I didn’t implement one.” He hit into my chest, and I volleyed it back into his wheel house—the perfect spot for his swing.

“How did the kids respond?”
“They had a lot more fun.”
“And you?” I hit another ball into his silence.

“Did the children make mistakes?”
“Lots of mistakes.”
“Oh my god,” I taunted. “They built Legos wrong?”

“OK, I get it, I get it,” he said. “I get it … let’s hit balls.” And he went to the baseline mumbling, “I broke a rule. I broke a rule.” But his initial wave of anxiety quickly morphed into a nimbleness and spring. Suddenly, Jackson was having fun, no matter where the balls went—right, left, or wrong.

We finished the meeting, packed our gear, and walked to the parking lot in a satisfied silence. As we stepped through the gate into life outside the court, I looked back and asked, “What happened in there?”

“I guess my rule to be right temporarily disappeared, and I surprisingly became a better player,” he said. “And I guess it was the same way at the beach. But there, I became a better father, and I guess I that helped to make my children better, too.”

If you could immediately do something 'wrong,' which personal rule would you break?

:: exploring the right of wrong by sports/life coach Zach Kleiman