When some people think of country clubs, they imagine blue lounge chairs by the pool or a cold diet coke before a round of golf. I think of the old man with bad posture who yelled at me because I told him he was on the wrong tennis court, the dad who had to stop a lesson I was teaching because his kids were out of control, or the members stealing the white hand towels from the bathroom.
8:06 am – It’s my first summer after graduating high school and I’m spending it as a tennis instructor and sales clerk at the Field Club, a country club in Greenwich, CT. I had thought it would be the perfect First Real Job—the positions seemed to be pretty low stakes, the pay was good, and I would get to spend half of the day outside.
Today, it’s a beautiful 71° morning with slightly too much sun that reflects off the white wooden panels that make up the Club’s exterior. I smile, clenching my jaw because I know I am six minutes late, and I hope that with a smile big enough, no one will notice. Cameron, Fergus, and Wikus, three of the Club’s tennis pros who are just a few years older than me are too busy setting up cones along the white lines to care about my tardiness. They are considered the “Pros” because at one point in their lives, each one tried to play tennis professionally. They probably skipped school days for tournaments, missed parties because they knew they had to wake up early to train, and told themselves they didn’t have time to go on dates since they had to focus on tennis and only tennis. None of them made it to the level they dreamed of playing at. Now, they teach tennis to young children in Greenwich, CT, and argue over who will participate in their Snack-time Fight Club.
I stand in a dirt walkway, the unofficial entrance to the tennis courts, with Robbie, a 6’4” freshman at Clemson who I have only ever seen in a white collared shirt. We greet kids who won’t learn my name even though I will see them everyday for the whole summer. Robbie hunches over to talk to the kids and still towers over them. He and I are not considered Pros because we only played in high school. The kids we teach do not understand the distinction between us and the Pros—in their minds, we are all just grown-ups teaching them tennis. Some of the Pros, though, believe there is a clear distinction.
On the first day of camp, David—another one of the pros and the oldest and least patient—told me and Robbie to introduce ourselves: “Just give your name,” he said, “and maybe a fun fact?” He looked up at Robbie’s mop of a head, and the edges of his lips curled as an idea came to his mind. “Robbie, you can share your height… and Ely can share her weight.” Cameron and Wikus looked at their feet to hide their smiles. My cheeks felt hot, but my clenched smile never wavered.
8:27 am – By 8:20 we should have the kids sorted into groups based on their level. This is more complicated than you think, so we rarely do it on time. Robbie and I know which court to send a kid to, but the kids can tell which are the “better” courts because each one uses a different colored ball. This makes sorting controversial.
The kids at the camp are 5-8 years old. Many of them can’t hold their miniature racquets let alone time their swing to hit something coming toward them. To help, we use large foam balls that are lighter and move slower, giving the kids more time to react. The lowest level ball is the red ball. These are about the size of a coconut and have bits of food and sunscreen stuck to their fuzz. The next is the orange ball. These are only slightly smaller and heavier than the red balls. The distinction between who plays with which red versus orange balls has more to do with a kid’s physical strength than actual skill. Usually the youngest kids at camp play with the red balls, and the slightly older kids will use the orange balls. The final stage before a regular tennis ball is the green ball. To most, these look like regular tennis balls that are damp. None of the kids at camp are ready for green balls.
The “lowest court,” where I reside, uses the red balls, and the other two courts use orange ones. The kids from the higher courts call the kids on my court “the Red Ballers” in a derogatory way. Most of the kids on the lowest court are girls. This is because if you tell the girls to move to a certain court, they do it. The boys will argue, start crying, or simply ignore you. Once, Wikus told a boy to move down courts and he ran away from camp.
9:33 am – There are many games that the kids love to play. In Graveyard,kids have to hit a ball over the net. If they don’t, they become ghosts and are sent to the “graveyard” on the other side of the net. There, they can try to catch a ball in the air to get back into the game. Alligator is where kids stand up at the net and practice volleys. If they miss a shot they “lose” a limb to a hypothetical alligator. With the first miss, they put their non-dominant arm behind their back, for the next miss, they stand on one leg, for the third miss, they kneel, and if they miss again, they have been fully eaten by the alligator. Fireball is when the kids line up in the alley of the court and the Pros peg balls at them. If they get hit by a ball they’re out. The Pros openly target the kids who complain more than others.
We also make the kids run relay races. These require the kids to get into two lines. The pros tell the kids which side of the court to go to by naming prominent American political figures rather than saying left or right. The kids laugh, but I’m pretty sure most do not know who Elizabeth Warren is.
10:13 am – Snack Time is supposed to be at 10 am, but usually the kids debate for some time who the real winners of the games are based on who they think cheated and if the Pros helped a certain team more than the others. The kids usually eat pretzels, clementines or cheddar popcorn.
Snack Time is the most chaotic 20 minutes of my day. For the first week of camp, Snack Time was fight club. The Pros chose who amongst them would wrestle in front of the kids as they enjoyed their snacks. The first time I witnessed a fight club, the pros chose Robbie to partake. During the week before July 4th, Fergus made a different kid sing the national anthem each day, and they always messed up the words. During the last week of camp, Fergus taught the kids about ethics using confusing metaphors that had nothing to do with tennis. I zoned out too much during the last week to remember much of what he said.
12:00 pm – Camp ends at noon every day, but Robbie and I have to clean up. The rest of the guys go to lunch before us. If they helped us clean, we could all be at lunch by 12:04pm. Instead, it takes Robbie and I about 12 minutes to put everything away.
It is an unstated fact that Robbie and I rush to the ball carts to avoid pushing the one with the broken wheel. More than half of the time, I take the cart with the broken wheel. I try not to look like I’m struggling whenever the cart turns independently.
12:30 pm – My shift in the Pro Shop begins. I take a seat in front of the two-screen monitor that’s always on. A mug in the right corner of the desk is filled with highlighters and a single pen. Sometimes I worry that the one pen will dry out and that I’ll have to write using highlighter. A black phone with a demanding ringtone is on the other corner of the desk. I recognize the phone’s ringtone when I hear it out in the real world. The sound still makes my stomach drop. By my feet, stacks of tennis magazines from the last several years sit covered in dust. The shop is bigger than it needs to be, but there are so many cans of tennis balls, boxes of racquet grips, and stacks of perfectly folded Field Club merchandise packed into every corner, making the shop feel small. There are more clothes than what can fit on the shelves, so we use temporary racks to house last season’s tank tops and quarter zips.
Around 12:30 pm, I eat the lunch I packed for myself—usually leftover pasta or a hastily made turkey sandwich. Sometimes, Fergus will come sit with me. He has long blond hair that sticks in any way it is pushed and stands in a wide stance with bent knees. When he walks, his feet point outwards. The first time I met him, he asked me if I wanted one of his fake vaccination cards. Before I could decline, he reached into his bag and pulled out a stack of at least 300 blank vaccination cards with the CDC seal in the top right corner.
1:22 pm – People leave their kids in the shop while they play or go to their 1:22 pm lunch. They expect me to watch their five-year-olds without telling me they are leaving them in my care. Fifty percent of the kids left in the shop are iPad Kids, and I forget they’re there except for the occasional loud breathing or sound effects from age-inappropriate first-person shooter video games. These kids sit below the tennis and squash racquets that hang on one of the walls. The other half of the kids left in the shop expect me to entertain them.
I played a full-body version of peek-a-boo with a little girl with crazy brown hair and pink glasses that looked like goggles. Two little boys with bowl cuts invented a version of capture the flag where I’m the only one with the flag, and the flag is any item in the shop. Most of the time, I am excited to play these games because they switch up my usually boring day in the Shop. Other times I am exhausted, and when I see kids coming with their parents, I hope that they are the docile iPad Kids.
2:47 pm – Everyday, all the courts are booked for 3:00 pm, and the people who come early look around in the shop. A lot of people only come in to feel the AC rather than buy anything. Most of the time, the shoppers acknowledge my presence and keep to themselves. When clients do need help, they ask me things like: “Do you carry clothes with built-in sunscreen? What about a hat with built-in sunscreen?” or “Do you have any bigger sizes in this shirt? My husband keeps getting bigger.”
The worst thing someone can ask for is shoes. The Backroom where all the inventory is kept smells like body odor. The torso of a naked mannequin is propped up against the corner, and across from it lies a box full of pink tennis balls that are apparently for a special occasion. Different types of hangers cover the floor and crunch when you step on them. I never found the switch to turn on the one light in The Backroom. Slightly discolored cardboard boxes of shoes are stacked from the floor all the way to the ceiling, but there is no stool or ladder to help you retrieve them. The door locks on its own, so you have to put a chair or a stray hanger in its way so that you don’t get stuck inside, which apparently happened to David once. I would’ve liked to have seen it.
4:32 pm – Later in the day the shop gets less busy and so do the courts. The heavy New England heat forces the pros without lessons into the shop. Since there is always someone with a lesson, I get a lot of one-on-one time with the pros during this time of day.
Cameron begins the majority of his sentences with “my girlfriend.” She is a camp counselor somewhere not in the U.S., and he misses her dearly. Her name is Deborah, and he calls her “Deborah the Zebrah” (pronounced “Deh-brah the Zeh-brah” with his South African accent, so it rhymes). This title makes me wonder if I would be okay with a significant other calling me a zebra. Wikus is also from South Africa. He is younger than the other pros and plays tennis for the University of Idaho. He has a round face and swallows his lips when talks. I only ever make small talk with Wikus. I see David the least out of all the pros, though he unofficially leads all the staff. He leans forward with a rounded back when he stands. He has a shy smile but a bold mouth, and he pisses me off at least once a day.
5:40 pm – Although I have to wait 20 more minutes before I can go home, I start cleaning up to subtly signal to customers that they should not not come in. This only works sometimes. I have to vacuum the shop as well as the hallway that leads to other rooms I have never explored. The same group of old men in collared long sleeve shirts sit in leather green lounge chairs in the hallway. They talk about finance things, their time at such and such university, and women’s beach volleyball.
6:00 pm – Now it’s finally time to leave. Or at least it should be. But if Cameron wants to try on new shirts because his are stained with sweat and sunscreen, I have to extend my day at the Field Club a little longer.
Author bio: Elysée is a second-year student studying International and Public Affairs on the Policy and Governance track. In her free time, she loves writing for the Brown Daily Herald, collaging magazine scraps, and remixing proverbs.
Sole Magazine