East of Innocence by David Thorne Page B

real life; so I finish my breakfast, pack my rackets and head for the courts. It is cooler this morning with a breeze that feels like a reassuring murmur on my skin, and in the summer light the events of the last days feel distant, unreal. As I step between the high hedges that surround the club, I get the feeling that I have always had walking on to the courts; that ordinary life is far away, and that nothing matters now except for the geometry of the game, the trajectory of the balls, positions of the players, angles of approach. It is a simple and fine feeling, and I would not exchange it for anything.
    At the court, the juniors are dutifully lined up against the fence outside the courts, waiting to be invited in. They are dressed mostly in white, their parents gatheredaround the picnic tables outside the clubhouse, raised eyebrows nodding encouragement to their skinny children who, they hope, will be Britain’s next great hope for an Open victory. I enjoy these mornings, coaching young people who believe anything is possible, who have not yet been corrupted by the real world outside the false lines and rules of a tennis court.
    ‘Morning, young man,’ says George. He takes the youngest group, his legs being, he claims, ‘absolutely buggered’. He has an instant rapport with the kids, which I do not; they love him, they are a little scared of me. Not that I am a tyrant, but I give praise sparingly and am critical when I see a child playing a lazy stroke I know he or she can hit sweetly. Perhaps I take it too seriously. But when I do praise a child’s shot their face will light up like they’re blowing out their birthday candles, so I guess I am not doing anything too wrong.
    I am helped every week by Maria, a tall, dark lady who is a teacher at the local primary school and who represented Essex until university took her away to the North East for five years. She is lively, irreverent, and she always lingers in my mind for some time after the end of the lessons. She is far, far too good for me.
    ‘Oh,’ she says, looking at me with concern and dropping her racket bag. She is a knockout in a white skirt. ‘Did Daniel climb out of the wrong side of bed this morning?’ I shake my head, trying not to smile, failing. ‘Seven,’ she says, her head cocked as she scrutinises me. ‘Out of ten. Your hangover. Am I right?’
    ‘No hangover,’ I say.
    ‘Just not quite your normal sunny self.’ She nods. ‘Uhhuh. Just do what I do. Take it out on the kids.’ She steps in close, whispers. ‘They’re more resilient than they look.’
    We split the kids into two groups, one group per court, and each play a revolving rally; two lines of children queue on each side of the net and after each kid hits a shot they scoot round the other side, join the other queue, wait for their turn again. If they miss a shot they leave the rally. It is amazing how peer pressure and the fear of humiliation can improve a seven-year-old’s ground strokes. We move on to drills, volleys, and finish, as always, by warming up their serves. No match play; my tennis club does not believe in forcing competition at too young an age. My instincts tell me that this is wrong but every other country does the same and their tennis players win Grand Slams, so I am happy to keep my opinion to myself. By the end, the children are tired but happy; I invite them into a huddle and tell them that they have done well and that they should remember that it’s not how hard you can hit the ball, it’s where you can hit it and how consistently. They look at me with big eyes, nod seriously as if I’m the keeper of some mystical truth. How can some people take that kind of trust and abuse it?
     
    After the kids leave, their parents full of praise for the shots they have witnessed, the effort their child put in, I sit on my own in the sun drinking a Coke. They are lucky, these children; many others could never have dreamed of such affection, of such interest being