So I’m on a tennis court, trying to improve my game. The Catskill mountains tower over the clay surface, their inanimate majesty making a mockery of my all-too-human effort at athleticism. I’ve traveled 100 miles from my home in Brooklyn to a rather Spartan facility called Total Tennis for a four-day stay. Guests take five hours of lessons a day. Then, after those five hours are over, you can play in various mini-tournaments. I’ve never exercised this much in my life. I’m as dazed as if I had eaten dessert nonstop for five hours. Over the hours, I’ve learned some things that I never figured out in all my 30 years of playing very, very poor tennis. For example, I didn’t know you should stand sideways when you hit a ball. Nor did I know I was supposed to watch the ball as I hit it. My playing has improved dramatically just from those two tips. This is basic stuff. Tennis 101. Why didn’t I know it before? Somebody must have told me, and I forgot. But wait, there’s more. Swing through the ball. Hit the ball rising. On a serve, act like you’re going to throw your racket. Toss the ball at 1 o’clock when you’re serving. Hold the racket with your other hand before a backhand swing to force your shoulders to turn. The instructions pile up. In a matter of a second or two, you’re supposed to be able to think about and execute four or five separate moves and actions. How can I possibly do all this? How can I keep all these commands in mind? It’s too hard, too complicated. This is utterly beyond me. I can’t imagine how anybody can manage it. Then it hits me: I’m stupid. This is what being stupid feels like. I don’t have a particularly high opinion of myself, but I do have a certain facility when it comes to facts and ideas. I can read Russian novels and keep the names of dozens of characters straight. I can do division in my head. I get cultural and political references, can toss back a quip in response to a witticism. But if I’m swinging a tennis racquet or trying to play outfield in softball, I’m always a beat behind. I run for the ball a little late. I react far more slowly than I would if, say, the thing being thrown at me were a question about who directed Gone With the Wind. And when it comes to hitting a tennis ball where I want it to go or throwing a softball to the catcher or second baseman, my aim just isn’t true. It has ever been thus. As a kid in Manhattan, I played schoolyard basketball almost obsessively, every day, for years. I could pass the ball and dribble okay, but my shooting was entirely hit and miss. If effort and time expended had been enough, I would have become a terrific basketball player. Instead, I rose to a level of profound mediocrity and remained there. Fine. I’m no athlete. I’ve understood that for years. But what I’ve realized here at Total Tennis is that being an athlete isn’t simply a matter of having better eyesight or quick reflexes. It goes far beyond that. Athletes possess a distinctive kind of intelligence. We’ve all learned in the past decade or so from the work of Daniel Goleman, among others, that there is a quality known as “emotional intelligence” — which is the ability to understand emotions the way intellectuals understand ideas. But no one ever talks about “physical intelligence.” The physically intelligent are able to react to their surroundings and to subtle changes in those surroundings with effortless speed. They can do that because they can see and sense a tennis court or a baseball diamond from a variety of perspectives without even knowing they’re doing it. The physically intelligent can see where the tennis ball is, where the opponent’s racquet is aiming it, even the way the wind will work on the ball — all before the other guy has even made contact. I’m pleased that my time at tennis camp has made me a better player. But after four days of play, I know that I will always lack physical intelligence, and that I will have to make do as best I can without it. I can only hope that if I find myself playing against someone who is more physically intelligent than I, he will have more patience with me than I’ve had betimes with those who don’t know that Victor Fleming directed Gone With the Wind or who the brothers Karamazov are.
