July is the month we say goodbye to writers who are retiring or moving on to new adventures, and this is Klaas’s last post. He has been writing with us since August 2020.

In my audition submission for the post calvin, I wrote about my high school tennis-related habits, on- and off-court. On the court, where the meaning of a given point can suddenly reveal itself within its greater context—a game, a set, a match, a life—I turned these habits into rituals of religious importance, aimed at soothing an anxious soul.

One of the cardinal rules in my canon had to do with how I bounced the ball before my serve. Like the great server John Isner, I liked to bounce the ball between my legs, back-to-front. (Hand bounces ball to racquet, racquet bounces ball back to hand. Bum, ba-bum.) It was of the utmost importance that I bounced the ball this way twice before serving to the deuce side, and once before serving to the ad.

Now, things are a bit different for me. The difference between serving deuce and ad has little to do with what ritual is required, and everything to do with what approach will help me win the point.

When I serve in the ad court, options open up for me. As a lefty, I have the advantage of three choices for making life hard on my opponent. The first choice is a flat serve, the most powerful of the three. Though I’m definitely not crushing the ball like a pro, I can hit it with enough pace to make it tough for my opponent to get in good positioning. This is usually the only serve that becomes an ace, and it’s usually because my righty opponent is expecting a serve out wide to their backhand. I open my grip up a bit, toss the ball slightly further out in front, and crack it straight down the middle of the court. If I’m lucky, the ball lands somewhere near the center line as my opponent’s momentum is moving in the opposite direction. This is a lower-percentage serve, so I often use it earlier in the match when I’m trying to play aggressively and build some positive momentum.

The second is a spin serve which, because of the angle of my racquet in relation to the service box, hooks wide with sidespin, pulling my opponent off the court. I toss the ball slightly to my left, slicing across the side of it from 3 o’clock to 9 o’clock (to use the image of a clock face). I hit this serve especially when my energy is low late in a match, and I want a quick point. Ideally, my opponent hits their return from the doubles alley, which means I can safely hit my second shot into the deuce court and follow it into the net.

The third is a kick serve, which is my oldest and most reliable. I toss the ball slightly behind me and explode upward into the ball. My grippy polyester strings bite deep into the fuzz, sending it on an arc toward the far side of the service box. The ball, spinning from 5 o’clock to 11 o’clock, bounces towards my opponent’s body (the opposite direction as from a righty) and forces an awkward return that I can attack.

In the past two years since I returned to tennis, it has become for me a joyful mental and physical challenge. The point is, well, the point. Of course, I still observe some of the old canon. To relax your mind and rely on muscle memory, it’s still helpful to have a ritual. But I’m far less pharisaical than before. “The Sabbath was made for man, not man for the Sabbath.” The bum, ba-bum rhythm of my between-the-legs ball bounces is not significant in and of itself, but in its ability to help me channel the confidence of a 6’10” servebot.

The dimensions of a tennis court—seventy-eight feet long, thirty-six feet wide—are universal. A ball that is in in Michigan would be in in New York, in Calcutta, in Shanghai, in Rome. And like the rituals that happen at the margins of a tennis court, the specifications are not the point. The boundaries act in service of the challenge, the joy, the gift that takes place within them. And not the other way around.

Klaas Walhout

Klaas Walhout graduated from Calvin in 2016 with majors in philosophy and religion. After five years on the East Coast, he now lives in Grand Rapids, where he spends his days (and sometimes nights) working as a hospital chaplain.