Court Nine by Pallavi

Court Nine by Pallavi - January 2017 Scholarship Essay

If you need to find me on a Saturday morning, I will be on Court Nine, teaching members of my extended
family how to hit a forehand. As Captain of the Special Populations Tennis League for athletes with intellectual
disabilities, I organize matches, prep athletes, and devise lineups. More importantly, I serve as their coach,
partner, advisor, and friend, helping my pupils with tennis in an oft-bewildering world. I am there every season,
cheering them through coaching sessions, league matches, and celebrations, finishing up each year at the
Georgia Special Olympics together.
I started coaching special needs athletes when I was thirteen. With no prior coaching experience, I had to
teach myself how to assess each athlete’s specific challenges, both on and off the court. John-John suffers from
severe Attention Deficit Hyperactivity Disorder (ADHD), Blake has Down’s Syndrome, and Cole is autistic. On court, their disabilities manifest themselves in unique ways: John-John kept tucking his racket into the
net — creatively utilizing the conveniently shaped holes — to take unscheduled water breaks; Blake made a
beeline for the playground swing set whenever I instructed him to “Swing the racket;” and seven-year-old Cole
wanted his Mommy and only his Mommy. As I taught them, I reordered how I learned to play, trying my best to
analyze how different people absorb information. Factoring in each athlete’s challenges, I created an everchanging
medley of entertaining and comforting coaching techniques. For example, Blake, reluctant to move his
feet, was introduced to the easily remembered concept of “happy feet,” inspiring him to move with energy and
purpose. Similarly, cries of “Stop the ice-cream truck” prompted John-John — a big sherbet fan — to throw out his
hand, fingers splayed, in a Stop gesture, creating proper spacing between his body and the ball. Cole’s personal
favorite, “Kiss your elbow!” encouraged him to swing the racket all the way over his shoulder, thus effectively
managing the direction of the ball.
Although I had learned how to communicate with my students, I wanted to find ways to truly connect with
them. On one particularly scorching Saturday, Cole had just abandoned volley drills for the fifth time in ten minutes
to gaze at his mom’s phone. Jogging over to retrieve him, I caught a glimpse of the furry, squashed-nose animal
on the screen. “Do you have a pug?” Cole, for the first time since I met him, responded with enthusiasm:
“Pugspugspugs!!” I immediately showed him pictures of my Border Collie, Bella, and promised to bring her to our
end-of-season party (although she is admittedly a larger substitute). Winning John-John’s trust was more difficult,
but after four months of patient encouragement, Skittles rewards and promises of overgrown lawns to mow (lawn
mowing is John- John’s hobby; he is a very practical child), he remained on the court for more than half an hour.
Three and a half years later, John-John cannot wait to give me a hug at the end of every session. Even taciturn
Blake ran to greet me at a chance encounter at Publix supermarket.
I have been deeply honored to coach my students to Special Olympic heights these past summers. I have
watched Cole demonstrate his victory moonwalk, helped Blake make sense of an inexplicable defeat, and had
John-John demand a picture together. I learned from them that simple joys are important; in a whirl of grades,
tests, and high-school competition, being eagerly greeted every Saturday morning by bright, excited kids matters.
They have accepted a hormonal adolescent into their weekly routine sweetly and simply; they have become my
family.