COLUMN What About Bob?

Author: Bob Wainwright

Welcome back everyone! Did you have a good summer? Good.
Oh, thanks. Yup, mine was great, too. Well, it was good seeing you. I'm sure I'll see you around. Where are you living again? Oh, cool. Well, I'm living on the other side of campus this year, but I'm planning on being over there all the time.
OK, see you later, and tell your buddy I said hi.
Sorry folks, it's just that we're two weeks into the school year already and there are still a lot of people with whom I have not had the above meaningless conversation. So I thought I'd take care of all of them in one fell swoop. I mean dispatch. No, I take that back. I had it right the first time.
Anyway, I can't believe it's senior year already. Time really flies by. It seems like only yesterday that I was writing my first "What About Bob" as Features editor of The Campus. So much has changed since then. For instance, here I am three years later, writing a column as Features editor of The Campus. Hmmm That's called moving up in the world, people!
Another thing that hasn't changed all that much in the last few years is my summer job. I still teach kids tennis for three months of the year, and even though I always think each summer will be my last, I wouldn't be surprised if I go back next summer too. Why? Well, probably because I won't be able to find a job before then.
But I enjoy teaching kids, too. One thing I know I'll never have to worry about with kids in tennis camp is having the type of conversation that opened this column. They have no time for such baloney. Basically, any kid under the age of ten will always tell you what's on his or her mind, no matter what the consequences.
For instance, I might tell a six-year-old's mom, "Mrs. Ryan, your son is a natural tennis player, a real pleasure to teach."
Then Mrs. Ryan says, "Oh, that's so good to hear, Bobby. I was actually rather worried because his gym teacher back at school had to sit Eddie out during dodge ball because he kept getting hit in the head, and they were worried that the constant stream of foam balls against his cranium would lead to medical problems."
Then I say, "Nope, nothing like that to worry about. I think Eddie was made to be a tennis player with his hand-eye coordination."
And finally Eddie exclaims, "But Bobby, you said the day I make contact will be the day you win the U.S. Open! Rember?"
One of my favorite parts of camp every week was Wednesday afternoon, when I would run tournaments for all 100 kids. Inevitably after the first round, however, I would be swamped by kids demanding to know if they would be able to play in the consolation round.
Having played the majority of my tennis matches here at Middlebury in consolation rounds, I've always believed in giving the losers another shot, but I must admit that my motivation also stems from the way every child manages to butcher the word. Usually, kids ask me about their constellation match.
But one day, a four-year-old, who could never seem to make it to the bathroom on time, jumped up and down in front of me yelling about his constipation match. And a very serious young boy once told me, "Bobby, I'm worried about who I'm playing in my consternation match."
Generally, one of the greatest aspects of teaching kids is that they naturally look up to you. To them, I am a grown up. A grown-up who doesn't tell them to brush their teeth, clean their rooms and go to bed. I'm fun, and can do no wrong.
But then again, there is almost always a kid like Luke Lifson, a six-year-old boy wise beyond his years, and unafraid to let others in on the truth too. One day, a boy named Daniel was questioning me relentlessly. "Are you older than my dad?" "No." "Are you older than my mom?" "No." "Are you married?" "No." "Girlfriend?" "None of your business." "Are you one of the best tennis players in the world?" "That's nice of you to say."
It was a wonderful conversation until little Luke Lifson decided to speak his mind. He said, "Don't be stupid, Bobby's still a kid. That's why he acts like one. And he doesn't have a girlfriend. AND, he's not very good at tennis. Yesterday, in the demonstration he missed four forehands in a row, and they were so easy! He can't do anything right."
Needless to say, Luke spent the next 10 minutes running laps and doing pushups. But the damage was done. The other boy never asked me another question with the exception of one: "Bobby, if you wanted a girlfriend, do you think you could get one?"