From  the very beginning, I was destined to be one of the world¹s greatest  tennis players.  And I would have been had it not been for the country club pro who never fully realized the breadth of my talents.  Instead of polishing me to greatness, he dutifully ministered bi-weekly clinic drills, unwittingly exiling me and 20 other kids to mediocrity.  
    Obsessed by recurring visions of me and doubles partner Jimmy Connors planning our tie-breaking strategy at the U.S. Open, I spent my childhood summers and after-school hours with an oversized green and yellow ball machine  that, without regard for my aspirations, mindlessly spewed its inventory.  Its contents emptied, I would dutifully pack my bag and go  home.   
    As the years passed, my game improved considerably.  In fact, at age 45, I had earned a small reputation as an "A" player among  my club peers.  But haunted by the missed opportunities of my youth, I  could never be satisfied.  
    One day, while watching my neighbor¹s valiant (though unsuccessful) attempts to out-pace the ball machine, I  knew my time had come.  It was time for me to pursue my potential.  It was time for me to enroll in TENNIS CAMP.  
    Finding one that would also appease my taste for luxury wouldn¹t be easy, but armed with Tennis Magazine¹s Top 50 Tennis Resorts, I was confident.
    Choosing  one was a daunting task, hindered by the precept I had established in  my youth; any "good" tennis camp that would elevate my level of play had  to have a big name attached to it, like Nick Bollettieri or Harry  Hopman.  Anything else was second rate.  I couldn¹t have been more wrong.  
    After studying the list, I narrowed my selection based on resort design,  range of tennis packages (clinics, private instruction, etc.).  atmosphere and amenities.  Southern California¹s Rancho Valecia and La Quinta resorts were particularly inviting, but the lure of 100-persent  improvement ­combined with the proximity of Florida¹s west coast ­ had  me packing for an academy in Naples Florida.
    One week later I  arrived, greeted by the resort¹s deliciously manicured lawns, spanking  white clubhouse and Old Florida-style condominiums.  Tucked within my  guest packet was an itinerary which included my appointment the next  morning with Academy Director David Crouch.  As I dozed off to sleep that  night I wondered about the days ahead, the lost days of my youth and  Coach Crouch.  
    Friday morning was as perfect as the weatherman had  predicted.  I took it as a good omen.  Many really great things had  happened to me on days such as this.  Anxious and feeling especially  limber, I reported for class which began court side with a modest spread  of light breakfast fare.  Thankfully, the Academy¹s six courts were sectioned off from those used by residents and guests.  I appreciated  the privacy.  I sipped my coffee (caffeinated) and nibbled on the poppy seed muffins that were offered.  I had two, not knowing how much fortification I would need in the hours ahead. 
    "You must be  Frank," announced the man who had approached me, his hand  outstretched.  "You must be Dave," I replied cheerfully as I shook his  hand, concealing a sudden fear that he might be the son of my former ball machine instructor.  I took a deep breath and followed him into the  classroom where I met my three classmates:  two high school seniors  from Maine on spring break, and a woman in her 30s, who didn¹t look like a tennis player.  
   The 15-hour, four-day clinic began with a  multiple choice, 46 question assessment exam.  As I looked through the  windows outside to the empty courts, I resented the academics.  Tennis was physical.  Didn¹t he know that?  Visions of the ball machine danced through my head.  I smirked, half-cocky, half-worried.  
    Our  exams completed, Dave began his lecture:  "Do you want to improve your  game or do you want to hit ball after ball, sweat a lot and generally  wish you were dead?"  Sensing it was a trick question, I voted for the  former.  It was unanimous.  We eagerly listened for the next hour to  this stranger, who, in the early 80s, was ranked 8th in the state of  Colorado.  What kept him from greatness?  Not knowing that tennis was  half physical, half mental.  I began feeling sorry for the guy ­ but  that would soon change.  We adjourned to the court where I was looking  forward to impressing Dave with my backhand ­ sure that he would  recognize me as the dark horse that I had fancied myself.  But instead,  he divided the class into two teams for a seemingly mindless game of  tapping the ball back and forth over the net.  We all laughed and smirked and missed, quite a few.  My backhand would have to wait.
   Thirty  minutes, later, this simple bounce-tap-bounce exercise revealed Dave¹s  first rule: "consistency, concentration and control are the cornerstones  of great tennis. Master the moment and you master the game," he  triumphed.
   No one was smirking. Not even the kids from Maine.
   As if to cheer us on, Dave added, "This technique is used by Billie Jean  King." I don¹t think I was alone in thinking that Dave might be lying.  This exercise would be repeated at the on set of each subsequent  session.  Its value was slow to be proven or appreciated. Next we moved  on to stroke production and another of Dave¹s rules:  "There are two  essentials to hitting a perfect stroke.  One, contact with the ball must  be made while the ball is in front of you.  And two, hit the ball as if  it was part of a linear sequence of four balls."  Sounds simple, I  thought.
   After one hour of tries and misses, Dave¹s methodology rang clear.  Physical prowess was only half of the tennis equation. Albeit impressive, the flamboyant strokes that I had developed over the years were far less effective than I had imagined.  By honing the elements of a given stroke, I could economize my  movements and thus cull greater accuracy.  I was beginning to like Dave.
   In the following days, each stroke would be dissected and analyzed in the same fashion: silly exercises would miraculously reveal what had plagued me all my playing years. I was delighted! Ironically, the psychological effect of these drills was harder to digest ­each one slowly and systematically challenging my  confidence, and my faith in Dave.
        We broke for lunch, minus the appetite I had imagined to have.  No need to have eaten the extra muffin.
   We  regrouped in the afternoon and began with the bounce-tap-bounce  exercise followed by a practical application of the strokes we had  learned just hours before.  When my turn came, I was ready, having  mentally rehearsed every one of Dave¹s rules.  As the ball approached I  poised myself for the perfect return; the one that would secure my place  at the top of the class.  Instead, the ball went deep - sailing past the only person I had hoped to please.  I watched my classmates execute a comical assortment of errors, each time critiqued by Mister Compassion.
   As  if this weren¹t enough, Dave disappeared and returned with his video  camera.  Great!  He wants to tape us!  But the ploy was enlisted purely to reveal our collective faux pas ­ in case we had forgotten them.  The  emotionally grueling afternoon session ended with a viewing of this incriminating documentation.  I began to hate Dave.
   Class was  adjourned, reconvening on more familiar turf in the resort¹s bar where we swapped impressions about the preceding hours.  The two kids, who  weren¹t of age, trailed off to a social connection of their own.   Valerie, a 38-yearold investment banker from the Big Apple, had come  to the resort to improve her game.  We shared a similar skepticism but  agreed that any conclusions about the program might be premature.
   Dave¹s  arrival in the bar couldn¹t have been better timed. Sensing our  frustration, he took the opportunity to explain the program ­ which was  born of his own frustration.  "If I knew then what I know now, I would  be on tour rubbing elbows with Jim Courier."  I was ashamed of myself  for thinking that Dave¹s misfortune was quickly becoming our good  fortune.
   The next day, after having completed our bounce-tap-bounce ritual, Dave counseled us in the elements of concentration. "Without it, you don¹t have a game.  Regardless of strength, speed, agility or accuracy, concentration is vital and must be practiced with diligence."
   Armed  with renewed confidence, we went through a series of drills ­ each  underscoring the lessons of the previous day.  As a group, we performed  quite well, skillfully returning each ball with a minimum of errors.  In  fact, we performed so well that Dave agreed to a one-on-one game with  each of us ­ handicapped by playing us left handed.  Confident but skeptical, I took my place at the baseline.  Nine minutes later, the  score was Dave-seven, Frank-three and he hardly hit the ball.  I never knew humiliation could sting so badly.  Dave smiled.  I didn¹t.  My only redemption was that I eked  out more points than anyone else, including the kids.  The lesson "we all needed to stop playing at the level we wished we can play at where we make unforced error after error and start playing at our real level." The point was taken.  Dave had finally won over our respect.
   The next day began with "the ritual" followed by a series of intense drills and matches during which we each had an opportunity to exercise our new-found techniques ­and focus.  We were now ready for graduation ­one last chance to impress Dave!
   The fast-paced rotation consisted of a six ball drill (forehand, backhand, approach shot, two volleys  and overhead).  We were outstanding.  Unfortunately, the video camera had been neatly tucked away.
   As I left the resort that afternoon, I  glanced past the sweep of tennis courts, ­my eye caught by a man much younger than I, breathlessly battling the ball machine.  I slowed to watch him; a reminiscent image of myself that seemed like eons ago.  As I  headed for the gate I smiled to myself.  I thought of the shots I had made and missed and never knew why.  I thought of those long walks home. And I thought of Dave.

Camp Wannabee won a Best Sport's Article Award