The Tennis Lesson

Not everything has to be about profit margin. I first learned that lesson on a dusty public tennis court in Rocky Hill Connecticut where Dad used to drive 25 miles to give a tennis lesson. It was 1978 when he coached and taught at University of Hartford and these lessons were a way to help make ends meet. I was 7 and he’d tote me along to retrieve balls with my wooden Bancroft, then put them in the hopper. He got $10 for the 1-hour lesson. On the way back, he’d fill up the Chevy Scotter with $5, then we’d stop at Gil’s for a couple cinnamon crullers, a coffee and a grape soda. Pound for pound, the cinnamon cruller was the best doughnut, for sure, even if it’d sit with you for a couple days. That was $2.50 and he’d tip Angela the waitress a few bucks and ask about her kids. “You lost your $10 dad – it’s all gone.” He turned to me and shrugged – yeah I guess you’re right but it sure was a good lesson today, and that doughnut was worth every bite. As margins go, this was pretty poor I suppose. But as lessons go…