I love tennis and have played on and off my entire adult life. If I have a "claim to fame" on the court, it’s the staggering, almost comical difference in speed between my first and second serves. My first serve was always incredibly hard—a raw, high-velocity strike. My second serve, by contrast, was a gentle "putt" over the net, the kind of shot you’d expect from a 90-year-old grandmother on a Zimmer frame.
During my time in the UK, I attended a professional tennis coaching camp. They used a speed-tracking machine to monitor our serves and provide data-driven advice. When it was my turn to step up to the line, I unleashed my first serve with everything I had.
The coaches were stunned. They checked the monitor and told me, with no small amount of awe, that it was the hardest serve they had measured in five years. I stood there, glowing with pride, basking in the glory of being the camp’s unofficial speed king.
Then came the "but."
"Graeme," they continued, looking at the rest of the data, "your percentage of serves actually landing in the court is the lowest we have ever recorded. Our professional advice to you is to stop using that serve entirely. Just use the granny serve."
I had achieved the pinnacle of power, only to be told that my record-breaking thunderbolt was statistically less useful than a Zimmer-frame lob. It was a humbling lesson in the difference between "impressive" and "effective"—and a reminder that in tennis, as in life, it doesn't matter how fast you're going if you aren't actually on the map.
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