Yesterday’s post introduced the idea that in tennis, we sometimes tell “little white lies” to our doubles partners. That post covered phrases intended to build and support emotional stability during a match. Today, we are moving into a slightly different category that has less to do with reassurance and is much more about quickly managing the chaos of highly dynamic points.
One of the phrases I say most frequently on a doubles court is “I’m here.” In fact, when playing with a new partner, the definition of that is generally a part of my pre-match “getting to know each other” talk. When I say “I’m here,” I am not calling for the ball, but rather telling my partner that I am an option. It means that if they feel like they have a good shot, they should take it. If they don’t, I have it covered. Theoretically.
“I’m here” should never be confused with me actually calling for the ball. The way I express that is with “Me! Me! Me!” It is a phrase that is easier for me to say more quickly and clearly than the more popular “Mine.” It works great, except for one time when I partnered up in a Combo League with a player named “Mimi,” when confusion and hilarity ensued.
In my matches, “I’m here” occurs most frequently when a lob is sent over my partner’s head that they can possibly awkwardly reach. In those moments, I will shout that phrase while charging toward the ball with tremendous confidence. Every once in a while, that turns out to be a lie. My partner lets the ball go, and I fail to make an effective play on it. The interesting part is that I still think that type of communication is usually correct, even when it fails.
Doubles is fundamentally a game of dynamic uncertainty. With two players covering the court, there are a lot of balls that either partner can reach. At the same time, the angles of that discipline can create unhinged points where players find themselves in chaotic scrambles. Doubles players are forced to make cooperative decisions where certainty cannot exist. In that environment, hesitation is often worse than decisive commitment.
That reality creates a strange communication environment where doubles players frequently make confident declarations about situations that have not yet been fully resolved. “Mine.” “Switch.” “Go.” “Leave it.” These statements are attempts to simplify ambiguity fast enough for two people to function as a coordinated system under pressure. Perfect accuracy is not always possible in those moments.
If two players hesitate simultaneously, the point is often immediately lost. If both pursue the same ball indecisively, they may find themselves standing face to face, each within striking distance of the ball as it passes between them. Decisive communication prevents that.
The fascinating part is that the declaration itself can absolutely improve the ensuing point development. Once one partner confidently claims the ball, the other can immediately shift into better court positioning rather than continuing to hesitate with uncertainty. The team becomes coordinated, even if the original declaration ultimately turns out to be slightly optimistic or flat-out wrong.
That optimism occasionally collides with physical reality. As I age, I am experiencing more and more moments where I confidently announce “I’m here,” only to suddenly realize I have materially overestimated both my closing speed and the geometry of the situation. Even when that happens, I still think the partnership usually benefits more from decisive intent than from mutual hesitation.
As I play more doubles, the more I realize that successful partnerships depend heavily on shared interpretations formed under incomplete information. Sometimes those interpretations are perfectly accurate. Sometimes they are optimistic approximations delivered with excessive confidence. Either way, doubles rewards commitment long before certainty arrives.
Occasionally, despite my pledge that “I’m here,” sometimes I am not. In that case, I didn’t intend to mislead them. Rather, I made a commitment my body couldn’t fulfill. It is still a little white lie.
