If there’s one thing I’ve learned after years on the court with young athletes, it’s this: kids aren’t prototypes. They’re not built in labs, they don’t follow blueprints, and they certainly don’t need to be engineered into some ideal version of “perfect” technique. But somewhere along the way—maybe in the endless scroll of Instagram slow-mos or YouTube tutorials—we started convincing ourselves that a junior player’s value lies in how close they can look to the pros. A grip that’s slightly off? Must be fixed. A follow-through that’s different? Problem. A stance that doesn’t match textbook form? Time to panic.
Let’s pause right there.
There are only three good reasons to make a technical change: ineffective motor patterns (your child literally can’t make the shot), inefficiency in gameplay (fine in drills, but unreliable in matches), or risk of injury (like a serve that’s straining the shoulder). That’s it. Everything else? It might just be part of their unique way of figuring things out—and we’d be wise not to rush in and “correct” it.
Because here’s what we tend to forget: growth isn’t linear, and neither is learning. Kids grow into their bodies at different paces. Their coordination comes in waves. And what looks weird to us on the sidelines might be their brain and body solving problems in real-time. That funky grip might be helping them find spin. That off-balance stance might be them adjusting to a growth spurt. Their technique might not be pretty yet—but it might be working.
When we jump in with well-meaning “fixes,” we often do more harm than good. I’ve seen players lose confidence in a shot they used to own, simply because someone told them it didn’t look right. I’ve seen technically “perfect” players freeze in matches, afraid to improvise or make a mistake. That’s not tennis. That’s performance anxiety dressed up as coaching.
And the consequences go beyond the stroke itself. When we overload kids with constant corrections—rotate more, swing faster, finish higher—we teach them to distrust their instincts. Their bodies stop learning. Their minds get noisy. They stop playing and start performing. And that’s when the joy starts to disappear.
Here’s what I want parents to hear: technique matters, but only in context. The role of a good coach isn’t to mold every player into a carbon copy—it’s to help them build a game that works under pressure, that holds up physically, and that feels like their own. That means knowing when to guide, and when to get out of the way.
So when you’re watching your child play and something looks “off,” ask yourself: is this hurting their performance, or just challenging my expectations? Are they struggling, or are they simply doing things differently? And most importantly—are they enjoying the process?
Some of the most successful players I’ve worked with had techniques that raised eyebrows. But they thrived in competition. They adjusted on the fly, handled unpredictable moments with clarity, and didn’t second-guess themselves every time they missed. Their games weren’t always polished—but they were effective. And that’s what counts.
The goal isn’t to raise a robot with a flawless swing. It’s to develop a player who trusts their instincts, solves problems on the fly, and loves the game deeply enough to stay with it for the long haul.
Let the quirks breathe. Let the technique evolve in its own time. And remember: the best players in the world didn’t all grow up with perfect strokes—they grew up believing their game was worth building, even when it didn’t look like anyone else’s.
