System-9 tennis

Sunday Stories…

When I served in Northern Ireland, I spent half my life in the hangar squash courts hitting sponge balls against the wall like some budget version of Wimbledon. That hangar was everything: where we lived, worked, trained, partied, and ate… usually in that order.

Every now and then I’d wander over to the RAF base to play on their courts with the Saturday and Sunday lads (real names unknown, identities questionable, tennis enthusiasm high). A couple of them were actually decent; others wanted coaching as a new hobby.

And that’s where it all began. My coaching journey started on a derelict tennis court in Aldergrove, surrounded by fences that had definitely seen better decades. Little did I know that those dodgy courts would eventually turn into a full‑blown career.

Of course, Northern Ireland being Northern Ireland, the angels had to earn their overtime with me.

On my first airport run alone, I somehow picked up a tail. I turned off the main road thinking they’d carry on… but no. They followed. Round a roundabout… still there. Into a housing estate… still there. At this point, the nerves were doing laps.

I had a handgun on me, standard issue, not a fashion choice and when I reached a garage with a field behind it, I genuinely had to decide whether I was about to sprint across farmland like a Poundland Jason Bourne. I placed the pistol in my lap, took a breath, and kept driving.

Eventually, after circling the garages like a confused delivery driver, I lost them. The only problem? I had absolutely no idea where I was. Satnavs weren’t a thing back then, so I had to radio in like a lost child at a supermarket.

Eventually, I found the airport, made it back to base, and naturally headed straight to the squash court to bash a sponge ball against the wall.

Ready to live another tennis day.

Tune in at 9 am on Sunday for the next fascinating story on my way to becoming a global tennis coach.
To shoot or not to shoot that was the question!

Nobody warned you that tennis coaching was broken. So I’ll show you.

For years, the same tired drills have been passed around like family heirlooms. Players stay the same. Coaches run themselves into the ground. And everyone pretends it’s normal.

System‑9 was born the moment we stopped accepting “that’s just how it’s done” as an answer.

We’re a CPD‑accredited framework built on one simple belief: development should be intentional, measurable, and actually transform people, players, clubs and coaches.

All month, we’re pulling the curtain back on what real coaching looks like, the stuff that actually moves the needle.
Follow along. Take notes. Steal the lot.

Every player loves a target to hit whether for fun, for pressure, or for purpose. Those bright cones aren’t just markers; they’re magnets for focus, chaos, and laughter. Whether it’s a rally challenge, a precision test, or a last‑ball‑wins showdown, the moment a cone becomes the goal, everything changes. That’s where learning hides inside the chase, the aim, and the grin that follows the imperfect hit.

We all have that one player who made us grab a racket and think, “Yep… I’m doing this.” 😅

Maybe it was Federer’s effortless grace, Serena’s power, Agassi’s attitude, or McEnroe’s… volume.
For some, it was watching Steffi Graf glide across the court like she owned it. For others, it was Nadal’s never‑say‑die grit or Connors’ fire that lit the spark.

Tennis has a way of pulling us in one forehand, one rally, one legend at a time.
So let’s hear it 👇 Which player made you fall in love with tennis?

The French Open has started!

Every tournament has a vibe:

Wimbledon = posh.
US Open = loud.
Roland Garros = dramatic.
Australian Open = dehydrated.

Which one is your favourite?

Sunday Stories…

Every Sunday i will tell a story from my lifetime so far, could be tennis, could be army, could even be funny!





Everywhere I went during my nine years in the Army, my tennis racket came with me like some sort of emotional support equipment. If I couldn’t take it, I’d just buy a new one wherever I landed, priorities, right?

The only place tennis didn’t happen was Iraq… although I did end up playing volleyball every day, and honestly, the serve felt close enough. If you squinted hard enough, it was basically Wimbledon with sand.

I’m still not convinced I ever took the Army as seriously as the Army took me. I could run 4.5‑minute miles, was ridiculously fit, played tennis whenever possible, travelled the world, and drank like 'hydration' was a competitive sport.

Despite being in a war zone, I somehow found an Iraqi truck stop that sold us crates of beer for dollar bills. This became a regular thing until one day, “for being a good customer,” we were invited into the back to pick out some Rolex watches as gifts.

To this day, I genuinely cannot remember whether I was armed or just armed with stupidity… but it didn’t take long for me to jump back in the jeep and bug out before I ended up drinking crude oil in some underground dungeon.

All was well in the end. I went back to volleyball, the landscapes were incredible, and I carried on surviving the Army in my own unique way of one serve, one sandstorm, and one questionable life choice at a time.

SUNDAY STORIES — YOU DON’T WANT TO MISS THIS





Every Sunday, I’m dropping a story from somewhere in my lifetime so far, Tennis… Army… Chaos… Comedy… or all of the above in one go.

These are the moments that shaped me, broke me, rebuilt me, and occasionally made me question my own life choices. If you like real stories, raw honesty, and a bit of “how on earth did that happen?” you’ll want to be here.

Next one drops at 9AM UK time.
Bring your coffee. Bring your curiosity. Bring your sense of humour.

See you Sunday.

Most points end in four shots. Fix the serve. Fix the return. The rest is just noise.

Most points end in four shots. Yet we spend half the session grooving forehands like it’s a beauty contest. The truth? If players can serve with intent and return with purpose, rallies take care of themselves.
It’s not about hitting more balls, it’s about hitting the right ones.