Nobody should do this in daylight. Stencilling a string bed is a job for the quiet hours: the racquet flat on a table, one lamp directly overhead, the rest of the house asleep. This is the A Type card, sized for racquets between 90 and 99 square inches, which is the control end of the rack — a 95, a 97, a 98.
Lay it on a 105 and the logo sits stranded in the middle of the bed looking undersized, so match the card to the head size or leave the job alone.
The method matters more than the tool. Set the card on the strings, line the centre of the logo to the centre of the bed, and hold it absolutely still, because drift is the entire failure mode of this job.
Work the ink in with short strokes rather than one long confident sweep, keep it off the frame and the grommets, lift the card straight up instead of sliding it sideways, then walk away and let it dry properly before it ever meets a ball. And note what is in your hand: this is the card only.
The stencil ink is a separate purchase in its own colours, and reaching for an ordinary marker instead is how people end up with a grey smear that never fully leaves.
Lichfield understands the night shift. This is the only medieval cathedral in England left with three spires, and the Ladies of the Vale are better met at midnight from across Stowe Pool than at any hour a guidebook recommends: three shapes lit from below, doubled in flat water, and no one else out.
The Close around them is still ringed by its fortified precinct, which is why the quiet inside it is a different quality of quiet from the street — you hear your own steps come back off the wall. I have done a great many hours in that stillness.
It is exactly the stillness this job wants.
Do it at midnight, on a flat table, under one lamp, and it will look like it came from the factory.
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