THE tennis court down the road is often baron, a torn net blowing in the breeze as tumbleweeds blow across the odd anthill which has risen above the concrete.
This time of year, Logan’s ants run for cover as people dust off their rackets and head to the park’s courts for an Australian Open-inspired hit.
Some still have the crease in the shirt they bought especially for the occasion. The sun shines from their new Nikes. And might I suggest that new shorts, gentlemen, are best bought a size bigger than your goals would have you believe you’re capable of.
Others, like me, have wisened to the knowledge that this will be a short-lived adventure, unlikely to amount to trophies or even small victories.
There are bound to be exceptions who realise they’ve missed their calling, but I’ll be circumspect enough to keep a corner in the shed for the annual return of proverbial serve.
Short bursts of enthusiasm, are however, not to be scoffed at. In my head, the first serve I hit will be somewhere just over 200km/hr because that’s what they’re clocking at the championships and who would I be to think I can’t replicate what the commentators make sound so easy.
Granted, I’m a little old school. I have a wooden racket, just like the one John McEnroe used to win Wimbledon in 1984. I’ve had to have a few new strings put in, but some of the originals have stayed strong.
If torque is important to the serve, as Lleyton Hewitt might have us believe from the commentary box, I have plenty from the bendy strings of my Slazenger. “Watch this baby torque,” I’ll say as my Dunlop Volleys spark speed from baseline to net as they’ve done to carry my weary old feet for decades.
I’m more likely these days to be running out of partners than I am tennis gear. Geoffrey used to be a sporty type, right until he was told he’d need a bit of extra care. Pickleball was more our speed, but we’d occasionally take our aspiring quadriceps to the full-size court where we’d launch into a set of competitive banter.
At 2-all in the first, it seems the sponsored timer at the bottom right of the screen has turned over two hours.
In reality, all four games went to love and rallies reached a maximum of five exchanges. No more than 10 minutes, and here we were reaching for the water, wringing our our bucket hats, and rubbing the knots from each other’s shoulder blades.
Wanda won’t play any more, and most of the blokes from the bowls club are more comforted by a sport which allows the opportunity for a pony of ale at each end.
I have however, found a gentleman almost half my age who’s carrying a little bit of muffin around his midriff. We were, at the time of our agreement, of equal pace and although I’d argue I outstripped him in ability, he did manage to get the ball back.
And let’s face it, it’s not easy finding an average tennis partner. Most have either the advantage of practice or fitness. And it would be pointless trying to keep speed with competition grade players.
I aspire to great heights, but even I must acknowledge that it takes time to perfect a running passing shot which dips past a lunging opponent. The only lunging I require at this point in my progress is a handshake at the net.
You see, I’ve learned from my mistakes. I once went to play in a pair of thongs. As I clipped my heels together for the service motion of a gazelle, my back foot stood on the heel of the front foot’s thong.
As I fell, the toe end of the racket handle narrowly missed the crown jewels and created a nasty bruise at the top of my thigh. That was nothing compared to the gravel rash on my elbows. No YouTube back then, thank goodness.
Regardless, we’re out there, and we’re having a red hot go. Me and my new friend have been on court three times now and we’re already managing to complete a set. Okay, 6-0 in my friend’s favour. But a set nevertheless.
My worry now is that he’ll find a new friend who can keep up as he improves. Because at my age, we’re a bit more one-paced than we used to be. We don’t shuffle faster, we don’t extend our service motion beyond 45 degrees, and we’ll stick with the wooden racket, thanks.
Until next year, I’ll tuck a couple of balls into the Volleys for an extended off-season. I’ll tell the crew at the bowls club that I’ve been undertaking a new year’s fitness resolution.
They’ll tell me I look great, and not another word will be uttered.
