I MUST be old fashioned when it comes to watching sport.
I’ll watch a football match, and when my team does something well, I’ll clap. Maybe I’ll add a disguised fist pump, or gently squeeze Wanda’s hand as a sign of delight.
Cricket and tennis in my day were sports for polite types who had a belly full of anger that they unleashed on their opponents – not with verbal sprays or breaking of equipment; rather, they let their skills do the talking.
But I’ve been watching television lately, and sport is changing. The mentors are different.
At Wimbledon time, I occasionally dust off my racket and head down to the local park for a hit with a guy down the road who puts me to shame on the court.
I’m good for a few points, maybe a couple of games. Then I implode as sweat takes over, and the joints start to creak like an old door hinge.
It doesn’t matter. It’s the intent that counts, to free up the fluids in my joints – to take a few years away from this ageing body and allow adrenaline to inject its youthful hit of stamina for a set of nimble court coverage.
I do recall in the 80s when John McEnroe was screaming at folk doing the line calls, rather oddly wondering whether they were taking things seriously enough.
We’d head down to the courts back then, screaming at each other like idiots, claiming the ball was “on the line”. No lines-people when there’s just two buddies having a hit, so it was all for the comedy. Just all in good humour.
This year though, I’m a little worried whether old Frank will understand modern humour.
For one, when he turns up for our annual resolution to seek fitness and eternal youth, he might be surprised when I turn up with multiple rackets.
I will of course, be using the old wooden ones first, because when I smash them into the bitumen that makes up the surface of our court, they’ll be easier to snap.
I may not be able to muster enough energy to twist the neck of a graphite version, but when Frank calls out the score in his favour time after time after time, I’ll be giving it a darn good go.
Once I’ve done that, I’ll have to approach the dog walker who’s staring at me the wrong way, with an eyebrow of evil supposition. I’ll spit fearlessly in her direction.
Not on her, because that’s not the way things are done. Just at her, which in modern tennis decorum is far more acceptable.
“Don’t disrespect me,” I’ll say. “I know I’m fat, so I don’t need people like you creating monsters in my head that make me worse than I really am.”
Then I’ll target Frank. I won’t say anything to him. But I’ll mutter under my breath, loud enough for him to hear, how the rules of the game are in his favour.
How he’s had lucky net cords, lucky line breaks, and the luck of not having three cookies and milk before we arrived.
And when I’m behind on the scoreboard, I’ll reach for a chosen shoulder joint, which I’ll hold while grimacing in feigned pain so he thinks he’s been going hard on me.
I’ll say – again, not to him, but loud enough for him to hear – that I’m struggling with my shot-making. Had it not been for the “injury”, I’d be swinging more freely.
“Sorry, Frank. I wish I could provide you more of a contest,” I’ll say.
He’ll capitulate. His timing will fold. And I’ll rise, finding a newfound spring in my step which takes me to victory.
In the olden days, I’d have graciously accepted defeat, but that’s not the modern way. As spectators we start fights in the stands. As players, we do what we can to unsettle our opponent.
Then, we find ourselves in the final of Wimbledon.
Frank and I have been playing for a little trophy for years. This will be the first time I’ve won it. But I’ll be proud. My tactics will have worked a treat.
Hey Wanda, I’ll say with pride, check this out. “I won it, at any cost.”
She’ll respond with her usual candour: “Stupid old fool.”
