I hesitantly went along to my first day of 'ladies tennis' at an incredibly picturesque set of courts in Sydney's eastern suburbs. I guess I was expecting a certain amount of snobbery. I was wrong. Is that reverse snobbery?
I was at once made to feel very welcome, and was instantly introduced to a couple of ladies who kindly embraced my presence. The usual pre match [size up] banter, naughtily led me to whip out my borrowed racquet and ask: 'is this a tennis racquet?'.
That worried them.
Can't imagine why.
We then proceeded to the court, me with my allocated (and quite understandably worried) partner - thanks to my racquet joke - for our first set of doubles.
Now, I've smacked a couple of balls around a court with my step son Dan over the years, and was the under 12 champ a long long time ago, so when asked about my skill level, I said, um, compared to who? Thankfully my first set was with 3 other fairly relaxed players. We were evenly matched, and had a good game. Deuce.
That was certainly not the case as the day progressed.
It's quite an unpleasant feeling, when you are losing the game for your partner. I knew I needed to up the ante. I needed to find my opponent's weakness. One particular opponent was very 'up to date' with the rules and regulations. When I am serving, after I've served the first ball, if it [suprisingly] goes IN, I fling the second, unused service ball behind me in a mad flap to get rid of it prior to the return.
NOT ALLOWED.
Apparently, it is distracting, and they could claim the point. My partner: 'no you can't'. My opponent: 'yes you can'. My partner: 'no you can't'. My opponent: 'yes you can', and so on and so forth... It was getting a bit fiery. This of course continued on when my 'up to date' opponent lost her visor in the wind (one MUST wear a visor). My equally 'up to date' partner announced after that point, that we could have claimed the point due to the distraction of said visor. Oh dear. The claws were well and truly out. During my dressing down about my flingful 2nd ball however, it was suggested, with a smile that was all fangs, that I either 'get a ball holder' (way too fancy for this chicken) OR, 'pop it in your undies dear'. Now, I'm already self conscious about gallavanting about the court with a bunch of strangers with my cellulite in FULL VIEW, and I certainly do not want to hoik (sp?) my shorts up further by shoving a bloody ball up my undies, so I replied, (I had no choice) : sorry dear, my undies are so full of arse, that I couldn't possibly fit a tennis ball in there'. 40 Love.
I then proceeded to run her around the court, trying to capitalise on her weak spot, but she had a cracking serve and a frightening forehand and beat us fair and square.
She had just turned 70. SE VEN TY!
Poetry. Good on her. Ace.
I then played with a fiercely competitive lady, who proceeded to instruct me prior to each point. It worked. We won. But it gave me the SHITS! Love all.
My last game was funny, relaxed, and close.
As I left for the day, happy in the knowledge that I wasn't completely useless, and wondering if my strained, tortured, unused muscles would actually get me to the car without collapsing, I heard a lady call to me: 'you'll do well here'.
I expect I will dear.
