We never miss tennis except for circumstances beyond our control, like a broken limb or bucketing rain accompanied by gale force winds, but every so often it is inevitable that one or more of us has something more pressing than tennis to attend to. When that happens, we call on our Honourary Tennis Tarts.
There is the unflappable Meg, who initiated a spate of bird-killer lobs because it is almost impossible to get a tennis ball past her at the net. My neighbour Tandy filled in for us a couple of times, but family commitments prevailed. Then there was my old school friend Daphne who plays league tennis and squash and ended up nearly killing us, and our budding confidence off. Our friend Ed also indicated his willingness to play with us. Initially wary given that he is, according to popular literature, from Mars and we are from Venus, he redeemed himself immediately by arriving not only with chilled champagne, but also a Tart! Our faith in mankind restored, he also upped our game tremendously through his encouraging shouts of “Run you lazy Tart! Why didn’t you get that?” as we come gasping back from the tram-line in an attempt to get to a 120 km per hour, 45 degreed blazing cross court return.
Which brings me to my son Rich, who occasionally fills in for us when I drag him to the court by his ear amid threats of confiscating his Blackberry if he doesn’t come and play. Even if three of us played against him alone on one side, he would probably still beat us. He gets everything back. And I mean everything. He gives new meaning to the sport of Parkour. On one point he actually ran up the practice wall at the back of the court to return a lofty top spin lob and won the point because Theresa and Meg were immobilised by disbelief and failed to react to his return shot. His tenacity is all very well unless you are his partner. I happened to miss one of those blinding cross court return of serves that not even Martina in her heyday with Nadia Comaneci’s gymnastics abilities could retrieve, and I got, “Mom! You’re running in slow motion!” He is lucky I didn’t smack him on the shins with my racquet. Fortunately for him I was still trying to catch my breath.
When I can’t threaten Rich into being an Honourary Tart then my youngest son, Big D enthusiastically fills in for us. He is like a secret weapon because despite his size, which is small and cute, he is actually a Pocket Rocket! I always opt to play with him because the opposition usually underestimate him completely and then we blindside them. Its such good fun. They complacently humour the little guy until they are on the receiving end of one of his top spin base line scorchers. And then its game on!
Wednesday, 22 June 2011
Monday, 6 June 2011
Tram-Line Talk: The Court
While we were busy ensuring that our equipment was state of the art, the actual tennis court sadly did not reflect our burgeoning professional image. The recreational club court had been neglected and unused for a few years, mainly because no-one had shown any interest in tennis. That is until The Tarts arrived! As soon as people started seeing us using the court, they suddenly started arriving clutching cobweb covered racquets and ratty tennis balls, with the dog still usually attached. But we had claimed our turf.
The chairman, Les, on seeing our infectious enthusiasm decided to start renovating the court. He began by digging out the sprouting grass, filling the potholes, resurfacing and painting, all of which was fantastic except that he was busy doing all this while we were playing. It got a bit awkward when it came to painting the new white court lines, however, we decided not to complain since the lack of lines had been causing a few disputed line call spats and it was starting to get ugly. So we retired to the tram-lines to drink champagne, give Les colour scheme advice for the surface and generally encourage him in the hot, baking sun. His next project was to tear down the afore-mentioned fence and replace it with a wall. Having learned from previous experience not to attempt this while we were on the actual court, he sent his assistant to do the job instead. Les learns quickly, he popped in regularly to give his assistant colour scheme advice for the wall. Luckily we were there as colour consultants - some things are just better left to women, one of them being tennis court interior decor. I don’t think his assistant really cared what colour scheme we chose for the wall, he was just in one tearing hurry to finish the job. This probably had a lot to do with him having to dodge flying tennis balls and wild back swings, being knocked off his ladder, lots of shrieking and apologetic trudging through his still-wet cement to retrieve renegade tennis balls from his paint tin.
Next on the agenda was the broken net. We thought we had it sorted out by propping up the centre on a forked stick, cleverly secured by some impressive girl scout knots Rose learnt from somewhere. I don’t actually want to know where, I just know she never went to girl scouts?! Then one Sunday we arrived to find some vandals had stolen our stick and our net was sagging visibly. Although this did not deter us from playing tennis, we did eventually realise that we were under the false illusion that we were a lot better than we actually were. The net was so low we could have been playing table tennis. If we were to set our sights on Wimbledon, it was time to raise the level of the net. Just as I have no desire to learn the details of Rose’s vast knot-tieing experience, I don’t even want to ask how she managed lay her hands on a long steel tennis net cable, but she did. She arrived with it wrapped over her shoulder like a mountaineer en route to Everest and Beyond. After unsuccessfully trying to feed the cable through the top of the net, we abandoned the job as it was taking up too much tennis playing time. We were hoping Les might pop in to help. He did, but after examining the cable and the net he concluded that we needed Fish Tape. Fish Tape? “Your husband will know what it is”, he says to me.
My dedication to tennis knowing no bounds, still in bed the following Sunday morning, I asked my husband if he had Fish Tape. Of course he had Fish Tape, and explained what it was in great detail. It sounded like the perfect tool to do the job we needed to do, and I love a man who knows how to use his tools. Needless to say I was late for tennis that morning, but I had Fish Tape! Were The Tarts grateful? No, they wanted to know where the handyman was that was supposed to accompany the Fish Tape. There is no pleasing some women. We never did get the cable fed into the net and the rolled up cable now lies dormant under the pool table in the clubhouse. Amazingly the net is fixed. The Tennis Fairy? Or Les just got fed up with our handy suggestions from the tram-lines on how to fix nets while he did all the work while we quaffed champagne, and just replaced the whole net.
The chairman, Les, on seeing our infectious enthusiasm decided to start renovating the court. He began by digging out the sprouting grass, filling the potholes, resurfacing and painting, all of which was fantastic except that he was busy doing all this while we were playing. It got a bit awkward when it came to painting the new white court lines, however, we decided not to complain since the lack of lines had been causing a few disputed line call spats and it was starting to get ugly. So we retired to the tram-lines to drink champagne, give Les colour scheme advice for the surface and generally encourage him in the hot, baking sun. His next project was to tear down the afore-mentioned fence and replace it with a wall. Having learned from previous experience not to attempt this while we were on the actual court, he sent his assistant to do the job instead. Les learns quickly, he popped in regularly to give his assistant colour scheme advice for the wall. Luckily we were there as colour consultants - some things are just better left to women, one of them being tennis court interior decor. I don’t think his assistant really cared what colour scheme we chose for the wall, he was just in one tearing hurry to finish the job. This probably had a lot to do with him having to dodge flying tennis balls and wild back swings, being knocked off his ladder, lots of shrieking and apologetic trudging through his still-wet cement to retrieve renegade tennis balls from his paint tin.
Next on the agenda was the broken net. We thought we had it sorted out by propping up the centre on a forked stick, cleverly secured by some impressive girl scout knots Rose learnt from somewhere. I don’t actually want to know where, I just know she never went to girl scouts?! Then one Sunday we arrived to find some vandals had stolen our stick and our net was sagging visibly. Although this did not deter us from playing tennis, we did eventually realise that we were under the false illusion that we were a lot better than we actually were. The net was so low we could have been playing table tennis. If we were to set our sights on Wimbledon, it was time to raise the level of the net. Just as I have no desire to learn the details of Rose’s vast knot-tieing experience, I don’t even want to ask how she managed lay her hands on a long steel tennis net cable, but she did. She arrived with it wrapped over her shoulder like a mountaineer en route to Everest and Beyond. After unsuccessfully trying to feed the cable through the top of the net, we abandoned the job as it was taking up too much tennis playing time. We were hoping Les might pop in to help. He did, but after examining the cable and the net he concluded that we needed Fish Tape. Fish Tape? “Your husband will know what it is”, he says to me.
My dedication to tennis knowing no bounds, still in bed the following Sunday morning, I asked my husband if he had Fish Tape. Of course he had Fish Tape, and explained what it was in great detail. It sounded like the perfect tool to do the job we needed to do, and I love a man who knows how to use his tools. Needless to say I was late for tennis that morning, but I had Fish Tape! Were The Tarts grateful? No, they wanted to know where the handyman was that was supposed to accompany the Fish Tape. There is no pleasing some women. We never did get the cable fed into the net and the rolled up cable now lies dormant under the pool table in the clubhouse. Amazingly the net is fixed. The Tennis Fairy? Or Les just got fed up with our handy suggestions from the tram-lines on how to fix nets while he did all the work while we quaffed champagne, and just replaced the whole net.
Wednesday, 1 June 2011
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