Tram-Line Talk: Honourary Tarts

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!