I don’t know what’s wrong with me lately, I’m just so tired all the time. Being a typical Virgo though, I immediately assume the worst: the possible onset of Diabetes, or even scarier, menopause. I have the energy levels of a sloth on Valium. Funnily enough, this doesn’t apply to tennis. We all usually bounce onto the tennis court on Sunday mornings with the enthusiasm of the Blue Bulls cheerleaders, oblivious to the impending approach of our advancing years. Our bodies give us a reality check when necessary though.
Theresa had to miss one Sunday of tennis after intrepidly leaping for a high ball, missing, and then landing a perfect dive roll which ended with her lying on the court whimpering for a masseur. Preferably male, tall, tanned and handsome, she managed to add. I think she might also have mentioned something about drugs, to which I retorted, “Do you think this is the bloody Tour de France?” “Anti-inflammatories”, she specified. Anti-inflammatories I believe, we sportsmen and women are allowed to take without facing a lifelong ban in our competitive little tennis club.
On another occasion, the ever-resilient Theresa weaved onto the tennis court with a patch over one eye. Cleaning out the garage the day before, she got a fleck of dust in her eye which had developed into an infection after unsuccessfully trying to remove the fleck. No fear, tennis went on as usual until we realised that everytime Theresa was playing net, she was diving left for balls that were actually going right and in dire fear for her safety, and ours, after she hit herself on her ear with her racquet, we made her retire to the tramlines.
My misfounded belief that I was still a teenager led me to believe that I could still scale a tennis court fence in pursuit of yet another renegade ball. While Patty pointed out my potential as a cat burglar, my impertinent son and tennis partner at the time, said, “Mom, do you think you should be doing that?!” followed by a very obvious unsaid, “At your age?”. I felt and heard my hamstring in my left thigh rip. Leaping down with the missing ball in hand, I bent down to pick up my racquet, used it as a crutch and limped off the court unable to return for at least two weeks.
Sadly for Rose, during a particularly grueling revenge match, her knees packed up. Just like that. After a consultation with her doctor, she was told that she would have to have an operation on her knee and was advised never to play tennis again or risk a future knee replacement operation. We told her to find another doctor. Titanium knees could prove to be beneficial if you have the right mind set, but reality set in yet again. Rose cried quietly, wiped away the tears and sniffed, “I’ll have to catch you in the Tramlines, Tarts”.
