One dark and gloomy Sunday morning we arrived at tennis with heavy hearts. The sun was shining in a brilliant blue cloudless sky, perfect conditions for tennis, but the Springboks had just been knocked out of the Rugby World Cup by the bloody Aussies and their side-kick, Bryce Lawrence. Our mood was further dampened by a last minute cancellation. Being too late to get a replacement, we had no option but to play American singles, which we don’t enjoy as much since none of us have figured out the rules* yet.
A few games into the first set, an unsuspecting father and his young daughter appeared, racquets in hand, only to find the court already occupied by us. Siezing the opportunity, we asked if they would like to make up a fourth. So along came Susie to join our game. Unfortunately Susie couldn’t hit a ball even if you bounced it gently straight onto her racquet. This resulted in our killer instincts being severely blunted, because as competitive as we are, none of us had the heart to hammer our usual searing killer shots at the poor girl.
Eventually after a few silly games Susie retired, obviously intimidated by our superior tennis. My son tells me that the Tarts are rather intimidating, but I think he was referring to the shrieking, screaming, howling and cursing that usually accompanies our game. So never to be thwarted, we invited Susie’s dad to take her place. He turned out to be a terrific tennis player and we ended up playing a really challenging couple of sets, our killer instincts once again sharpened to full capacity.
About halfway through the first set Susie wanted to go home and after some diversionary “nearly done’s” which she didn’t buy, she sat on the side-lines glowering at us. Halfway through the second set when things were getting really serious, dad’s cellphone rang. Susie’s mom wanting to know why their tennis was taking so long. She had obviously seen Susie play before. Three calls later Susie was heard saying, “No mom, I’m not playing tennis, dad is. He was supposed to play with me, but he’s been kidnapped by a bunch of voracious, tennis-playing man-hunting Tarts”. The cellphone calls became a lot more frequent after that.
Finally after a gruelling, hard fought three setter and much hand shaking and high-fiveing, dad set off for home at pace, answering the ringing phone on the run with Susie in tow muttering and throwing us scathing backward glares. We didn’t even have time to invite them for champagne. We would like to have bestowed him with an Honourary Tart Title, but for some strange reason he has never been seen at the Club again. Ever.
* If anyone knows the rules for American Singles please post here. Would be much appreciated.
