Sometimes I play tennis. It's good to hit
some balls and unwind. The other night I pitched up at the tennis club I play
at for the weekly social tennis event. This just involves members turning up
and playing, usually doubles, with whoever else shows up. I got paired up in a
men’s doubles. I had never met my playing partner, Harry, before so had no idea
of his standard. On the opposition I knew that one of them, Dick, was average
but that his playing partner, Tom, was very good. Anyway, after a few games it
was my playing partner’s service. Before he served he walked over to speak to
me.
'I am going to serve this one out wide to
Dick’s forehand which will take him out of court and force him to play it back
towards you and you can put it away for a winner.'
His approach took me by surprise as this was nothing more than a friendly social game of doubles not the US Open, but if he wanted to do tactics that was fine by me. I took up my position at the net and tried to focus. I didn't want to disappoint. Harry served. The ball went straight into the net. He went for his second serve. If you know about tennis you will know that what you are supposed to do when serving is get the ball into that little box on your opponent’s side of the net. Well, Harry’s second service didn't do that. He actually launched it out of the premises. Right out of the club grounds into the street just missing a passing bus. To put that in perspective, that is like a bloke standing at the urinal in a pub and missing it so badly he pees in the public bar.
Harry's next serve was to the good player, Tom. I crossed over and stood at the net again and waited expectantly. The serve missed my head by about five centimetres and hit the back fence without touching the ground at any point. I swear I heard a whistling sound as it flew past my ear at something like the speed of sound. I have to say it unnerved me slightly. His second service was to come. It may have been that he was able to improve his aim, having used his first attempt as a marker, because this one now missed my head by the much narrower margin of two centimetres. I started to consider the possibility that although it may not look cool on court, a crash helmet might be a wise investment when playing with Harry, or perhaps even when playing against him. Harry’s next two serves, mercifully hit the net. Whether it was frustration on his part or a determined effort to improve, he saved his best effort to last. The serve exploded from his racket with such force that it took a horizontal flight path straight into one of the floodlights poles. It then ricocheted off the metal post like a bullet from a wayward rifle shot, flew across to an adjacent court and promptly smacked a bemused woman on the back of the head. She had just been attempting a smash when the ball made contact with her cranium and she hit the deck like a bag of cement. Fortunately she was not seriously hurt, although her mutterings thereafter about meteorites and comets suggested that the onset of concussion was not too far off. Instead of apologising to the dazed lady, Harry hurled his racket at the net in some sort of demonstration of pique. Clearly this was not his night for accuracy as the racket failed to hit the net at all and, instead, crashed hard into the net post where its lack of robustness was brutally exposed when the head completely split in two. Fortunately for Harry, but perhaps not so fortunate for local residents, public transport users and the rest of us on court, Harry had a spare racket in his bag.
The game continued. Each of us had won our particular service games and it came around to Harry’s turn to serve again. It was with some trepidation that I moved to take my place at the net. As I did so Harry stopped me.
'Right,' he said, 'what I am going to do this time when I serve to Tom, is to make it kick in towards his body as he will find it harder to cope with that.'
I was about to ask, 'How would you possibly know that, as Tom hasn’t had the opportunity to return any of your serves so far as they have not actually been anywhere within his immediate vicinity let alone on his side of the court,’ when Harry then added, 'I want you to stand nearer the middle of the net so you can pick up any balls he gets to.'
Apart from the fact that I now thought Harry was deluded and also bordering on derangement, it crossed my mind that I would sooner stand in the middle of Helmand Province wearing a pair of union jack shorts with a target painted on my chest, than stand in the path of any of Harry’s projectiles.
True to form Harry then preceded to serve up the same array of unguided ballistic missiles, not one of which managed to land within the confines of the actual court and we subsequently lost the match. I was relieved to get off the court.
As we walked off I felt Harry's hand on my arm. I turned towards him just as he said, 'We should have won that. I was a bit inconsistent tonight but I reckon we could have won.'
I stared at him for a moment trying to comprehend Harry's definition of inconsistent. The deluded sometimes need a reality check. My response began to take shape along the lines of, ‘No you weren’t inconsistent Harry. You are just totally shite at tennis,’ but it was prevented from emerging when he asked if I would like a beer. Maybe delusion is a happy existence. I left it. What I actually could have drunk to numb my senses after that exhibition was a whole gallon of aircraft fuel. However, I declined Harry's offer of a beer for fear that at some point I would have been tempted to pour the whole lot over his head.
His approach took me by surprise as this was nothing more than a friendly social game of doubles not the US Open, but if he wanted to do tactics that was fine by me. I took up my position at the net and tried to focus. I didn't want to disappoint. Harry served. The ball went straight into the net. He went for his second serve. If you know about tennis you will know that what you are supposed to do when serving is get the ball into that little box on your opponent’s side of the net. Well, Harry’s second service didn't do that. He actually launched it out of the premises. Right out of the club grounds into the street just missing a passing bus. To put that in perspective, that is like a bloke standing at the urinal in a pub and missing it so badly he pees in the public bar.
Harry's next serve was to the good player, Tom. I crossed over and stood at the net again and waited expectantly. The serve missed my head by about five centimetres and hit the back fence without touching the ground at any point. I swear I heard a whistling sound as it flew past my ear at something like the speed of sound. I have to say it unnerved me slightly. His second service was to come. It may have been that he was able to improve his aim, having used his first attempt as a marker, because this one now missed my head by the much narrower margin of two centimetres. I started to consider the possibility that although it may not look cool on court, a crash helmet might be a wise investment when playing with Harry, or perhaps even when playing against him. Harry’s next two serves, mercifully hit the net. Whether it was frustration on his part or a determined effort to improve, he saved his best effort to last. The serve exploded from his racket with such force that it took a horizontal flight path straight into one of the floodlights poles. It then ricocheted off the metal post like a bullet from a wayward rifle shot, flew across to an adjacent court and promptly smacked a bemused woman on the back of the head. She had just been attempting a smash when the ball made contact with her cranium and she hit the deck like a bag of cement. Fortunately she was not seriously hurt, although her mutterings thereafter about meteorites and comets suggested that the onset of concussion was not too far off. Instead of apologising to the dazed lady, Harry hurled his racket at the net in some sort of demonstration of pique. Clearly this was not his night for accuracy as the racket failed to hit the net at all and, instead, crashed hard into the net post where its lack of robustness was brutally exposed when the head completely split in two. Fortunately for Harry, but perhaps not so fortunate for local residents, public transport users and the rest of us on court, Harry had a spare racket in his bag.
The game continued. Each of us had won our particular service games and it came around to Harry’s turn to serve again. It was with some trepidation that I moved to take my place at the net. As I did so Harry stopped me.
'Right,' he said, 'what I am going to do this time when I serve to Tom, is to make it kick in towards his body as he will find it harder to cope with that.'
I was about to ask, 'How would you possibly know that, as Tom hasn’t had the opportunity to return any of your serves so far as they have not actually been anywhere within his immediate vicinity let alone on his side of the court,’ when Harry then added, 'I want you to stand nearer the middle of the net so you can pick up any balls he gets to.'
Apart from the fact that I now thought Harry was deluded and also bordering on derangement, it crossed my mind that I would sooner stand in the middle of Helmand Province wearing a pair of union jack shorts with a target painted on my chest, than stand in the path of any of Harry’s projectiles.
True to form Harry then preceded to serve up the same array of unguided ballistic missiles, not one of which managed to land within the confines of the actual court and we subsequently lost the match. I was relieved to get off the court.
As we walked off I felt Harry's hand on my arm. I turned towards him just as he said, 'We should have won that. I was a bit inconsistent tonight but I reckon we could have won.'
I stared at him for a moment trying to comprehend Harry's definition of inconsistent. The deluded sometimes need a reality check. My response began to take shape along the lines of, ‘No you weren’t inconsistent Harry. You are just totally shite at tennis,’ but it was prevented from emerging when he asked if I would like a beer. Maybe delusion is a happy existence. I left it. What I actually could have drunk to numb my senses after that exhibition was a whole gallon of aircraft fuel. However, I declined Harry's offer of a beer for fear that at some point I would have been tempted to pour the whole lot over his head.
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