The baby pink racquet was extracted from its case with its mate and placed on the table.
“Thanks so much.”
In the flurry of activity it took to get here on time tonight I had to ask, via a text from my daughter, if I could borrow a racquet. Well it had been years since I played and my memory is that my last racquet was pinched out of my 1978 red Honda Civic whilst it was parked in a uni carpark. It did rather put a stop to social tennis. For the next thirty plus years.
I would never have bought a pink racquet, now or then, but somehow the colour cheered me and seemed to be saying; “Well this will be a bit of fun, won’t it?”
I picked it up and it was feather light. Somehow it felt comfortable in my hand.
“Is it OK?” my daughter’s boyfriend’s mother asked. I had met her no more than fifteen minutes ago when I pulled up in front of their home and we travelled together in her car to the club. This all came about because I casually asked my daughter a few weeks ago if anyone at their club ever just “went up there for a hit”.
“Yeah it’s good. Thanks.” Well, it was going to have to be, wasn’t it? I wondered if it was an especially light racquet or whether technology of the past three decades had meant they were all this light now. My first tennis racquet was an old blue wooden one that used to belong to my older sister.
I was quiet but smiling as other women approached and greeted each other. A bit older then me, they all knew each other. They had all been at the club forever. I listened to their easy chat about the comings and goings of the club and people I didn’t know.
One of the older ladies with a platinum bob soon took charge. “I think it’s just us tonight. Shall we grab a court?” There was nodding, murmuring and movement and I dutifully followed, wondering how I would perform in my childhood sport, so many years later.
I was handed a couple of balls, their bright green nap so familiar to me it was like time travel.
“Just a hit up to start with?”
“God yes,” I thought. What I said was; “Sounds good. I really don’t know how I will go. It’s been a while!”
“Monday social tennis is just for fun.”
Would these be words I would recall later and roll my eyes at? I’d heard about these competitive types in tennis clubs.
There was a bit of chat about who would pair with whom. More silent nodding and smiling from me. Then suddenly there I was, waiting to receive a ball from the other side of the net, except it was now daylight and the court was a rough faded bitumen and I was ten years old in a southern suburb of Perth in the 1970s.
My feet found a comfortable distance from each other, my knees remembered how far to bend. Suddenly my body found a shape from long ago and the comfort and familiarity in that was undeniable. I spun the racquet in my hand. I shifted my weight from side to side. I waited.
The bounce seemed erratic as the ball flew towards me. It was upon me all at once and my racquet didn’t quite get to it. I made a mental note to watch the bounce more closely next time.
Shuffle, stretch, wait.
I was watching myself watching the ball and that book I read about flow made sense. Get lost in something. Something that is just beyond your capabilities. Yes, this was it. This time I connected with the ball and it went over the net. It didn’t go where I wanted but really, I hadn’t thought about anything else but getting it over that net. It was enough.
The rhythms of movement around the court, the language, all the possible sounds a ball could make as it came off a racquet. I was back in the tennis world again.
By the end of the night I could feel myself tiring. I could feel the muscles and sinews in my right arm complaining. It had been a long time since I had asked so much of it. Oh, to be ambidextrous, but that was never me. Put a racquet in my left hand and I’m next to useless.
A body moving through time and space and making a connection with a moving object and directing it exactly where you want it to go. When it hits that sweet spot, when it caresses the top of the net on its arc over, when it’s just on the right side of the line- that is where the satisfaction is found. To be honest, these kind of moments were few and far between on that first night but with every week that goes by they happen more and more. All of us there have moments where shots are poor and balls go in unexpected places but we can shrug it off with a laugh and another attempt because next time it might be better. Because Monday nights aren’t about sheep stations, as my dad would say. They are just for fun. Somehow there is still challenge and satisfaction just under the surface though and that’s a good thing. I’m back playing tennis and I’m happy.
Are you a tennis tragic? Brush up on your game here; https://www.tennis.com.au/
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