Confessions of an Ageing Tennis Player is the first movement in a quartet of books inspired by tennis, ambition, memory and the stories we tell ourselves as time catches up with us.
Confessions of an Ageing Player begins in Wimbledon: and the following three books move to Melbourne, Paris and ultimately the tennis courts of the US Open: but everything grows out of this first confessional.
Where we begin
“I don’t like your attitude!” snaps “Serena Williams” as we square up over the club’s dubious grass courts. But I am “Andy Murray”, the greatest tennis GOAT ever, no really I am and you “Serena” are blocking me from my ultimate goal: chairman of our local club.
The first confessional sets the tone: big ego, small courts, ageing joints, and the deadly seriousness we attach to entirely invented stakes. Hit play for a short audio overview.
Audio Overview (AI-generated)
What kind of book is this?
Remember when you were young and emulated your sporting heroes in the street or the school playground — convinced you were heading for the 100m sprint, the World Cup, Wimbledon?
Confessions of an Ageing Tennis Player is an illustrated, comic guidebook to those dreams and to what becomes of them. It moves between aspiration and embarrassment, triumph and disappointment, fantasy and failure, tracing the gap between who we imagine ourselves to be and what reality allows.
Some of it is comic, some is quietly reflective. Much of it lives in the strange theatre of modern professional and amateur life.
Why does this book matter here?
This book is not simply one title among many but the gravitational centre of the Nick Owen Publishing universe. Themes introduced here – ageing, obsession, institutions, love, failure, the performance of self – recur across later books and projects in different forms. If you want to understand how to read NOP, this is the clearest way in.
What our readers have said:
Forget Sports Personality Of The Year because Confessions of an Ageing Tennis Player wins my Sports Hero of the Decade. In a world where fame sometimes sleazily schmoozes with ability, Nick Owens’ salvos slyly obliterate the pretensions afflicting grand spectacle. Written with cheery lunacy, the rollercoaster of crazy is a joy and a credit to serving both a fine read and a smashing volley, earning a final score of everything-to-love. (Rick Hoegberg, writer)
This is a riotous, rolling, rollicking read in the picaresque tradition. Eat your hearts out Henry Fielding and Herman Melville. As the hero hurtles through his ruthless pursuit of fame and glory, you too will probably receive an upgrade as you are laughing so much in your plane or train seat. Witty ( and wise) this is a cracking read. First in a series. (Liz Fincham, author)
I am at the ageing tennis player and this book hits the nail on the head with an insight and humour that made me laugh out loud. Great observation, no holds barred honesty through the arena of tennis that explores between our imagination and the actuality. (Mike Stubbs, artist, curator, consultant)
“A pataphysical collection of absurdities.” (David Llewellyn, Director, Tennis Player, Genius)
“I thought it was real for about being selected for Wimbledon, literally through to the day before the semi-finals… I was coming into work saying ‘Nick got selected’. I can’t wait to read the next chapter. I loved it — total funny journey.” Jo McBean, Creative Triangle
“A rollicking good read that had me laughing out loud. It had me entertaining the idea of joining our local tennis club — and I’m rubbish at tennis.” The Shed
How to continue
If you’d like to follow our Ageing Player further – through other courts, other sports, other delusions — this is where to begin.
→ Visit the NOP Shop and begin the Ageing Player series
→ Now available via selected bookshops, including Hestia Books and Waterstones
A quiet note
Nick Owen Publishing values attentiveness over scale, continuity over novelty, and readers who are happy to stay a little longer than the algorithm expects.
If this sounds like your kind of reading, you’re very welcome.
Colleague and illustrator Paul Warren has always sketched and drawn and painted images. In 2013, after renting studio space at Harrington Mill Studios in Long Eaton, he began drawing on an iPad and he has drawn on an iPad ever since. A phrase he has coined is “the iPad is my sketch pad” and it fits very well. His drawing style is continually evolving and developing. He draws people, the human figure and add a sprinkling of artistic license. He doesn’t strictly create pictures; he’s interested in facial expression, stance, form, interaction between members of society, a moment in the workaday activities.
So, here is a takeaway for you to chew on next time you step onto a court or a field or even just sit at your desk dreaming of glory. Ask yourself, are you playing the game that’s in front of you or are you playing the game in your head? And if you’re playing the game in your head, are you winning? And if you are winning in your head, maybe just keep it to yourself before the committee calls you in.
And here’s the transcript!
Transcript of podcast
Transcript generated from an AI audio overview and lightly edited for readability.
Host 1:
Okay — have you ever been sitting on your couch watching professional sport on TV… the World Cup, maybe Wimbledon… and you get this creeping, totally irrational suspicion that if you just got up right now, you could actually compete?
Host 2:
Oh, absolutely. Armchair-athlete syndrome.
Host 1:
That specific feeling that, despite the creaking knees — and the fact you haven’t run a mile since high school — you could technically take a set off Roger Federer if the stars align.
Host 2:
Yes. The Walter Mitty effect. You’re sitting there with a bag of chips, but in your head you’ve got the heart of a lion.
Host 1:
Usually, that fantasy dissolves the moment you actually stand up and your ankle pops.
Host 2:
Usually. But today we’re diving into a source that doesn’t just explore that fantasy — it lives it, breathes it, and then painfully crash-lands it back into reality. We’re looking at Confessions of an Ageing Tennis Player by Nick Owen.
Host 1:
And what’s delightful is that it frames itself not just as a memoir, but as a… must-go guide.
Host 2:
A guide — specifically for people who have failed. Failed to succeed on the tennis court… or, you know, anywhere else in life.
Host 1:
Which is, let’s be honest, a pretty large demographic. Most sports books are about optimisation, winning mindsets, glorious triumphs. This is… not that.
Host 2:
It is not. The premise is fascinating: a narrator of a certain age — late middle age — who refuses to let go of childhood dreams. The book blends the mundane reality of local British club politics — committees, damp courts — with a fever dream of a journey where he somehow wins Wimbledon in 2013.
Host 1:
So our mission today is to unpack the psychology of this amateur player: the hilarity of the delusions, the sharp satire of British club culture, and ultimately why we lie to ourselves about our own athletic prowess.
Host 2:
Sounds good. Let’s grab our rackets — preferably wooden ones — and get on court.
First set: the amateur reality
Host 1:
The book calls the first set “reality”: the amateur experience. And the narrator identifies a specific enemy straight away. Not weather. Not injury.
Host 2:
Thirteen-year-olds.
Host 1:
It’s a conflict many recreational athletes will recognise. The text describes the shift from what he calls benign paternalismto sheer terror.
Host 2:
Benign paternalism — I love that. As if he walks on court thinking he’s going to mentor them.
Host 1:
Exactly. He’s thinking: “I’ll teach this young lad about court-craft and respect and etiquette.” But the reality is brutal. The younger generation isn’t looking for a mentor.
Host 2:
They’re looking for a straight-sets win so they can get back to their phones.
Host 1:
He describes them spinning rackets like cowboys with rifles. Intimidation. And the giggling — he really hates the giggling.
Host 2:
Weaponised giggling. Nothing destroys the ego of a middle-aged man like a 13-year-old laughing while hitting a winner.
Host 1:
And there’s a deeper generational clash. He expects deference — instead he gets drop-shotted while panting on the baseline.
Host 2:
That agony of the soft drop shot. It’s not even power. It’s humiliation.
Host 1:
But what’s fascinating is how he copes: the internal monologue. Physically he’s losing — but mentally he is somewhere else entirely.
Host 2:
Key concept. He admits: when he’s playing, he isn’t just playing. He convinces himself he is Rafa Nadal. The grunt, the sneer… the regal Spanish wave.
Host 1:
Even while losing 6–0 to a teenager.
Host 2:
Especially then. “Not only can I be Rafa… I am Rafa.” And then immediately double-faults into the net.
Host 1:
Tragic — and relatable. You hit one good shot and suddenly you’re looking around for the cameras.
Host 2:
He suggests the internal monologue is also a trap. It keeps you dreaming of signing autographs rather than doing the actual job: watching the ball.
Host 1:
You’re mentally spending the prize money while forgetting to hit the yellow ball over the net.
Host 2:
Exactly. It makes you a worse player — maybe a happier person.
The “geriatric game” and club folklore
Host 1:
The book offers strategies for the geriatric game. One favourite is his take on net play.
Host 2:
Normally you’re told to get to the net to attack and finish points. Not our narrator.
Host 1:
He stands at the net not as an attacking position — but to fend off boredom.
Host 2:
And then comes the tragedy of the smash.
Host 1:
Ball floats toward him. It’s huge, like a football. Panic sets in — too many options: smash, push left, drop right, volley down the line. He tries to do all three at once…
Host 2:
…hits the handle, and the ball goes backwards over his own head.
Host 1:
We’ve all done it. Most embarrassing feeling in tennis.
Host 2:
He also has a strong opinion on “percentage tennis”.
Host 1:
He hates it. Risk aversion is for wimps. He asks: “Do Novak Djokovic and Rafa Nadal fill in a health-and-safety form before they play?”
Host 2:
A complete rejection of mediocrity — even though he is, by definition, mediocre. He’ll hit it out 99 times for the one time it goes in.
Host 1:
Then we get Hawkeye. In pro tennis it’s technology — here it’s a local craft beer at 7.7% ABV.
Host 2:
That is not a sports drink.
Host 1:
He claims it gives extraordinary visual acuity… and very vocal opinions on line calls.
Host 2:
A critique of tech, really. Digital Hawkeye is cold perfection. Beer Hawkeye keeps myths alive — because you’re too drunk to know if it was in or out.
Second set: the Wimbledon delusion
Host 1:
Then we move to the second set, and the narrative jumps the shark.
Host 2:
It serves an ace over the shark. The book shifts from club life into full-blown delusion: a clerical error, a wild card mix-up — and suddenly he’s in the Wimbledon 2013 draw without qualifying.
Host 1:
He accepts it instantly. Pure wish fulfilment. First round: a 13-year-old Serbian boy called Slobodan Slovich.
Host 2:
Revenge on youth. He wins a tie-break 26–24.
Host 1:
Which is… cardio fantasy. But in his head he’s a machine.
Host 2:
Then comes “Black Wednesday” — opponents drop like flies.
Host 1:
Reality bends. A Croatian opponent gets gastroenteritis — walkover. He’s into later rounds without lifting a finger.
Host 2:
Then Sergiy Stakhovsky — famous for upsetting Federer in 2013 — appears in the book with a bizarre detail about “magic” and a pot of chocolate spread left by kids.
Host 1:
Our narrator dismisses the hocus-pocus and claims “English guile” dismantles him. Superstition versus guile.
Enter the coach
Host 2:
We also meet the coach — because obviously a Wimbledon champion needs a coach.
Host 1:
Enter Mrs Hassianda Buscondo Stanley Carter — “Hac”.
Host 2:
She arrives in a raincoat with a sack of rackets, trainers that have seen better days, and offers coaching on a “no win, no fee” basis.
Host 1:
The most legally dubious coaching contract imaginable. She gives him advice while asking what lager he’s been drinking. Perfect satire.
Host 2:
He also refuses to look at the draw. He invokes Heisenberg’s uncertainty principle.
Host 1:
Quantum physics on Centre Court. His theory: if he knows his opponent, it collapses the wave function and reduces his chance of winning. So he stays ignorant to keep possibility alive.
Host 2:
A brilliant misuse of science to justify not preparing.
Host 1:
And in his mind, it works: he beats Novak Djokovic in the final, becomes the first British winner since 1808 — in his version of history — and thanks his fertile imagination in the speech.
Host 2:
Which might be the real key: imagination is the weapon.
Third set: Sports Personality, fame, and the cat
Host 1:
You’d think Wimbledon would be enough. But now he wants BBC Sports Personality of the Year.
Host 2:
Because glory isn’t enough — you need validation. First he expects a nomination from his own club committee.
Host 1:
They ignore him. He dives into the politics of the club voting system — “democracy forged in blood” — and claims the committee corrects votes if members vote “wrong”.
Host 2:
A petty dictatorship. And his rival for the club award is…
Host 1:
A cat. Spotty.
Host 2:
He’s jealous of a cat.
Host 1:
Poignant, though: he’s staring through the window at the awards dinner, shivering, watching the cat get more attention than him.
Host 2:
So he turns to the BBC. He convinces himself he’s shortlisted alongside Mo Farah and Andy Murray. Then comes personality training: to win, he must become a “personality”, which apparently means criticising every other sport.
Host 1:
He’s harsh on cyclists and sailors because they sit down. That’s his metric.
Host 2:
He dismisses Mo Farah because “running in circles is boring.” Petty jealousy, elevating his own standing-up sport.
Fourth set: the crash landing
Host 1:
Then the crash landing. It turns out the ultimate ambition wasn’t Wimbledon or the BBC.
Host 2:
It was… the chairmanship of the local club.
Host 1:
The seat of power. The parking space. The free beer. He gets a call from Grace the club secretary and thinks: “This is it.”
Host 2:
He’s waiting in an armchair as the committee assembles: the butcher’s dog, C6 Steve, Fiona 1, Fiona 2… and the chairman: the Right Reverend MP Gingerbread Man.
Host 1:
The chairman says, “It has come to our attention…” and our hero puffs up, expecting sainthood.
Host 2:
Instead: “You have failed to pay your membership subscriptions for the last three years.”
Host 1:
The balloon pops. Not conquering the world — just a bloke who hasn’t paid his subs.
Host 2:
And worse: they accuse him of playing against “the spirit of lawn tennis” — a social felony.
Host 1:
So he retreats to his jalopy. The penthouse, the trophy, the celebrity friends — gone. The book ends on a grounded, slightly sad note: placing ads in the paper.
Host 2:
“Tennis superstar available for after-dinner lectures.” And most telling: “TV superstar seeks winning partner with GSOH.”
Host 1:
Back to being a lonely guy looking for connection.
Host 2:
Which reveals the heart of it: fantasy as a shield against loneliness and irrelevance. If you’re Wimbledon champion, you matter. If you’re a man who hasn’t paid his bills, you’re invisible.
Closing takeaway
Host 1:
So next time you step onto a court — or even sit at your desk dreaming of glory — ask yourself: are you playing the game in front of you, or the game in your head?
Host 2:
And if you’re winning in your head… maybe keep it to yourself before the committee calls you in.
Host 1:
Always pay your subs, folks.
Host 2:
Always pay your subs. Play on. Love all.