Tag: Confessions of an Ageing Tennis Player

You, o wise, astute reader, will know the significance of what I am about to reveal as you are well versed in the trials and tribulations of village pump politics, bruised egos and sporty tantrums. (None of which are mine I hasten to add.)

You will also recognise, due to your hard won wisdom over the years, that my challenges have not been without merit, that my battles are of the most deserving kind, and that my stand against the forces of mediocrity and institutional inertia is a stand borne of optimistic idealism rather than one of self-serving, craven realpolitik.

I accept my idealism has sometimes been wayward, my optimism unwarranted and my belief in the underlying goodness of all humanity may have been misguided, but you – o wise, astute, and intelligent reader – will wave aside these flaws when it comes to assessing the rights and wrongs of the debacle that surrounded the so-called Sports Personality of the Year Awards Evening, and agree that I have been cruelly and unjustly treated in a year when, after all, I did win the 2013 Men’s Singles Tennis Final at Wimbledon – the greatest colossus among tennis tournaments.

There is no point beginning at the beginning. You will, because you have an excellent memory o wise, astute, intelligent and attractive reader, and know that I won a wild card to Wimbledon. That I struggled against the collective might of the Balkan youth. That I was spurned – rejected, ridiculed, by all the guys in the locker room. You will recall with great acuity how I made my way through all the qualifying rounds to the final. You will remember the final and you will know the result. The first British men’s win at Wimbledon since Arnold Ffanshawe succeeded – against much lesser opposition – in 1808.

You will also be aghast – as I was – at the terrible snubbing I received at the hands of the sub-humans who make up our so-called club committee when I was left off the list of nominations for the Sports Personality Of The Year competition. 

Now, like you, o wise, astute, intelligent, attractive and mature reader, I took this news on the chin and reacted magnanimously.

I resigned with immediate effect and took my racket and Wimbledon balls to the club down the road where I promptly joined their august institution, and where I have been happy ever since.

Except. I didn’t. And I haven’t.

To be honest, o wise, astute, intelligent, attractive, mature, and fun loving reader, I took the news very badly. I yearned to be on the short list. I hungered to be acknowledged as the immense tennis player I am. I would have given my left non-serving arm to have even been invited to the evening. But my coach, Hac, advised against this sacrifice claiming it would jeopardise my ranking in the world’s elitist of the elite.

But the fact is, o wise, astute, intelligent, attractive, mature, fun loving, and sympathetic reader, I didn’t get a look in. Not one call, not one email, not one text. Nothing.

So here I am, nose pressed against the window of the grand room of what was my former club looking in at the cavorting that is going on inside, all in the name of praising so-called ‘sports personalities’.

I see huge turkeys, stuffed with chickens, themselves stuffed with quails which in turn are stuffed with baby pigeons paraded around the dance floor – not live I hasten to add, but cooked to roasted perfection. I hear tarantellas, waltzes, minuets – all played to within an inch of their lives – and see committee members dressed up in their Christmas finery, adorned with hats in the shape of tennis rackets, rugby union posts, referee whistles, any number of sports accessories masquerading as the highest of high sports fashion.

But where are the achievers, I hear you ask, o wise, astute, intelligent, attractive, mature, fun loving, sympathetic, and discerning reader? Where are the signs of achievement? The true victors of the summer? And you would be well to ask such important questions.

The answer is here in front of you. 

He is here, shivering in the icy cold, wearing his Fred Perry singlet and Rafa Nadal shorts and Roger Federer golden trainers (the ones with RF17 embossed in golden thread on the ankles) and asking himself, “why, oh! why?”

And I know dear reader, that you are unable to answer, being the club cat that you are. 

You stare at me; I stare at you. You miaow; I for once am speechless. I can’t let you in. I am the committee blocking your entrance to the not so great and not so good. The world needs spirits such as us o wise, astute, intelligent, attractive, mature, fun loving, sympathetic, discerning, and feline listener. The trouble is, it doesn’t know it yet. 

Sports Personality Of The Year? From now on I shall call you, the club moggie, Spoty. Your secret is safe with me.

So said the heavy athlete slumped on the bench in the men’s changing rooms, gazing at his cracked up trainers, sodden t shirt and pale blue shorts strewn across the floor. He’d had a difficult match on a squash court, being raced around by just a strip of a lad who had humiliated him over 3 games, 27 minutes and never ending memories of how things used to be, back in the day.

True, we sympathised. There was a time, back in the day, when we did indeed get younger with the passing of the days.

There was a time, way back when, when getting older really did feel like you were getting younger: as the days passed, your skin shone a bit more, your hair grew faster, and your torso shed pounds quicker, the longer you stood looking at yourself in the mirror.

At what point did the days do a volte face and far from getting younger as we got older, did we actually get older as we got older?

Answers to this and other vital sporting questions here.