I played my first set of tennis in about a 5 years last week. OK that's a slight exaggeration. I played my first competitive set of tennis in about 5 years last week. I don't count the games I've played against my Dad in that time. For one, he's not especially good (no offense?), and furthermore, what he plays isn't so much tennis as it is an unnamed game where one lofts the ball so high over a net that it reappears with bits of cloud attached, thus forcing the opponent (me) to either do the same ad infinitum, or frustratedly smash the ball back, which usually results in the ball smacking the fence that surrounds the court, or else bouncing about 5 feet in front of the net. Either way Dad wins the point, and the opponent (me) becomes increasingly enraged, leading to excessive moaning and bad sportsmanship. (That said, I still always won our matches, but Dad always won the moral victory, and promptly lectured me on my behaviour during the ride home. Gotta love those lectures, eh?)
Anyway, my game last week was against proper opposition. I played the mighty Paul Clarke, who's as good with a racket as he is a butcher knife. Paul, like myself if I may say so, was once a prodigious talent when it came to tennis. In Maree, Oranmore where Paul lives, there is something in the water that makes kids exceptional at racket sports - chiefly badminton, but with some tennis and table-tennis on the side. And yes, in case you're still in shock that I used to exercise, let alone be quite good at tennis, I can reaffirm as much, and I'm sure others will back me up on that (the fact that those 'others' consist of my parents and siblings is irrelevant, and I'll have no one say otherwise).
There was indeed a point in my life when tennis and I were very good friends. I remember going to a week long tennis camp when I was in primary school and being by far and away the best player at it (not to be, um, prideful or anything?). When the competition at the end arrived I was full confident I would be crowned champion, but it was not to be. Some guy who wasn't even part of the camp ended up knocking me out in the semi-finals. I was crushed. Dad had to buy me an ice-cream to try and stop the tears. Oh that's right - there were tears, and lots of them (I used to be really competitive and take games super seriously, but thank goodness I don't do that anymore [?]).
My game was reminiscent of Andre Agassi or Michael Chang, but with a bit more power and versatility (just kidding. You hardly think I'm that prideful, right? Right? Please say something...anything). Basically, I was that annoying guy who returned everything until you got frustrated and made a mistake (kind of like my Dad actually, but with lower trajectory). My serve was (and after last weeks evidence, still very much is) weak in all areas, but I played the game with a certain degree of natural intelligence, and could disguise my shots reasonably well.
And so I walked onto the pebble-ridden, low-netted court in Maree last week with a mixture of nostalgia, hope, and sheer terror as I pondered the kind of tennis I would produce after such a long absence from the game I once loved.
My fears were justified, as I was easily dispatched by a similarly rusty but much more dependable opponent in Paul. It was either 6-1 or 6-2. It doesn't really matter. I was beaten convincingly by a better player, and so I have no complaints. (In case you're wondering, yes, Paul bought me some ice-cream to stop the crying. That was very kind of him.)
However, though I lost the set, I've won back my love of the game (that sounded a lot less cheesy in my head, though on second reading I have no idea how). There were extremely brief moments when I looked like I actually knew what I was doing (one particular winning volley comes to mind), and right now I've got a sizable desire to play again soon and try to recapture some of that old form that had the tennis community of Galway whispering all those years ago.
Anyway, my game last week was against proper opposition. I played the mighty Paul Clarke, who's as good with a racket as he is a butcher knife. Paul, like myself if I may say so, was once a prodigious talent when it came to tennis. In Maree, Oranmore where Paul lives, there is something in the water that makes kids exceptional at racket sports - chiefly badminton, but with some tennis and table-tennis on the side. And yes, in case you're still in shock that I used to exercise, let alone be quite good at tennis, I can reaffirm as much, and I'm sure others will back me up on that (the fact that those 'others' consist of my parents and siblings is irrelevant, and I'll have no one say otherwise).
There was indeed a point in my life when tennis and I were very good friends. I remember going to a week long tennis camp when I was in primary school and being by far and away the best player at it (not to be, um, prideful or anything?). When the competition at the end arrived I was full confident I would be crowned champion, but it was not to be. Some guy who wasn't even part of the camp ended up knocking me out in the semi-finals. I was crushed. Dad had to buy me an ice-cream to try and stop the tears. Oh that's right - there were tears, and lots of them (I used to be really competitive and take games super seriously, but thank goodness I don't do that anymore [?]).
My game was reminiscent of Andre Agassi or Michael Chang, but with a bit more power and versatility (just kidding. You hardly think I'm that prideful, right? Right? Please say something...anything). Basically, I was that annoying guy who returned everything until you got frustrated and made a mistake (kind of like my Dad actually, but with lower trajectory). My serve was (and after last weeks evidence, still very much is) weak in all areas, but I played the game with a certain degree of natural intelligence, and could disguise my shots reasonably well.
And so I walked onto the pebble-ridden, low-netted court in Maree last week with a mixture of nostalgia, hope, and sheer terror as I pondered the kind of tennis I would produce after such a long absence from the game I once loved.
My fears were justified, as I was easily dispatched by a similarly rusty but much more dependable opponent in Paul. It was either 6-1 or 6-2. It doesn't really matter. I was beaten convincingly by a better player, and so I have no complaints. (In case you're wondering, yes, Paul bought me some ice-cream to stop the crying. That was very kind of him.)
However, though I lost the set, I've won back my love of the game (that sounded a lot less cheesy in my head, though on second reading I have no idea how). There were extremely brief moments when I looked like I actually knew what I was doing (one particular winning volley comes to mind), and right now I've got a sizable desire to play again soon and try to recapture some of that old form that had the tennis community of Galway whispering all those years ago.
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