Sunday, September 14, 2008
When I was seven I knew what I wanted to be. I wanted to be a ballboy at Wimbledon. Each year as the tournament approached I waited for my invitation to crouch beside the net. I sensed my greatness at leaping and stretching and gathering. I would please the crowd with demonstrations of individual individuality. People would call my name and raise their hands. Somewhere in the crowd would be a sprightly young lass who would one day become my woman who knows...
Tennis flares every year for me. It's like migrating bird. Into the sunlight it swoops, exotic and flighty, and then it buggers off. This however is not the buggering off time. This is the time of raquets and nets and putting my glasses to one side and flailing gracefully. Running from side to side, panting, wearing pants that are aerodynamic, sweat pouring, falling over. All of these make tennis tennis. Summer is coming.
(cheers to Tane for the pic of our summer holiday)