Tennis with Father
Creative nonfiction tale of yesteryear
Playing tennis with Father was a big deal.
To appreciate this statement, it is necessary first to divide the world population into five groups. There are the players, the dedicated fans, and the tennis-agnostics (who have an issue with the game: the all-white dress-code; hitting a yellow ball with a racket, and running around inside a rectangular wire cage.) The fourth group are the millions who have never watched a game of tennis. (Yes, many millions don’t have WiFi or cable.)
And then there were us, the fifth group — five siblings playing tennis with Dad. Oh, not all at once; usually two of us against Father. It was a fair arrangement.
Playing tennis with Father was different on so many levels. His unique choice of attire was the least. It was necessary to understand him for the man he was.
For the duration of my high school career, we lived in a house where the neighbour in the back, owned a tennis court. He was a kind man, and because he and his family and friends often played, hitting some of the balls over the wire fence into our backyard, it didn’t take long for him to install a small gate between the properties, behind the tennis court, enabling them to retrieve lost balls. In return, we had his blessing to play whenever they didn’t use the court.
In hindsight, the five of us all could have made more of this opportunity and learned to play exceptional tennis. Most of us had other interests.
Not to be entirely ungrateful toward the neighbour — we would once a week be out there hitting balls. The highlight was when we succeeded in luring Dad to join us. The latter happened at least twice a year.
Here’s the thing: both he and his younger brother had played competitive tennis at college and university, twenty-five years back. His brother had played at the provincial level. Father’s focus and interest underwent a seismic change when he went into ministry upon completing his Divinity studies. Sport to him became unimportant.
Although, his muscles remembered. It was fascinating, if not alarming, to observe how his eye would adjust within three to four serves and he would then hit ace upon ace.
Father always wore a suit and tie. Always. We were too little to recall the days when we resided deeper in the African interior, and he wore khaki shorts and safari suits. Even when he did gardening, he would keep on his suit. I know, right?
Playing tennis, for him, once we had convinced him that his presence was required on the court, consisted off quickly slipping his suit jacket off, take off his tie, roll up his white shirt- sleeves and he was ready! Five out of ten times he would also don a pair of tennis shoes. He loved soft green and sand-colored suits. I can still picture him: bowing his head as he came through the wire gate, stepping on the court, white tennis shoes, green suit pants, belt, white dress shirt with rolled-up sleeves, wooden tennis racket and a lopsided smile.
We were dressed in shorts, in comfortable, loose-fitting, breathable clothing, and of course, our Bata sneakers. We called the footwear, “tekkies.”
First, we would hit balls across the net for a couple of minutes to allow Father to warm up. He always seemed to be in a hurry. Every minute counted. Soon enough he would keep two balls and ask, again with a shy smile, “Shall we play a few games? Perhaps a set?”
That was the cue for us to muster our best defence or face defeat.
I was determined to at least make him work for each point, make him run a little unless he hit an ace upon serving.
When this happened, him smacking a ball just inside the lines with a serve, and we were unable to return it, he gave his well-known smile, as if embarrassed. I am confident, also a little proud. It was no small feat — after all these years!
He would then coax us, “Come on, come on, let’s keep our eye on the ball.”
Groaning with frustration, we’d go pick up the balls and shoot or roll them back to his side for him to continue the barrage.
When Dad got too far ahead on points, we would dream up a convoluted story of why it was necessary to switch sides.
Father would laugh and comply, only asking, “Whose turn is it to serve?”
It seemed that on the days we played well, he’d stay longer, sparing us a premature raising of the white flag.
As if it was yesterday, I can see as hustle, sprinting and lurching to return each ball, getting them inside the lines on Father’s side, while he, in casual stride, as if strolling in the park, returned each ball, cool as a cucumber.
And one of us would call, “Forty, fifteen!”
The game was not over, not yet.
Copyright © Danie Botha. November 2018.
