This weekend, millions of people will watch in awe as the Australian Open champions drop to their knees in victory.
To me, that’s not real tennis: it’s showbiz. Real tennis is played far away from Melbourne Park, on dusty red suburban courts where juniors, seniors and midweek ladies duke it out in epic battles. With its weathered club houses and diehard players, community tennis is the beating heart of the game.
Believe me, I know. My career in low-level tennis hasn’t just yielded plastic trophies and a photo frame – it gave me two decades of joy and the following life lessons.
Age is just a number
In community tennis, you play people of all ages. In my early 20s, I thought crushing older opponents would be a cinch. More fool me. Some of these “old ducks” had half a century more experience than me, and they put it to good use. Their wily drop shots, extreme angles and metronome consistency could reduce me to a McEnroe-esque tantrum. Then, post-demolition, they’d be all smiles and freshly baked scones.
I also played children. One season, word had it that my upcoming opponent Destanee Aiava was formidable. Yes, but she was 10 and I was 30 and, as we’ve seen, experience can trump youth. But on the wintry Saturday morning we met, she destroyed me. I like to think that I taught Aiava, now on the world tour and ranked 208, how not to play.
Lightning never strikes twice, except sometimes
Playing doubles means sharing the game’s ups and downs. As with any relationship, the downs can cause cracks to appear. One moment you’re chest bumping like the Jensen brothers; the next, you’ve missed three volleys and your partner’s hissing “you can do it” through gritted teeth.
In one match I was crouched at the net while my partner was serving. Unfortunately, the ball didn’t reach the net due to my head being in the way. Yes, she served straight into the back of it at 60ish km/h. Shocked and concussed, I laughed it off and resumed my position.
You think lightning never strikes twice? It does in tennis. BOOM! Another corker hit the back of my noggin.
Double fault.
Our professional relationship never quite recovered.
The wind will eventually change
A coach once told me: “It’s as windy on your side of the court as it is on the other,” which is the tennis equivalent of “a poor workman blames his tools”.
When you’re losing, you need something to blame: the sun’s too bright, the flies are against you or the wind is … too windy. But only on your side of the court.
Reversing that downward spiral is tricky, but often you just need to hang in there. Those flies will find someone sweatier to sup from, the wind will change and soon it’s your opponent who’s shaking their fist at the sky.
Always ask who’s catering
After our matches, we’d gather in the club house for afternoon tea. The posh clubs had onsite chefs and served triangle sandwiches and party pies. At grittier clubs you got whatever the players could grab from Woolies beforehand.
Without meaning to perpetuate gender stereotypes, my observation was men’s teams would chuck four packets of Tim Tams on the table. By contrast, the women’s teams unfurled tablecloths and provided a thoughtful selection of sweet and savoury food.
Tennis is a contact sport
With its polo shirts and canapes, tennis might seem quaint. It isn’t – not at the grassroots. Here “audible obscenities”, racket abuse and physical fights are standard reactions to losing a point.
Although I was mostly restrained, I’ve seen many a wobbly thrown. Once a player hurdled the net to fly-tackle their opponent, and another time a grappling match started on-court, continued out the gate, down the garden path and all the way to the car park.
They didn’t even stop for Tim Tams.
To err is human, to forgive can take years
It was the 1990 D-grade mixed doubles grand final and Barry and I were in a tight spot: if our opponents won the next point, they’d win the match.
A high lob was sailing towards us. Barry, at the net, made moves to smash it. “MINE!” I shouted. It was mine – this was a low-risk forehand. Nonetheless, Barry smashed it – right into the net.
Game over. “Never mind,” I bit out.
I’m nearly over it – 32 years later – and Barry’s almost forgiven. You can’t win them all. Or in my case, barely any. But that’s OK.