Tennis Elbow

Many weeks ago Dan and I had decided to play tennis together. We had spied out a school yard court that became desolate when the children had been released home to play on their consoles and chat with each other over MSN Messenger. Dan and I were looking for completely the opposite release. We were trapped, flat bound in a day long struggle with our computers that demanded our undivided attentions for editing, emailing, burning, and chatting with each other over MSN Messenger (they also demand our sexual attention but this rarely happens in daylight hours). The escape route to personal fitness heaven was agreed to be tennis. I have a genetic tendency to be shit at all sport, but tennis appealed to me for two main reasons. The first of these was that I had never really played before and thus could fool myself that I might actually be good at it. The second being that I required a tennis racket to play, which I knew at the back of my mind I would never get around to buy and thus would never have to make the effort. Alas, whilst shopping in Tesco I came across cheap rackets and balls that sealed mine, Dan’s and Chris’ fate.

A long spell of bad weather finally ended last Sunday. This was bad news. We were now in the middle of Wimbledon tennis season. At the sight of three people playing tennis badly in the middle of Wimbledon season, most people would assume that we had just seen it on television and thought that it was fashionable to be playing it now. They might easily expect us to be playing cricket next month and snooker the month after, like the fickle trend followers we are. But no! We had planned this months ago you fucks. On the walk down to the school court I could feel the scornful eyes sweep us with disdain. “If only there was some way of letting people know we aren’t playing tennis today because of Wimbledon” I remarked to Dan. Little did I know that in a few short hours he would be wishing for that scorn and the ability to play once more.

After about three hours of serving the ball into the net and the inevible realisation that I was indeed shit at tennis as well as every other sport, Chris (who had also interloped onto the Wimbledon tennis bandwagon by deciding he would accompany us on the trip) finally won a game again the previously invincible Dan. The winner stays on policy that was in operation meant that Dan never left the court. Chris and I were at a comparable level of shitness.

He might claim that he beat me more times than I beat him and while the “facts” may support this hypothesis I was a much better ball boy so win the moral victory. Even so he decided that the title “ball boy” was inadequate for him and stated that he was to be referred to as the “ball master” (his idle walks across the court mid game to retrieve balls did this title a major disservice). Dan not caring about denting Chris’ ball authority declared himself the “ball viceroy”. I, not wishing to upset the balance of power declared myself the “ball deputy”.

Finally, in the last match of the day the two squared up. Could Chris take invincible Dan down? He did. My vantage point as “ball deputy” gave me the hideous view of what befell. A shot very close to the net sent Dan running at full steam to make the return. I still wonder why Dan, at about 12” from the net was still running with all his might towards it. Knowing he would be unable to stop, Dan made an all too meagre jump to clear it, but on clipping both feet landed elbow first on the other side of the net onto the concrete floor. The result of this action was a hospital trip in which he was informed he had broken his radial bone and many questions from people asking “how did you break your arm playing tennis?”

He then for the past week has been sling laden and annoyed by his own disability. I have been annoyed that the only time we were ever able to play tennis it looked as though it was because we thought it was “in”.

Pete