Sport: noun

an activity involving physical exertion and skill in which an individual or team competes against another or others for entertainment.

Some people say that “it’s not the winning that matters but the taking part”.

Bollocks!

Day 4 started early. So early, it was actually Day 3 when I fell asleep, awoke, fell asleep and reawoke finally to the sound of the morning geese doing their very noisy and rather annoying thing.

Another interrupted night but a little better than the previous night as I am getting more used to sleeping sat up in bed, allowing whatever has been consumed, to stay at least below the threshold of my inserted peg. It would seem that if I can achieve this position for at least 3 to 4 hours then I’m relatively rested and ready for the next day.

And so, as planned, I headed out to Barnes, to my local tennis club to play a doubles match to make up for the one I’d lost the day before.

This was important.

A turning point if I lost and a landmark victory if I won.

Getting an uber to go just one mile is possibly extravagant. Not today. I needed to preserve all my strength and shoved decadence up its own arse.

Like a pumped up cameo of a rather aging and plump ‘Confessions of a Tennis Player’, I rocked up early, hydrated and focused.

My tennis partner (and hero) Patrick, arrived shortly afterwards and we were soon warming up with the opposition.

Now don’t get me wrong. This was no club competition match. It was not Wimbledon. There was NOTHING riding on it. But I had to win. I just had to.

Keeping the warm up short, I called out ‘Rough or smooth?” We won the right to serve first. I Stumbled at the back of the court as I passed the balls to my partner to start us off. This was ominous. But one thing you do not do in sport is let the opposition know when you’re not at your best. I chose not to let my partner know too, though I guess he already knew.

1-0

1-1

1-2 I lost my serve. Aaaaarrgh.

2-2 We broke back

Serving at 5-4 I took a little longer in the turn of ends. Engaging the opposition in conversation is often a useful distraction and sometimes very necessary. I used all the old tricks I’d learnt from the great days back at my home club, Oakfield plus some new ones picked up on the road.

Dragging myself to the back of the now sun drenched court, I eyed the bastards (no offence guys) up. The only way I was going to win this match was to look at the opposition as though they were the evil within me.

I snarled and hissed under my drying breath as I put every ounce of effort into the toss. It was high. Very high. Straight. Whack!

15-0

15-15

15-30 My destiny was facing me. I needed this point to get even. Another high toss but this time I sliced the ball with the venom of a thousand swords. Spinning to the opposition’s wide forehand, he drove it back. Right at me. Until, from nowhere, Patrick stepped across and volleyed it away.

30-30 My energy levels now almost totally depleted, I managed to serve so wide that the ball caught the edge of the service line and put off the opposition who distractedly sliced it into the net.

Match Point: first serve goes into the net. “Slow down Nadio. Slow the fuck down”. I have a word with myself.

The serve was in but slow and short. The opposition lobbed my hero but I saw it coming and threw everything into one last, cross-court backhand drive. Obscured slightly by my partner, the opposition had no chance.

We won.

We fucking won!

The customary handshakes (covid tap of rackets) ensued. Pleasantries were exchanged and congratulations and compliments were duly shared out.

But nobody could know how much that win meant to me.

It may be some time before I enter the courts again. But that does not matter. I’ve finished up on a win and though I am writing this with a banging headache, utterly exhausted and ready for a 9pm bedtime, I am an absolute winner.

Apologies for the swearing.