Iced water for Lee
“How are you doing today?” asked a middle aged, bronzed, male tennis player.
We were all sitting on a terrace by the courts; I had got the table first and was waiting for Tim to finish his game.
“Very well, thank you,” I said in a matter-of-fact English accent, hoping he would leave quickly.
“That’s real great. I’m Lee, in case you didn’t know,” he said, already moving off with his eyes on the courts ahead.
“No, I didn’t know. But I certainly do now,” I smiled to myself, knowing the accent can repel as well as attract depending on the pitch.
Bloody Limey he probably thought.
I had seen Lee many times at the gym; he looked like he had rebuilt his body through sheer perseverance.
If he had noticed me, it had not been by looking in my direction, so I assumed he hadn’t seen me before today.
He played tennis with the same dedication as he pumped iron, and was good at both. His steel-framed glasses enlarged his fading watery blue-grey eyes, and they gave no hint of warmth. His perfect teeth were a fairly new physical addition, and he exposed them often in a kind of ritual smile to get his money’s worth.
Next to the terrace was the tennis shop and booking office where all the courts were reserved and allocated.
On a slightly risen podium behind a long desk, the two blondes who ran the 28 courts competed with each other for dominance.
It was a daily beauty contest, and for most of the other women, it was quite inhibiting.
Their long fine tresses twirled into ponytails; sun visors and caps always looking immaculate, with tennis skirts, frilly white socks and tennis shoes they looked like overgrown sexy schoolgirls.
They had the power of the pencil, topped with rubbers that could ‘rub’ you off a court if you didn’t pay sufficient respect and homage.
Everyone did, all of the time…or you never got to play.
The average middle-aged balding male player crawled in with his tongue hanging out, flirting desperately and trying to make an impression, but seldom achieved anything.
The women were either too menopausal, slightly pitiful, aggressive, or asked too many questions that needed too many replies, asked all their friends and then changed their minds.
I found my own balance with no help from the blondes. By being friendly, courteous, and genuine ensured me a warm welcome and considerate service.
“Court number 8, and you are the first! Have a great game!” She called over to me.
“Thank you,” I waved, feeling good in yet another new outfit. I couldn’t play very well, but I sure made an effort to look like I could.
Humiliation on court 8 was soon to come and bent down to pick up a million small lime green tennis balls and swore at every one of them.
I had to find someone who played as badly as I did and simply didn’t care what a liability I really was.
A nice plump older lady came wandering over.
“Hello, I’m your partner this morning,” she said.
God help you, I thought.” I hope you like the English.”