‘Yes! Have you ever known me to go for a run, or a swim, or a gym session? And as for team sports, even hearing thewordfootball brings me out in a rash.’
‘But tennis is different, right?’ said Zoe hopefully.
‘How? Because it’s totally elitist, you mean?’
‘Maybe, but what’s not to like about Wimbledon? The outfits are cute and you like Pimm’s and strawberries, don’t you?’ said Zoe.
Hmmm. I supposed the drinks and snacks side of things did sound a tiny bit appealing.
‘Amanda needs a sports specialist,’ I concluded. I’d always beengreatat talking myself out of things. ‘I haven’t got the right credentials.’
Swooping in to back up my argument, I could almost hear my mum’s voice telling me not to get ahead of myself; that I – to use her favourite phrase – was getting ideas above my station.
‘It might work to your advantage not to know much,’ suggested Zoe. ‘Our readers might well be in the same boat.’
‘But how can I write about something I know absolutely nothing about?’
‘Isn’t that what research is for?’ said Zoe. ‘Pass me your remote.’
‘Why?’ I said, feeling strangely protective over it.
‘Hand it over!’ she instructed.
Tutting loudly, I reluctantly gave it to her; there was an interesting segment on spring knits coming up onThis Morningthat I’d been hoping to catch.
‘Dare I ask what you’re doing?’ I asked.
After fumbling around in the Netflix search grid for a bit, Zoe pressed play.
‘My mum recommended this documentary calledDeuce,’ said Zoe, turning the volume up so high I actually flinched. ‘It follows tennis players as they travel around the world from tournament to tournament. Apparently, it’s riveting.’
Highly unlikely, I thought. Playing sports was bad enough, let alone watching them on TV. I crossed my arms moodily when the opening credits ofDeucerolled over footage of something called the Rod Laver Arena in Melbourne where the Australian Open was about to kick off, whatever the hell that was. On the plus side, this did seem like one of those impeccably produced shows that attached the perfect piece of music to every emotion-infused encounter and made each location look achingly cinematic.
‘Apparently, Marcus Taylor features a lot,’ said Zoe, settling back in her seat.
I watched sullenly as two men in their early thirties began warming up on a cobalt-blue tennis court with stormy grey skies swirling over their heads. They were slamming the ball back and forth, back and forth, their muscular arms making light work of sending it spinning from one baseline to the other. I was already bored. Were they going to be doing this for long?
‘That’s him!’ shrieked Zoe.
‘Which one?’ I asked, leaning forward, trying to make out their faces.
‘The fit one with the dark hair.’
The camera went close in on the man who was supposedly Marcus Taylor. I couldn’t help but notice that he had spectacularly sculpted calves, beautifully tanned skin (no doubt acquired from spending months training in the south of France or wherever the hell they all lived), and just the right amount of facial hair. He was quite handsome, I reluctantly acknowledged, but he had coldeyes and when he messed up a serve, he looked like he wanted to murder somebody, even though he was only warming up and hadn’t even started the game yet, from what I could tell. Talk about a bad attitude.
Right on cue, the show cut to footage of Marcus competing in the quarter-finals of last year’s US Open. I’d always thought that was a golfing tournament? Seemingly not, because a place called the Arthur Ashe stadium in Flushing Meadows, New York, was packed to the rafters with spectators, most of whom appeared to be chugging beer from paper cups and generally behaving as though they were at some rowdy frat boy party.
‘Did he win this tournament as well as the Australian thingy, then?’ I asked Zoe, as the camera zoomed in on the scoreboard. According to the voice-over, Marcus was leading by two sets to one and was ahead by three games to two in the fourth. I had no idea what any of that meant.
‘Don’t ask me,’ said Zoe, who clearly wasn’t a tennis aficionado either. I mean, who was?!
Michelle Obama, apparently, who was sitting in the front row wearing a denim dress that I made a mental note to google when I was back to wearing proper clothes again and actually leaving the house.
By this point, Marcus Taylor was looking all kinds of fucked off and had just produced three ‘unforced errors’ in a row. His opponent, Anton Bauer – a baby-faced Danish guy with a blond topknot – was crouched down, ready to receive his serve. For some bizarre reason, Marcus Taylor repeatedly bounced the ball on the ground, again and again. And again. Eventually (and after a ridiculous amount of time, in my opinion), his eyes narrowed as he tossed the ball into the air with his left hand, slid his right foot forward to meet his left and leapt fully off the ground in a powerful motion, like a tiger about to launch itself at some poor, unsuspecting prey.Just as his racquet was about to make contact with the ball, someone shoutedCome on, Marcus!at top volume, and instead of sailing over to the other side of the court like it was presumably supposed to, the ball slammed clean into the net. A hush descended over the stadium.
‘Game Bauer,’ announced the umpire.
The crowd roared.
