‘I will,’ I smile, and give him a wave as he disappears down my path.
On the day of the rearranged league fixture, my angst about being ‘first pair’ turns out to be for nothing.
‘Change of plan. Judith has rallied and is meeting us there,’ Barbara declares happily, as we get into Lisa’s car to drive to the away venue.
‘What about her toe?’ I ask.
‘She’s on new blood pressure tablets,’ Barbara says, which prompts more questions than answers, so I don’t bother asking them. ‘All of which means, you’re with Lisa. Third pair.’
I feel like kissing her.
An hour later, we find ourselves at a huge sports venue that has not only tennis courts, but several rugby pitches, a cricket pavilion and a large clubhouse. The opposing team are a nice bunch – some older than us, some younger. As I’ve discovered since I’ve returned to this sport, neither tells you anything about your chances of success. Lisa and I warm up with our opponents, then – after Nora stressed the importance of discussing tactics in our last lesson – we huddle in one corner of the court.
‘So. How do we approach this?’ I ask.
‘Um . . . try to win?’ she suggests.
I nod. ‘Good plan.’
I’m first to serve.
I walk to the edge of the court with a ball, as my head fills with an avalanche of instructions. Move forward when volleying. Reach higher in a serve. Twist the torso on a forehand and use my non-dominant arm for power on the backhand . . .
I bounce the ball a couple of times, until another thought filters into my head.
Don’t try too hard.
I take a long breath.
‘Everything all right?’ one of the ladies calls over, snapping me out of it.
‘Yes. Sorry.’
‘No rush,’ she smiles.
Then for some reason, I recall something Nora once told us all. Enjoy the fact that it’s a beautiful day. You’re outdoors. And you’re getting toplay. . .
I step forward to make my shot.
An unprecedented thing happens over the course of the next three hours. My body is inhabited by someone who knows how to play tennis. A person with a solid serve. And an ability to rally, apparently endlessly. It’s not just that I’m playing in the same fluid, confident style that I do when I’m only practising with Nora and nothing matters. It’s that, whenever there’s a miss, I brush it off, don’t give it a second thought, tell myself things can always go my way in the next point.
The result of all of this is odd, wonderful and a little bit bewildering. Because for the first time since I started playing competitive tennis again, I actually believe that I have it in me to win a match. It’s more than that. Suddenly, and irrationally, losing feels like such an unlikely outcome that I tell myself it isn’t worth even considering. Even when I fluff an easy volley. Or Lisa gets two double faults on the trot and starts calling herself a bloody idiot.
I drift over to her, zen-like, touch her on the arm and say, ‘You have nothing to worry about. It’s just a blip. We’re going to win this.’
She snorts, assuming it’s a joke, then registers my expression. A little line appears above her nose. ‘What?’
‘We’re going to win. I’m telling you. Today’s the day.’
Her mouth parts, as the idea filters through her head.
I’m not saying that after that Lisa’s game is completely transformed. But something changes in her, just like it did in me. I’m also not denying that the result is close and that on another day it could’ve gone the other way. But that’s almost the point. The only thing that’s different on this particular day is our self-belief.
When the final point is scored – and our opponents hit the ball into the net – Lisa gasps so hard that her racquet falls out of her hand. She turns to me, wild-eyed in disbelief and starts laughing. Then she runs towards me. Flings her arms around me as the two of us hug in a sweaty, ecstatic mess.
‘Have weactuallywon something?’ she asks.
‘I think we have,’ I laugh, with stupid, happy tears in my eyes.
