Anyone for tennis?

I love the game but love the outfits more

Photo by Nik on Unsplash

Around this time of year, I get interested in tennis. I love the excitement of Wimbledon and watching the professionals, who make it look such an easy sport to play, but mostly, I love seeing the tennis sportswear in the shops.

In the Asics Oxford Street store last week, there was a pretty coral tennis skirt that was definitely my colour. But no matter how much I fondled the material, held the skirt up in front of myself, and told myself I would be straight down to the local court to book some tennis lessons, I couldn’t bring myself to buy it. In Lululemon, there was a high-rise pleated tennis skirt that—had I been a seasoned pro—would have been perfect. And, just as I was leaving the store, I spotted a tennis dress in blue. Ahh, it was so ‘me’.

I imagined myself wearing all the outfits, strutting onto court and swinging my racket (if I had one) like I’d been doing it all my life. The fact is, I don’t do tennis very well, and I’ve tried.

The first time I stepped onto a court was in the eighties. During the summer school holiday, Barnsley Council was offering tennis lessons in Royston Park. Not being sporty, this did not make me happy, but because everyone else was doing it, I went along. The instructor was called Des. I remember his name because all the mums said he was ‘dishy’ so in my head, he was always ‘Dishy Des’.

That first lesson, he took us through the basics. How to hold a racket, how to move with it, the types of swing and what they were called (forehand and backhand — it was all very technical). I tried to stay focused on Dishy Des and his various strokes, but it was all a bit dull. Even at such a young age, I wanted to be straight onto Centre Court, or at least trying to hit the ball with the racket. Apparently, this was coming in the next few lessons and by the end of the six-week block (Tuesdays and Thursdays), Steffi Graf would be worried.

But first things first. The basics.

During that first lesson, I became distracted, twirling my racket and pretending I was a majorette. I threw it high into the air, and tried to catch it, up and down, round and round, marching to the imaginary beat in my head. My dream at the time was to be a majorette, but given my lack of coordination, I was never a contender for that either, but pretending was fun. Until it wasn’t.

It was the 1980s, which meant it was a long time before the ‘pickup after your dog poos in public’ law came into effect. At some point during my majorette display, my racket, when I dropped it, must have landed in a fresh pile of crap. Being so focused on my majorette manoeuvres, I was oblivious, of course. On I went, throwing it up and catching it, while unknowingly smearing myself and my tennis outfit with shit.

‘What are those marks on your tracksuit?’ Mum asked when she came to pick me up.

I stared down at the brown stains across every inch of my lovely yellow tracksuit, noticing them for the first time. ‘I don’t know.’

‘It’s not what I think it is…is it?’ Mum said, her eyes wide, her voice getting higher and higher. ‘I think it is!’

One of the other mums moved closer, sniffing my tracksuit. ‘It’s definitely doggy doo,’ she said, twitching her nose like she was a rabbit.

Mum shrieked and kept on shrieking and everyone in the vicinity gathered round, looks of disgust on their faces.

‘What a thing to happen! During a tennis lesson.’

‘How awful!’

‘How has this happened?’

‘That park is a dog toilet!’

While the mums launched an inquiry into the state of Barnsley’s parks, I walked away, wanting to get in the car, go home and hide forever. But there was no way Mum was letting her shit-stained daughter anywhere near her XR2 Ford Fiesta—her pride and joy, especially when she’d only just been reunited with it after joyriders stole it from the multistorey in town.

Instead, she marched me, like a majorette but without a baton, to my nan and granddad’s house, which was near the shit-infested park, and meant I didn’t have to parade around the village for long.

When we arrived at my grandparent’s bungalow, Mum opened the door and hollered inside. ‘Elizabeth is covered in dog dirt.’

‘What!’ Nan cried, rushing outside. ‘That park is disgraceful.’

While Mum and Nan whipped themselves up into a frenzy, my granddad disappeared into his greenhouse and I stood on the doorstep, trying not to cry.

They wouldn’t let me into the house. That was too risky, so they stripped me on the doorstep. They worked together, removing my clothes, trying not to smear faeces on my face or get it on their hands. Then they led me into the bathroom, made me stand in the bath, while they scrubbed, actually scrubbed, me with a brush.

‘I don’t want to play tennis ever again,’ I said, choking back my tears and watching as my skin turned red.

‘Don’t be dramatic,’ Mum said. ‘We’ve paid for the six weeks in advance.’

After that, I hated tennis with a passion. Instead of developing my backhand and forehand with Dishy Des, I pretended I was a jockey, hurdling the tennis nets on my imaginary horse, but then halfway through the season, someone stole the nets, so I just trotted round on my own.

I didn’t pick up another racket for 20 years. The second time was at Center Parcs with Chris in 2007. We’d only been together a few months, had enjoyed watching Wimbledon and were excited to book a court and play. I’d watched the professionals and felt sure I’d be a natural. I’d even wondered what kind of tennis attire I would wear to Wimbledon, because now I was back on court, surely Wimbledon qualification was the next step.

We took our positions on either side of the net. Chris served, and I hit the ball back to him with all the power of Serena Williams but lacking the precision. The ball flew out of court, cleared the Center Parcs barrier and landed somewhere in Whinfell Forest. We’d booked for an hour and spent 58-minutes of it on our hands and knees in the undergrowth, trying to find the ball.

‘I thought I’d be good,’ I said to Chris. ‘I was going to buy a tennis outfit.’

‘You’ve got potential,’ he said. ‘Lots of power, just no control.’

Since then, we’ve avoided ball games, but this summer I bought a bat and ball, and we’ve been playing a game that is somewhere between table tennis and actual tennis.

Not professional tennis players but the husband and me.

The aim has been to see how many rallies we could do before we miss a shot. We’re getting quite good, moving quickly, tapping the ball, returning before we’ve even had time to think about the shot. One day, we got up to 397 before Chris stumbled and dropped the ball. And it turns out that my backhand is dangerous, so dangerous, I could probably win Wimbledon with it, slicing the ball past my opponent before they see it coming.

The last game we played, my backhand was so fierce, the ball hit the roof, rolled into the gutter and down the drainpipe. We had to pause play while we unscrewed the drainpipe, took it down and dislodged the ball, but that didn’t matter because WHAT A SHOT! If Serena Williams or Dishy Des had been on the patio, playing with us, they would have been in awe.

It was the type of performance that elevated me from the beginner ranks to the occasionally competent and therefore requires tennis attire of some sort, be it a skirt or a dress. The type of performance that had me straight on the Asics website ordering the coral skirt, which was also available in yellow. After the dog shit incident of circa 1987, I thought it best to avoid that.

About me: I’m Liz Champion, a writer from Yorkshire, with all the gear and no idea.