Love 15

Maybe it’s because I’m from Dubai  and living in an overcrowded city in the desert where courts are in short supply, but I love seeing tennis courts: from a plane as it descends (there never seem to be any on the way up) or from speeding trains and cars. This is a purely aesthetic — i.e., pointless — pleasure, but if I am out walking or cycling, this fondness for court-spotting has obvious practical advantages.

There was one court that I was particularly fond of, It was just a single court surrounded on three sides by buildings — apartment blocks with geraniums on tiny balconies and wash hanging out to dry — which created stadiumlike acoustics when you made contact with the ball.

I dream of going to Wimbledon one day,it seems that tennis courts are more potent than swimming pools as symbols of freedom from the realm of necessity.Where tradition meets modernity and where you get the best Strawberries and cream the world has to offer.

Now being the romantic fellow that I am,the question was asked :What profiteth a man if he gains a world of free courts yet lacks a partner? For life is not just a search for tennis courts; it is also a search for someone to play with.

If  I settled down in a small town, I could join a club and enjoy a life of contented tennis polygamy. But if I had to lead an itinerant existence, however, I'd will waste many hours cruising for partners: turning up at courts, checking out the talent, hoping that someone might be looking for a casual game or has been stood up by his partner, while never losing sight of the fact that he must be compatible and that the window of compatibility is tiny.

Now I use 'he' and 'his' not lightly,its not due to the notion of the inherent inferiority of women but because the prospect of encountering a partnerless female with a half-decent backhand (i.e., better than mine) is too blissful even to contemplate. It’s dispiriting enough just trying to pick up guys.

Now let’s say you’re at a court, lurking around like a pervert, envying those who have everything (a court, a partner), resenting especially the dreadlocked dude who can barely hit the ball but who is playing with his tanned, much-tattooed girlfriend. There are a few people on their own, but they’re all waiting for partners who show up within minutes of your having broached the subject of “a hit.” You skulk home without having set foot on a court. But like a human tennis ball, you bounce back the following afternoon. You find an empty court, practice your serve, quickly becoming bored because, with only four balls, most of your time is spent changing ends — until, out of the blue, someone comes over and asks you if you’d like to hit.

 At first you are both a little tentative, but one of the nice things about tennis is the speed with which the quality of someone’s game reveals itself. After a few gentle rallies, you both begin hitting a little more freely, then hard, then with open aggression. It is obvious that you’re both happy with this gradual escalation of friendly hostilities. After half an hour you ask your new friend if she (this is a fantasy, after all) would prefer to play a set. “Sure,” she says. “Let’s play.”

You need only a court, and a pretty close fit in terms of tennis, and . . . nothing else! You don’t even have to speak the same language.

At the end of the game, you exchange numbers, agree to play the following afternoon and go your separate ways. The perfect level of commitment made possible by this found court. Life is not just good; life is as it ought to be.