Reporting from the thick of action. The tennis finals have seen an unprecedented level of interest this year. And here comes the serve, faultless… Is that an ace? But an all-out stretch gets the lunging backhand to it in the nick of time… to send it back cross-court.
‘How long are you going to watch the dog’s tail wag from side to side,’ asks the wife, placing a bowl of dough on the sofa near me. ‘Knead that. I’m exhausted.’
The action moves to the boxing ring. Welterweight Round 6. A jab followed by a swinging right hook throws the barely-standing pulpy mass to the ropes… finished off by an upper-cut that brings it to its doughy knees. And… it’s a Knock Out! The countdown begins … 8…9… and the whistle goes.
‘Are you whistling at me or the dog?’ The wife is capable of delivering a black eye just with that glare.
A leap up to a record height in record time that would do Sergey Bubka proud, and I’ve switched to Track and Field seamlessly. Giving it all I have into that last sprint, I breast the tape just before she… emerges with a mopping broom.
Down the midfield, unchallenged, I go, loads of space. What am amazing run! I slip past the defending chairs, nutmeg a few, sending them flying over the table… Oh, stopped by a horribly-timed tackle by the wall. My shoulder slams into it, and as I go down, I throw an arm up in appeal. The dog shrugs off a flea, and rules it a deliberate dive. Then I’m on the counter, looking for an equaliser, passing it from room to room… There’s the beer can I slam-dunked on the sly last night… Straight for the window, I go for goal, chipping it past the keeper-curtain which flaps in vain… What a finish… almost … but too high! It hits the post and spins back with a clatter that brings the wife frantically in. I appeal desperately to the VAR, who barks even louder.
The wife faces off. ‘You call this mopping?’ She reaches into her apron, to serve me that red card. No, no! ‘That was just a dummy run. I want to see some corners. And run it closer to the sidelines. And If you really want to lift some silverware, you can wash the dishes next.’
I stand stumped. I guess it takes two to play any sport.
Where Jane De Suza, author of Flyaway Boy, pokes her nose into our perfect lives.
