They say that married couples that play together stay together. My parents both played tennis and I’m sure it held their marriage together, especially in later years. It was a common interest and a common bond. Indeed, my mum once told me that she met my dad on the tennis court. She caught him looking at her legs and found she enjoyed looking at him too. Once she even hinted about a tennis story involving a local tennis tournament win, an empty tennis clubhouse and – as my mum described it – passion!
My mum wouldn’t tell me much but I think I can guess.
For my moment of tennis clubhouse passion, I had to wait until I got a vacation job at a Spanish tennis centre. Ricardo, the lead tennis pro was a hairy gorilla of a man with loads of muscle and a clay court game that was based on consistency and a gruelling attrition of the opposition. I was the assistant tennis professional in my first paid job as a qualified coach.
It had been a long hot day during which we had been running a tournament for the people on tennis holidays at the centre. We were both overheated and stressed. However, the strains were mainly organisational as we had mainly spent the day sitting around keeping running scores of results and had little way of exercise.
When the last players had departed, I went off into the tennis clubhouse to put away the first aid box that we had kept handy in case of emergency. Absentmindedly, I dropped the box and was just bending over to pick up the contents when Ricardo came around the corner of the kitchen and barged into me.
I was even slimmer in those days and would have catapulted face-first into the refrigerator if he hadn’t have grabbed hold of my hips to save me. By the time we recovered our balances and I had straightened up, the effect I’d had on Ricardo, still holding me to him, was obvious.
In the heat of the moment, to me, it seemed the most natural thing in the world give him a sideways smile, lean forward again onto the kitchen work surface and give a little wiggle of my hips.
Ricardo needed no more encouragement. As I said, he was very strong, and in an unbelievably short time he had efficiently pressed our mutual stress release buttons magnificently.
Unlike my parents, it was an experience that we didn’t repeat. I was almost at the end of my summer work contract and, apart from this moment of passion, we had little else in common. However, it was a truly memorable experience.
Perhaps one day I will tell my daughter – without giving too many details of course.
I wonder if this is the sort of thing that Max wanted me to write in my tennis professional blog. It does rather seem to be turning into the confessions of a tennis pro which probably wasn’t what he intended. Perhaps I’ll ask him whether I should delete the bit about Ricardo. On the other hand, after I have spent the time to write it down, it seems a shame to waste the effort. Perhaps nobody will notice.
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