Tales from the tramlines. Real club players, real shanked volleys, real WhatsApp groups that got out of hand.
Six of us was lovely. Eight was fine. Ten was fine-ish. Twelve I was coping.
Thirteen people turned up on a Thursday in March and I had a clipboard, a biro that didn't work, and absolutely no idea what I was doing.
That's it. That's the post. I just want a game on Saturday.
Not a lesson. Not a league. Not a "social" where I play a 6-0 against a lovely lady who started in March and then get told off by the organiser for "not easing off" (I was easing off, Bev). Just one game, one hour, someone about my level, Saturday morning.
It's twenty to ten on a Wednesday and I'm stood at the hob counting to fourteen.
Twelve yeses, one "probably", and Keith. Keith has replied with a thumbs up. After five years I know a Keith thumbs up means yes unless it rains, or his knee goes, or there's something good on BBC Four. So that's thirteen and a Keith. Which is either three courts or three courts and a sit-out and I won't know which until about 6.55 tomorrow.
