Tales from the tramlines. Real club players, real shanked volleys, real WhatsApp groups that got out of hand.
Nineteen. I have sat through nineteen committee meetings about club software. My wife keeps count. I have spent less time at my own children's weddings.
And after nineteen meetings, the system we chose still cannot tell me who wants a game.
March committee meeting. Any Other Business. Sue announces she is moving to Norfolk and somebody will need to take on Sunday mornings.
Long silence. Somebody coughs. The treasurer studies the biscuits with great intensity.
And I hear my own voice say: "Well. How hard can it be?"
Bev has asked me about six times to write this so here it is. Short version: I tried to fix one evening of tennis and it got out of hand.
"Anyone fancy social tennis Thursday 7pm? Courts 3 and 4. First 8 to reply."
That message, or one like it, went out every week at our club for years. And then the noticeboard. Look at the noticeboard.
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.
