Game Set and Match – By Lorraine Weightman

I remember being taken at about the age of eight – during the long school summer holidays – to Sherburn park in Consett, to watch my brother playing on the tennis courts. He had all the gear, white shorts and top and proper tennis shoes, as did everyone else there.

We had all recently watched Wimbledon on television, so tennis fever was high. I can also remember the weather being hot and sunny –  even for Consett – and I’m hoping my memory serves me well, yet I’m pretty sure it does. 

My brother, being a good few years older than me was an all round athlete, already known locally as a cross country and track runner, he seemed to be able to turn his hand to anything.

He was especially confident on winning that day, as our Auntie and Uncle who were visiting from London had brought a gift. Apparently they had some connection to Wimbledon and had acquired a box of second hand tennis balls used there on the courts during the tournament; and they had kindly donated them to us.

I was lucky enough to be able to carry them after being told the story. I recall them looking brand new, noticing the distinct rubbery smell that greeted my nostrils as I opened the box.

Consequently, on the way home, enamoured by the story, and thinking of how those  tennis balls had graced the rackets of professionals, I asked if I could learn the game.

My brother agreed, and the next day we booked a court and paid our money close to the Pavilion in the park.

Bearing in mind my age, the tennis racket was nearly as big as me and I noticed my hand was not large enough to grip the blue leather handle. No matter the game began.

And of course, even though he was trying to coach me and tell me where to hit the ball, I missed every shot. However, I do remember him, to this day, still shouting out his tally every time he scored a point.

15 love, 30 love, 40 love, game! 

He soon realised I’d need to start off at a much slower pace so he tried to teach me to serve. Unfortunately we abandoned the court early as I was way in above my depth, yet I was still determined to learn.

The following day he took me to Woolworths in Front Street and on the instructions of our Auntie Rose, I was treated to two plastic children’s tennis rackets, one red and one yellow in a net bag which included a soft sponge ball.

I spent the next few weeks practising hitting the ball against the gable wall of my family’s house in Alexandra Street that backed onto Ash Street, while keeping the scoring and terminology in my head.

I’d just learned deuce, I didn’t know how it was spelt so imagined it as ‘juice’, but couldn’t fathom out why 40 40 would be known as that!

Actually, even now, at the age of 68 I asked myself while watching Wimbledon this year,

‘What the deuce does deuce mean?’

Reprimanding myself for not knowing this ,  among many other historical facts, I decided to investigate!

Apparently the game dates back to medieval times in France, where it was known as “jeu de paume ” which translates as ‘game of palm’ as players used the palm of their hand to hit the ball. And the scoring is related to the length of the court, which was allegedly 45 feet long on each side of the net, so when a player scored they were allowed to move forward 15 feet: after winning another point they could move another 15 making it 30, and after that were only allowed to move 10 feet to achieve 40, so they weren’t too close to the net, Sounds feasible. Scoring system explained, I read on:

Allegedly deuce is derived from the French “deau de jeux” meaning ‘two to win’ indicating the player was required to win two consecutive points after 40 – 40 to seal the game. That’s makes sense too!

It’s also believed as the game progressed  and rackets were introduced, the name ‘tennis’ evolved, derived from the French ‘tenez’, which means ‘take this’ or ‘be ready’, and was said by the server before the point began, to alert their opponent.

Unravelling the history of tennis succeeded in making me thirsty and peckish. So in true Wimbledon tradition, while settling down to watch the final, I decided on a whim to celebrate with strawberries and champagne.

However on examining the contents of my fridge, I found the strawberries were on the turn and distinctively inedible! Furthermore, the only poor relation I could find to champagne was Prosecco. To make matters worse when I looked at the bottle it was named ‘Nozeco’  and alcohol free!

Never mind, there’s always next year.  

Cheers!