Perfection. The story of one set of tennis

I have never been one for team sports. I prefer the lack of ambiguity associated with individual sports. Mediocre players can still make a living by hanging on to the coat-tails of superior teammates. I feel I must mention Michael Vaughn at this point. Enough said.

I love the idea of two competitors locked in combat, trying to break each other’s wills. I believe that, in the end, that’s why we should play sport; to satisfy that animalistic instinct. The ultimate sport, as far as I am concerned, is boxing. That’s why I believe that Muhammad Ali is the best sportsman of all time.

I boxed a little when I was in high school. Even though I was good at it, I didn’t like the sensation of my teeth clanging against each other and the taste of blood in my mouth. And that’s when I discovered the absolute beauty, symmetry and poetry of the game of tennis. I tolerated the “girly” jibes from my mates and stuck with the game for many years. Thanks to vicious brutes such as Goran Ivanisevic, Richard Krajicek and Andy Roddick, tennis has managed to shed its “sissies in tight, white shorts” tag. Thanks, fellas.

Last night, my high-school mate Chris and I got together for our weekly game of tennis. We’ve both recently started playing again after more than a decade-long hiatus. When we started playing again, a few months ago, we were horribly out of shape. I likened us to two boars (with our swine-like dimensions) embarrassing ourselves in shorts chasing after a furry ball. Nowadays the old feeling is back and we’re playing pretty decent tennis out there.

But last night was different. The Ekurhuleni skies (don’t judge me) were covered with clouds pregnant with rain, just threatening to come down. We didn’t fancy our chances of finishing the first set, but went ahead anyway. From the first warm-up ball I knew something special was about to happen. Both of us were hitting the ball more sweetly than we had in the past four months. I’ve had that sensation in recent weeks, but it always coincided with Chris being hopelessly out of sorts. And vice versa.

Last night we were both in our respective elements. It was a titanic struggle from the first point of the first set. We have a new playing partner who joins us most of the time. He has a decent tennis game but also an overly competitive spirit. He questions every marginal line call and remonstrates with himself loudly when he misses easy shots. As a result, the games tend to be tense, safety-first affairs where nobody wants to make mistakes for fear of losing.

We had none of that. The biggest enemy was the little green ball. The unwritten rule was, if a ball landed within 2cm of the line, it was in. We brought our best games, abandoning all the percentage shots. Chris hurled vicious 170km/h missiles down at me from his first serve. Okay; maybe 107km/h. Stay with me. I responded with incredibly angled forehand returns of serve. I abandoned my safe and trusty slice backhand and whipped backhand winners from awkward angles.

Whereas in the past winning games between us had been about who would make the first mistake, last night we went for the deepest corners and probed each other’s weaknesses. And no weaknesses were forthcoming. Only brilliant winners were winning points. It was the nearest thing to walking on water I had experienced in a long time. Each game went to deuce, advantage, back to deuce and so forth before it was won.

After breaking Chris’s serve in the third game, I was up 3-2 on my serve at some point. The game dragged on for a good 12 to 15 minutes. No one was budging. Deuce. Advantage Chris. Deuce. Advantage me. Deuce and so on it went. And then I decided that to take charge of the situation, I needed to change tactics and rush the net. I delivered a crisp, wide serve and Chris responded with a top-spun backhand that landed at my feet. With my eyes closed I executed a delicate half-volley. He responded with a wickedly angled forehand and I buried it into an open court with a firm forehand volley. Ecstasy. Beauty. Symmetry.

I finally won the set 6-4. A perfect set. Not because I’d won it. I would have felt the same regardless of who had won. In fact, as we took a drinks breather afterwards, a visibly excited Chris remarked: “Now that’s how tennis should be played.” We were robbed of a second set filled with the promise of the excitement of the first with Chris leading 3-1 when the skies opened. But we were not complaining.

The East Rand skies had been merciful enough to allow us an excellent 80 minutes of tennis. A moment to savour. A rare glimpse into what an individual is capable of under the right circumstances. From now on, each time we play we’ll be trying to match that magic. It’s not likely to happen. But we’ll never stop trying to reproduce the feeling we both experienced — the reason human beings play sport.

Perfection.

(Update: This piece was written on the morning of Thursday September 27. We played again Sunday morning and I sucked major eggs. Our line-calls-obsessed friend was there. He beat me 7-6 in a terse, ill-tempered set full of crappy, safety-first tennis.)

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