Every August Bank Holiday we have a short Mixed Open Tournament at our
lawn-tennis club. It's quite a small, homely affair, but as our
President, Sir Benjamin Boogles, always offers two valuable prizes
(hall-marked), every member who can possibly enter does so. Each year
hitherto the Tournament has been finished in the one day; but this year
it is not finished yet--in fact, in one instance the first game of the
first set is still undecided, and the winners in the other sets are
anxiously awaiting the result in order that the second round may proceed
before the end of the season. As I am one of the actors--I might almost
say the protagonist--in this protracted drama, I will explain the
position.
Wilbrooke, our crack player, who can easily give most of us forty and a
bonus of five games in the set, and still beat us, recently became
engaged to Pattie Blobson, who is a hopeless rabbit at the game, this
being her first season. Not unnaturally she insisted on his entering the
Tournament with her. I always enter with Joan, and though we are neither
of us exactly rabbits it would be rather hard to find a zoological term
that would fittingly describe our standard of play. Of course there is
no handicapping in "Opens," and Joan and I usually reckon to be knocked
out in the second round at latest, though we did once get into the third
round owing to one of our opponents, a doctor, being summoned to a case
in the middle of play.
Now this year we both thought our tennis would be over for the day after
the first quarter of an hour, as we were drawn to play our first round
against Wilbrooke and Pattie. However, I won the toss, and to that fact
the subsequent _impasse_ may be attributed. I elected to serve first,
leaving Wilbrooke the choice of sides. The sun was not shining, so there
was little in it from the point of view of light; but the east end of
the court is just a trifle higher than the other, so he chose that.
I served first, and though I never peg them in to rabbits, I felt
justified in sending down a medium-paced ball in my partner's interests.
It pitched correctly, broke (unintentionally) and buried itself in
Pattie's skirt.
Fifteen-love.
I banged my first ball to Wilbrooke with all my might. It fell within
the Club precincts, but that's the best I can urge for it. My second was
an easy lob, which he smashed, and, in spite of my efforts to give it a
clear path, it caught me in the small of the back.
Fifteen-all.
My next serve to Pattie was a fault, which I followed up with an
ordinary "donkey" drop, towards which she rushed in the impetuous
fashion characteristic of the genuine rabbit, with the result that it
bounced scathless over her head.
Thirty-fifteen.
I then got a fast ball over to Wilbrooke, but returning it was child's
play to him, and he drove it like lightning down the centre-line before
I had time to call "Leave it to you, partner."
Thirty-all.
Again I served Pattie a fault. At the second attempt the ball performed
Blondin tricks on the wire of the net, and for one of those "moments big
as years" I feared we had lost the game, the service to Wilbrooke being
a mere formality; but fortunately the ball fell the other side of the
net, and my third delivery Pattie tipped to the wicket-keeper.
Forty-thirty.
I now determined to send two--if necessary--fast ones to Wilbrooke on
the chance that one might shoot and be unplayable. But my first ball
went into the net, and the _locale_ of the second can only be dimly
surmised, for it went over the fence into the open country.
Deuce.
It was at this point that I began to realize that so long as I did not
serve a double-fault to Pattie, Wilbrooke could never win the game, and
when we had played nine more deuces I communicated the intelligence to
Joan. Meanwhile, the other sets had all finished, and the players came
up to see why we were still hard at it. At the twenty-fourth deuce the
Tournament secretary remarked: "Last game, I suppose? Hurry up, we can't
get on." I explained to him that this was only the first game of the
set, and that similar prolongations were likely to recur when my partner
served in the third game and I again in the fifth.
The news spread rapidly, and for a time we were the most unpopular
quartet in the Club; but by the time we had reached our eighty-third
deuce, and luncheon (the gift of Lady Boggles) was served, hunger and
anger began to abate simultaneously, and the situation was discussed
with humour to the exclusion of all other topics. At the end of the
morning's play I was certainly feeling a trifle done up, but it says
much for the recuperative properties of chicken galantine and junket
that after the interval I felt quite invigorated and good for service
_ad infinitum_. Efforts were made to induce us to toss for the set, but
neither of us would consent to this, Wilbrooke maintaining that under
normal conditions I could not possibly win the game, and I arguing that
under existing conditions--with which I was more intimately concerned--I
could not possibly lose it, and therefore to toss would be a mockery.
Thus there was no alternative but to play on.
I suggested to Joan that as her presence on the court was not strictly
essential she should join in a friendly set with some of the other
unemployed. But she would not hear of it. She wanted to be in at the
finish, if there was ever going to be a finish, she said; and so we
continued.
When we were summoned to tea (kindly provided gratis by Miss Vera
Boogles) we had amassed 265 deuces, and though my right arm ached and my
service was a trifle wobbly I was still scoring the vantage point (and
losing it at once) with the utmost regularity. But the temporary
cessation of hostilities, associated with about half-a-pound of Swiss
roll and three Chelsea buns, served to restore me, and after tea we went
at it again until half-past seven, when, with the score at 394 deuces,
the net got tired and collapsed, and we adjourned.
We have since met on every available evening in our endeavours to bring
the game to a conclusion; but the score is still deuce, and at that it
will probably remain unless one of the following contingencies arises:--
(1) Pattie may improve so much with the constant practice that she will
be able to return my service; in which case it will settle the game, for
wherever we put the ball Wilbrooke is bound to get hold of it and drive
or smash it so that we can't return it.
(2) I may serve Pattie a double-fault. But I am now in splendid
training; my right biceps is like a cricket-ball, and I feel that I
could serve all day without tiring. Besides, the quality of my service
is improving, which counteracts, in a measure, the possible improvement
in Pattie's game.
(3) We may get a bright sunshiny evening, when the sun will be straight
in Wilbrooke's eyes; in which case, with my improved service, I may
possibly get a fast ball over which he will be unable to see.
Anyway, it is now certain that I belong to the Bulldog Breed.
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