Ball Person

Wimbledon fortnight ends this afternoon and this year, as ever, it’s been a sizeable feature in our little household. Patricia plays tennis and is very good at it, so she knows a lot about the intricacies of the game. Her couch comments frequently prompt the on-screen commentators in what they are about to say. It’s very entertaining.

So, yes, I’ve watched quite a bit of Wimbledon, just as I’ve watched quite a bit of Roland Garros and the Australian and US Opens too.

And I’ve marveled, - yes marveled is the word – marveled at the outlandish skill and power of the participants. The dogged determination that is often required to get over the finish line as number one.

But there is one peculiar little aspect of the game that engages me even more than the on court-battle itself. That is the way the players receive the balls from the ball kids, just before serving, and the manner in which they select which of the balls to use.

I mean, is there a better visual representation anywhere in the world of the 'Ten Thousand Hours’ that is oft cited as being required to get really good at something? These players have spent so much time with tennis balls. Catching them, tossing them, stowing them away for a possible second serve. They have become blindingly adept at working with them.

I find it endlessly fascinating. The call for so many more balls that is needed. The visual inspection of the proffered balls and the offhand rejection, straight to the ball person, of the candidate perceived to be the weakest. The sleight-of-hand disappearance of the second serve ball. Even the bounce. Watch Djokovic. His bounce defies gravity, never heading directly for the earth but rather projecting at some diverse and forceful angle of the player’s own careful devising.

I watch these ball manipulations and I wish I could write like that. I aspire to that. I think I have my ten thousand hours well and truly clocked in at this point. But, still, I fumble with my themes and stall before my pitch.

I wish I could have three fuzzy yellow ideas tossed at me. I wish I could momentarily juggle all three in one hand before sending the weakest one rolling away. I wish I could tuck one spare in my pocket for later, though I reckon the first one will be so strong I won’t need it until much, much later. I wish I could throw that idea up in the air and smash it into the sweetest zone on the far side of the net.

And, if and when it comes sailing back, I wish I could return it with interest.