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.

A Pension of Experiences and Memories

Turning 63 yesterday, as I undeniably did, I reflected that I really should have some wisdom worth sharing at this point. I mean, I’ve been around the sun a few times, seen my quota of good stuff and bad. Isn’t it about time I had something useful to share? 'Insightful' might be stretching it, but there really should be something.

Okay, well let’s try for a little something. It ain’t gonna be much, I can promise you that but, come on, we’re talking 63 years old now, I’ve gotta start dispensing some kind of wisdom soon or else it’ll simply be too late.

And, if you’re not there yourself already, let me tell you a little something I’ve discovered about being 63. It’s a darned sight older than 62.

Maybe it’s just me and the year I’ve had (fairly well documented in these pages). Maybe it’s just a general truism. Whatever it is, and I know I’ve only been in it for one day, but 63 starts to feel a little old. Maybe it won’t feel so old tomorrow (here’s hoping) maybe it will feel even worse. I’ll keep you posted.

So, we’d better get to that wisdom of mine before I fall down on the ground (again).

It’s pretty basic and well-trodden stuff, to be honest. And I didn’t come to it solely on account of my advancing year-count. In truth, I got to it via that well-documented ‘falling down’ I experienced in January of this year.

As a key part of recovering from that incident, I was required to spend some time as a resident in a physical rehab unit, where I mastered the art of walking all over again. Said rehab unit – a most excellent place with most excellent people – also doubled effectively as the main old-folks home in the town. So, for that recovery period, I lived alongside the residential elderly, and, for a time, I was as incapable and in need of care as any of them.

My point here is that I got a fair taste of that it is like to be an elderly person who lives in a care facility. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not old and I don’t think of myself as being old - I’m only 63, for God’s sake. But the experience I had gave me an opportunity to draw back the veil on that life and see what it is really like. And, for what it’s worth, I’m here to tell you that it’s not all that bad. The care is good and, most importantly, delivered at a human level. The food isn’t bad at all, and the people try to make you feel like one of the team rather then the target of the exercise.

There’s a TV Show called The Rehearsal where the central guy goes to extraordinary lengths to recreate locations and scenarios so that people can play out life events in a contrived environment to perhaps learn how best to deal with those events. I feel that’s kind of what I did during my time in rehab. I got to play at being old and infirm. I got to do ‘elderly lite’.

And before I share with you what I think I learned best on my ‘elderly lite’ programme, I need to acknowledge one thing that affects everything about my own experience. Apart from a few days early on, where long-term scenarios were being less positively predicted, my time among the elderly and infirm was coloured by one critical piece of knowledge. I was always getting better and I was always going back home. I have to respect the people I met there, who are still there and may always be there. Theirs is a different path to the one I walked, and I know this to be true and I respect it.

But my experience seems to have taught me something or, at the very least, reinforced something I may have always known.

And it is this:

As you move towards retirement, you try to amass some kind of little pension. An investment to see you through the remaining years (hopefully decades) of your life. I think there is another pension you contribute towards, even if you don’t know you’re doing it, and it is a pension of experiences and memories.

The reason I know more about it now is because I drew rather heavily on it when I was in my rehab place. Even in those early days when my life seemed potentially permanently altered, the old memory pension gave me something that I could usefully spend. I thought of the things I had done in my then-62 years. The people I had met. The people I love. The places I’ve been and the various bits and pieces I managed to do. And, perhaps critically, I found myself to be largely satisfied with what I found, there in my account.

Something kept me positive and mostly upbeat during that whole rather rocky time, and I put a lot of it down to that memory pension of mine. I have done a lot and if, for some reason, I didn’t get to do very much more, then the memories and the experiences were things I could draw on to warm me and lull me to peaceful sleep.

And finally, back on my feet again, rocking and rolling, there is an increased drive and incentive to get some more contributions into this virtual pension of mine. I don’t need to go into orbit or descend into the depths of the ocean. I don’t need to jump out of a plane or go to see Timbuktu. I know it sounds mawkish and a bit trite, but I see the leaves on the trees in full summer bloom, and I see them more clearly that I did last year. I will see them this way in my head if a day should come when I will not see them anymore.

So that's my advice to you, as I head boldly into 64. Pay into your memory and experience pension. If the choice arises to do something or to not do something... do it. 

Some day, your pension will pay out for you.

Drink With That?

Here’s something that annoys and rattles me hugely but which I’m trying to be better about.

A little background. Friday night is takeaway night in our little house-of-two. There are a few options but one is more oft used than the others and I’ll be there twice a month at least. They know me well there and so this thing doesn’t arise very often and, believe me when I say, that’s a very good thing.

But when there’s someone new behind the counter, at the till, and I step up to give in my carefully worked out order, well, this will almost inevitably happen.

“Can I have an ‘x’ and a small portion of ‘y’ and a…?”.

Sorry but I’m not comfortable with giving you my actual order here. There are levels of personal exposure than I am quite content with but telling you my order is several steps too far for my liking. Swap in your own preferences, you’ll get the gist.

“… and a little container of ‘z’?”

This is good. I’m half-way through my order now and all is going swimmingly. But the person behind the counter is new and doesn’t know me like the veterans do. Let’s assume she’s a girl for ease of pronoun management. It usually is, so let’s hope that’s forgivable.

I continue.

“And then could I have - “

But she has already weighed in, interjected, just as I feared she would.

“Would you like a drink with that?” she asks. Innocent, helpful, no doubt following the management script.

And now I am completely flummoxed. I cannot continue with my order. Not because I am a fool and can’t cope with the simple enquiry. Well… maybe there’s a bit of that. But, mostly, it’s something else.

“What is it Ken?” I can almost hear you cry.

It’s an amalgam of two different things.

The first is a small rage that billows immediately inside of me. My mind, my internal narrative, on one side of my mind, says something like this:

“No, I don’t want a fucking drink. And let me give you a clue as to why you should already have intuited that I don’t want a drink. BECAUSE I DIDN’T FUCKING ASK FOR ONE!  I have a mouth. Look, here it is. Right here. I also have a brain. You can’t see it, but I assure you it is in there somewhere and my communication with you should be proof enough that it resides somewhere there in my skull. So, if, and/or when, I want a drink you may rest assured I am well capable of alerting you to that fact. But, no, wait, perhaps you would like to just start off and read the entire menu out loud to me and I can try to emit some kind of a grunt whenever you get to something I might like. HOW WOULD THAT BE FOR YOU?”

That’s one side of my mind.

At the same time, the other side of my mind is saying something like this:

“Calm down. The girl is only asking if you want a drink. It’s not a hanging offence. There are three obvious reasons why she is doing this. 1) She is trying to save me money. The addition of a drink turns my order into a ‘meal’ and will work out cheaper than if I order it separately. 2) She is following the instructions she received at her training and 3) She is upselling a little bit, doing her part to keep the takeaway in profit and open for business. There’s no need to be angry and don’t even think about berating or even being mildly sarcastic with her. JUST GET OVER IT."

The effect of these two alternate internal narratives playing out simultaneously has this interesting side effect of rendering me completely speechless. The girl (as previously discussed, they could be any gender but, for the purposes of this story, they are a girl) asks her question and I stand completely silent, mouth slightly agape, for three seconds going on three decades. Then the conflicting reactions cancel each other out and I manage to pull out a response.

“No, thank you,” I say.

Then I smile, apologising with my eyes for being an old, confused fool, and then I plough on with my order.

And that’s it. That’s all.

Except sometimes I do actually want a drink with it.

But that’s a story for another day.