This week's Sepia Saturday prompt features a group of tennis players posing for the camera. It immediately took me back to my own tennis-playing days in Cheltenham during the 1970s and, rather unexpectedly, to a scholarship that later took me to the Philippines where I occasionally played as well.
When I think back to when I learned to play tennis, I don't think of trophies or rankings. I think of the loose red surface of the court made from crushed brick and burned shale. I think of the hessian bags tied to a wooden beam and Big Macs in a styrofoam clamshell.
Because that's what I actually remember.
Cheltenham, 1970s. Saturday mornings.
The tennis courts at Cheltenham Presbyterian Church, 8 Park Road, sat tightly tucked between the church hall and the railway line. The surface was en-tout-cas—a French term for a very un-French reality. It was loose, porous, red. It looked pretty. It played mean.
My mother enjoyed competitive tennis and the social life that came with it. She thought it might do the same for me — bring a shy girl out of her shell, perhaps find her place in a crowd. She was right that tennis gave me something. But it wasn't a crowd. It was Karen, a bicycle, and a Saturday morning that felt entirely our own.
After my mother's divorce from her first husband, she joined "Parents without Partners" (PWP). She went along to their tennis social days, where members who were interested could get together and play while the children ran around the periphery of the court and played with each other. It was a way for divorced singles with children to meet. It was a lot of fun for everyone.
At first my two younger brothers and I went together. Eventually they got apprenticeships and drifted away. Then I went with my best friend, Karen. We lived near Bernard Street and rode our bikes each week to Park Road. The hill up Charman Road on the way home felt like a mountain after a morning of running.
We always stopped at the McDonald's near Southland. A Big Mac cost about $1.20 and came in a thick styrofoam clamshell. Half a century later I can still recite the jingle:
"Two all-beef patties, special sauce, lettuce, cheese, pickles, onions on a sesame seed bun."
The lessons themselves were simple. We lined up single-file at the baseline. The coach fed balls from a big wire basket or a plastic garbage bin. Step up, hit one forehand, run to the back of the line. I had a heavy wooden racquet—Spalding, I think—and wore Dunlop tennis shoes.
But the real lesson was the court itself.
The en-tout-cas surface would become uneven as play went on. Our sliding feet scooped out divots, exposing the harder base layer underneath. A ball hitting the edge of one of those divots would shoot low or kick sideways. The area where we served and rallied got completely chewed up by the end of a match. You had to watch the ball all the way onto the strings. You simply couldn't trust the bounce.
Between matches we "bagged the courts"—dragging heavy mats of old hessian sacks attached to a long timber beam. We'd grab the rope handles, lean forward, and walk in overlapping spirals from the net down to the baseline. It erased all the divots, leaving the surface like a smooth red carpet. If it was dry and hot, we watered the courts too. The en-tout-cas needed constant moisture.
I don't remember ever getting a medal or a trophy. I remember laughter. I remember Karen. I remember the freedom of those Saturdays.
The local church still exists. The Cheltenham courts are long gone now. The red en-tout-cas surface has disappeared beneath a multilevel station car park.
But tennis wasn't finished with me yet. The next court couldn't have been further from those crisp Cheltenham mornings.The Philippines
A few years later —still at school—I travelled to the Philippines on a scholarship. I have three photos from that time, tucked into an old album. Next to them, in my own handwriting, I wrote:
"A few relaxing moments, but I didn't do this often ‘cause it was just too hot. Most people played tennis in the early hours of the morning or night."
That caption says everything, doesn't it? The modesty of "a few relaxing moments." The honesty of "just too hot." The quiet adaptation of learning when not to play.
The heat and humidity in the Philippines was a living thing. Nothing like those crisp Saturday mornings at Park Road, where you could see your breath sometimes, where the red dust stayed dry underfoot. In the Philippines, the air sat on your skin. Your racquet grip turned slick in minutes. The ball felt slower, heavier, as if it didn't want to move either.
No hessian bags to drag. No divots to sweep. No McDonald's stop afterward.
But here's what I didn't understand at the time: I had already learned the most important thing back on that uneven red surface in Cheltenham. I had learned to watch the ball all the way onto the strings. I had learned that you keep showing up—even when the bounce is unpredictable, even when the heat is punishing, even when you're a long way from home.
The years between
As an adult, I rarely played tennis due to work commitments. Although occasionally I did manage to get out.But my son had other ideas. One afternoon I looked up mid-rally to find him on the outside of the court enclosure, toddling cheerfully along the fence, peering in at me as though he'd simply stepped out for a stroll. To this day I'm not sure how he got out. Nobody else seemed particularly alarmed — other players just smiled and kept going — but my mind immediately ran through every possible mishap between the gate and the car park. He wasn't a bad child. He was just gloriously, exhaustingly adventurous. After that, tennis with small children felt less like recreation and more like a sport of its own.
When the kids got a bit older, I tried again. This time with a different friend. I drove 45 minutes each way for lessons with a professional tennis player. It was fun but not very practical, with all the travel and needing to work part time and pick up the children from kindergarten and school.
When the kids left home, I tried again. No more lessons. A girlfriend and I hired a local court and just went out to play. But this time it was work that got in the way. Trying to manage shifting schedules was difficult.
Despite all the difficulties, I still have a tennis racquet. I still like to get out on occasion. I might be rusty and get easily puffed now, but it's still a lot of fun.
Two countries. A lifetime of courts. One game.
The specific details have faded over the years — the red dust, the bike rides, the courts I can no longer name. But the feeling underneath all of it hasn't. Tennis kept finding me, and I kept showing up.
And now I have a photograph album that adds a second line to the story: a teenager in the Philippines, racquet in hand, admitting in tidy handwriting that it was a bit too hot for regular play.
The carpark on Park Road doesn't bounce anymore. But somewhere in the Philippines, on a court I can no longer name, a ball is probably shooting sideways off an uneven patch of clay. And someone is watching it all the way onto the strings.
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