National Tennis Day: A Study in Gremlin Management

In honour of National Tennis Day, I did what any sensible human would do: 

I dug out the tiny balls, found some tiny racquets of questionable integrity, and headed outside with the gremlins to whack things about with the vague hope of resembling someone who understands the sport and knacker them out so I can focus on not caring how quiet it is just long enough to enjoy a hot brew. 

The gremlins knew what day it was. They prepared accordingly.

Now, tennis in theory is a graceful, strategic contest. In practice — at least in my practice — it’s more of a hostage situation involving several tiny scaled creatures with malice aforethought fuelled by spite and a stolen can of Monster. Somewhere in the chaos there was a moment where I clocked one of them with a can and thought "I'll deal with that later" — and later never came, and now they're caffeinated and armed with whacking strategies and the ball keeps ending up three feet to the left of where physics intended. 

Their primary responsibilities appear to include: sabotaging timing, relocating the ball mid-swing, and whispering “you’ve definitely got this one” immediately before a catastrophic miss.

The thing about tennis is that it demands coordination. Footwork, positioning, racquet angle, follow-through — all those delightful elements that professionals execute with balletic precision. Unfortunately, gremlins are not known for their commitment to excellence, at least in anything productive. They prefer chaos. They thrive on it. They manufacture it. One moment you’re preparing a respectable forehand; the next you’re performing an interpretive dance while the ball bounces gently away in disappointment. 

Of course, this was always how it was going to go down. There was never a world in which I strode onto the court and unveiled a hidden talent. I'm not Barry.  No. Barry wouldn't need to worry about any of this. Barry would probably serve an ace, apologize for it, and offer to demonstrate the grip.  Or just recommission the racquet into a Lute and play something heart aching. It'd be infuriating if he was doing anything besides being simply himself.

The best I could hope for was a brief rally, a small personal victory, a bit of exercise that might be fun and minimal public humiliation. I achieved one of those things, which I consider a solid return on investment.  I survived, and that's probably about the most positive comment I can make on the matter. 

Still, there is something undeniably satisfying about the ritual of it all — the sound of the ball on the strings, the illusion of athletic competence, the fleeting belief that the next shot will be the shot. It almost makes you forget the gremlins entirely.   Almost.

So yes, National Tennis Day was observed. Balls were bounced and thwacked with maximum intensity. Dignity was non existent, survival of extremities negotiable. 

And the gremlins remain undefeated — but I like to think I made them work for it.