Tennis Club

Saturday mornings in London were supposed to be relaxing.

This was a lovely idea that adults repeated to themselves while drinking coffee and ignoring reality.

Reality, unfortunately, involved children.

And this Saturday involved tennis.

“It’ll be wonderful,” Mrs Brand announced at breakfast.

“No screens.

Fresh air.

Exercise.

Discipline.”

Dad looked over his newspaper.

“You’ve just described prison with rackets.”

Across the table, Barry froze mid-cereal.

“…What’s tennis?”

Before Mum could answer, Marmaduke burst through the back door carrying half a croissant.

“My mum says we’re becoming sporty.”

Marjory followed behind him looking unusually cheerful.

“It’s tennis club!”

Alfie looked interested immediately.

“Tennis is good for coordination.”

Barry looked suspicious.

“Will there be snacks?”

“Probably,” Mum admitted.

Barry nodded.

“Then I support tens.”

The local tennis club ran a special Saturday morning beginner session for children.

The flyer had promised:

FUN

TEAMWORK

CONFIDENCE

FREE RACKET

The free racket was where parenting judgement failed completely.

“Plus,” Marjory added proudly,

“the courts are fenced in.”

The two mums exchanged the confident smile of women who had absolutely underestimated their children before. 

Mr Brand quietly muttered into his coffee:

“That sentence always ends badly.”

At 9:15am, the boys arrived at the tennis club.

The courts gleamed bright green in the sunshine.

Tiny nets stretched across miniature courts for beginners.

Children bounced excitedly everywhere in oversized caps and tiny trainers.

It looked wholesome.

Dangerously wholesome.

Coach Tim greeted them cheerfully.

“Welcome, boys!”

Coach Tim was one of those endlessly energetic sports coaches who looked physically incapable of sadness.

This would not survive the morning.

Each child received a junior tennis racket.

Barry held his like a sword immediately.

Marmaduke used his as a guitar.

Alfie inspected the grip professionally.

“These are not weapons,” Coach Tim said firmly.

Barry lowered his racket slightly.

“…Can they become weapons accidentally?”

Coach Tim laughed.

This was his first mistake.

The warm-up began with gentle jogging around the court.

Alfie ran neatly in straight lines.

Barry ran like a startled deer.

Marmaduke became distracted by a bee halfway through lap one.

“Focus on the running!” Coach Tim called.

“I AM observing nature,” Marmaduke shouted back.

Next came bouncing tennis balls.

Simple.

Safe.

Educational.

In theory.

“Bounce the ball gently on your racket,” Coach Tim instructed.

Alfie managed seven perfect bounces immediately.

Coach Tim looked impressed.

“Excellent control!”

Barry narrowed his eyes at Alfie.

Competitive energy activated instantly.

Barry attempted bouncing.

The ball flew directly into his own forehead.

BOINK.

There was silence.

Barry blinked slowly.

“…The ball attacked first.”

Marmaduke bounced his ball exactly once before accidentally launching it over the fence into the car park.

A nearby man carrying coffee narrowly survived.

“Sorry!” Marmaduke shouted cheerfully.

The man nodded in the exhausted way London adults often do.

Coach Tim remained optimistic.

“Alright! Let’s try some gentle hitting.”

This optimism was heroic.

Misguided.

But heroic.

The children paired up.

Alfie partnered quietly with another sensible child called Ethan.

They tapped balls back and forth beautifully.

Tiny Wimbledon gentlemen.

Barry and Marmaduke became a humanitarian crisis almost immediately.

“Gentle swings,” Coach Tim warned.

Barry nodded.

Then swung with the force of a medieval catapult.

The ball vanished over two courts and narrowly missed the snack table.

Several parents turned.

One whispered: “That child’s got quite an arm.”

Dad looked tired already.

“Yes. That’s the problem.”

Marmaduke tried copying Barry’s power.

Unfortunately, Marmaduke had no aim whatsoever.

His racket spun from his hand entirely.

The racket skidded dramatically across Court Three.

A little girl screamed.

Coach Steve caught it one-handed like a man disarming a bomb.

“Hold onto the racket,” he said weakly.

“I was being dynamic,” Marmaduke explained.

By 9:42am, Coach Tim had developed the expression of a man reconsidering his career.

Then came the serving lesson.

This was catastrophic.

“Throw the ball up gently,” Coach Tim instructed, “then tap it over the net.”

Alfie performed a respectable serve immediately.

Coach Tim nearly cried with gratitude.

Barry stepped forward next.

Everyone became subtly nervous.

He threw the ball absurdly high.

Lost sight of it entirely.

Spun in a circle.

Then accidentally smashed the ball sideways into the fence.

BANG.

The entire court froze.

Barry grinned proudly.

“POWER SERVE.”

Marmaduke clapped enthusiastically.

“That was incredible.”

“It was terrifying,” Alfie corrected.

At the next court, one small child had started crying quietly because Barry’s tennis ball had exploded their juice box.

Mrs Brand covered her face briefly.

Marjory whispered, “At least they’re energetic?”

“This is how hostage situations begin,” Mum muttered.

Coach Tim introduced a new activity involving teamwork.

The children had to balance balls on their rackets while walking carefully.

Finally, a calm activity.

Alfie moved slowly and steadily.

Perfect posture.

Excellent concentration.

Barry immediately decided speed was more impressive.

He sprinted.

The ball flew off his racket.

Hit Marmaduke’s racket.

Which hit another ball.

Which somehow bounced directly into Coach Tim’s pocket.

Nobody understood how.

Least of all Coach Tim.

Marmaduke looked amazed.

“We invented trick tennis.”

Then Barry noticed the fence.

Tall.

Metal.

Entirely climbable-looking.

“What are you thinking?” Alfie asked immediately.

“Nothing.”

This was never true.

A tennis ball had rolled outside the court.

Barry stared at it dramatically.

“I shall rescue the prisoner.”

“You can use the gate,” Alfie said.

But Barry had already begun climbing.

Mrs Brand spotted him halfway up the fence.

“BARRY BRAND.”

Barry froze.

One trainer dangling dangerously.

“I’m faster this way.”

“You are absolutely not.”

Coach Tim gently helped Barry back down.

“We stay on the ground.”

Barry nodded.

“…For most sports.”

Snack break arrived like a gift from heaven.

The children sat at picnic benches eating biscuits and drinking squash.

Coach Tim sat very quietly staring into the middle distance.

Dad handed him a coffee sympathetically.

“You alright?”

Coach Tim nodded slowly.

“Your younger son plays tennis like he’s escaping something.”

“Yes… yes he does,” Dad admitted.

Meanwhile Barry had discovered the giant basket of spare tennis balls.

“No,” said Alfie instantly.

Barry paused.

“I didn’t even say anything.”

“You were thinking something.”

Too late.

Barry grabbed two balls and stuffed them under his shirt.

Marmaduke copied him immediately.

“We are muscular athletes,” Barry announced.

Marmaduke flexed proudly.

“I’m basically Wimbledon.”

Then one tennis ball slipped free.

Dropped down Barry’s trouser leg.

Rolled across the court.

Straight between Coach Tim’s feet.

Coach Tim stared at the runaway ball.

Then at Barry.

Then quietly removed his whistle and sat down.

The final activity of the morning was a mini match.

This was deeply unfortunate.

Because Barry had now decided tennis was a contact sport. 

Alfie and Ethan played properly.

Careful shots.

Polite scoring.

Actual rules.

Barry and Marmaduke’s game looked more like wildlife footage.

“READY?” Barry shouted.

“ATHLETICS!” Marmaduke yelled back.

The first rally lasted approximately one hit.

Barry smashed the ball so hard it became temporarily invisible.

“OUT!” shouted Coach Tim.

Barry looked offended.

“How can speed be wrong?”

“That’s literally how tennis works.”

Marmaduke attempted a dramatic diving shot despite the ball being nowhere near him.

He slid gently across the court and lay there grinning.

“I regret nothing.”

Then came the final disaster.

Because every story involving Barry eventually includes one.

A loose tennis ball rolled beneath Mum’s feet.

She stepped backwards.

Dad reached forward to steady her.

Marjory grabbed Dad’s coffee accidentally.

The coffee flew upwards—

And landed directly onto the giant basket of tennis balls.

Dozens of wet tennis balls burst across the court simultaneously.

Children screamed with delight.

Barry shouted:

“BALL ESCAPE!”

Instantly every child began chasing bouncing tennis balls in every direction.

Coach Tim stood perfectly still in the middle of the madness.

Wet tennis balls slowly rolling past his trainer.

After what felt like several years, the session finally ended.

The boys collected stickers proudly.

Barry’s sticker read:

GREAT ENERGY!

Coach Tim had underlined ENERGY three times.

Walking home, the boys chattered excitedly.

“Tennis is AMAZING.”

“I nearly climbed the fence.”

“I invented power serving.”

“I slid like a pro.”

Alfie sighed happily.

“I actually really liked it.”

Mum smiled.

“That’s wonderful.”

Alfie paused.

“…Can Barry maybe play a different sport though?”

At home, Dad collapsed onto the sofa.

“Well,” he said, “nobody ended up in A&E.”

Mum nodded thoughtfully.

“That’s basically Olympic-level parenting success,” added Marjory. 

Upstairs, Barry tucked his free tennis racket beside his bed proudly.

“Do you think I could become famous?”

Alfie looked thoughtful.

“For tennis?”

“…Possibly not for tennis.”

And downstairs, somewhere deep in South London,

Coach Tim was probably sitting quietly in a dark room, holding a cold coffee,

and wondering why the fenced courts somehow hadn’t helped at all.