‘Advantage Mr. Woolworth’, said the Referee in his stentorian voice as Douglas Woolworth shot a forehand winner down the line to leave Jerome Harper even more baffled and out of sorts than he was after terribly losing the first two sets to Douglas.
Douglas Woolworth was Britain’s pride, a true vanguard for British’s lacklustre sporting arsenal. Woolworth was the current world number one in professional tennis, a position he had consolidated over the last 4 years. 15 grand slams, 62 career titles later, Woolworth was well on his way to becoming one of Tennis’ most celebrated legends.
On any other third Sunday of July, he would usually be playing the finals of ATP Masters Event in Toronto. With a prize money of 700,000$ most top ranking players didn't think twice about playing the tournament. So, when Woolworth called up Brian Ericson, the Chief Organiser to inform him that he was pulling out, Ericson was compelled to ask him- ‘Are you out of your blazing mind?’ Woolworth had said that he just didn’t feel like it, much to Ericson’s anguish, leaving the 350,000 people who throng to Toronto from all parts of the world to mainly watch Woolworth play and decimate his opponents, in sheer disappointment.
The little Devon Community of Clovelly was surprised albeit pleasantly to find out that Douglas Woolworth would feature in their annual Tennis Championships played out in their town’s small but sedate Tennis Club. The local favourite, Jerome Harper had won the last five editions of their revered tournament. ‘He wants some fresh country air.’- the Secretary of the Clovelly Tennis Club had surmised. Not many bought into his argument as a man like Woolworth with his millions of pounds of career prize money could get some ‘fresh air’ in places which were fairly far more exotic. Not a soul voiced regret as an opportunity to watch Woolworth play was well worth staking one’s life savings for.
Jerome Harper was the scapegoat Woolworth was using to captivate the few hundred people who could be accommodated in the courtside seats at the Clovelly Tennis Club’s Final’s Court. The people at Clovelly had probably never seen so many persons of the Press at once. Woolworth’s pictures were always front page material and the folk at Clovelly wanted to make the most of the chance to sneak into some of them.
Woolworth had been gifted a breakpoint for the twelfth time in the match now. He had successfully converted 7 of those leaving Jerome in an island of despair. He converted this one too with a fiery passing shot which elicited gasps of admiration from the small audience. Such expressions of awe were not unfamiliar to Woolworth who had received similar responses on several occasions when he played on the hallowed Centre Court at Wimbledon.
Woolworth was now serving for the match. He served up two aces on the trot to make the score 30-0. The crowd egged Jerome on, much like enthusiastic parents do when their toddler tries to pronounce a long difficult word.
Woolworth was now gifted three championship points as Harper contrived to frame the ball for the umpteenth time that evening.
He quickly served another sizzling ace to seal his victory and to seal a look of exasperation on Harper’s countenance.
The pair shook hands at the net as is customary after a tennis match and Harper remarked- 'Blimey, you play like how I play when I play in one of my dreams.’
Woolworth returned the compliment as he said-‘You don’t play too bad yourself. Serve up quite a twister, you do. Join me for a drink?’
Harper tried to remember how many times he had got a chance to talk over drinks with someone who had a personal wealth of over 120 million pounds. He couldn’t recollect any such instance and agreed to join the acclaimed sports star for a drink.
Back at the mansion Woolworth was staying in (Harper was aware that this was the biggest and most expensive home in the town), the two sat down across from each other imbibing what was quite possibly the finest whiskey Harper had ever had.
Harper looked around. All he had ever got to see of this house was its resplendent facade and the lavish portico. The interior did its bit of taking away his breath too- extravagant upholstery, tapestry that was fit for royalty, magnificent windows that seemed to accentuate the crimson hue of the evening sky.
‘Taken this place on a month long lease’, said Woolworth casually, as he downed his second peg for the evening. ‘How long have you stayed here in Clovelly?’- He asked.
‘Twenty six years, or simply all my life’, replied Harper.
Woolworth went on- ‘Came here when I was 5, to visit an old aunt. She moved to London some 20 years ago. She stays not far from where I do. Her name’s Mrs. Angela Hawthorne. You don’t know her by any chance do you?’
Harper smiled and asked- ‘5? Do you remember your visit at all?
‘Nothing at all’- said Woolworth grinning.
‘Mrs. Hawthorne you say? I think I’ve heard of her, but nah, I don’t remember knowing such a person’- Harper remarked.
‘She’s become quite batty now, she has. London doesn’t suit her much. But the old woman has the most remarkable memory. She remembers what I wore to her house back when I had visited her 22 years ago. An eidetic memory is what they say she has.’- Woolworth stated in a matter-of-fact tone.
The two chatted on for an hour and a half and Harper was left astounded by how Woolworth seemed to know a little bit of almost everything under the sun, whereas Harper’s very limited knowledge and understanding in the things they talked about, were quick to the fore, each time a new topic was brought up.
‘It’s getting a little late, Jerome. I better take leave of your very generous hospitality. Thank you for a wonderful evening.’- Harper said after finishing his fifth peg. The alcohol had induced a pleasing level of tipsiness, and Harper didn’t want to embarrass himself any further than what he had done with his complete ignorance on most of the things they had conversed about, by drinking more and going overboard.
‘There is something I’d like to show you, before I am deprived of your enjoyable company,’- Woolworth said. His voice betrayed a slightest bit of amusement.
‘And what might that be?’- Harper questioned, a wee bit flustered.
Woolworth went into his room and came out with what looked like a very old photograph, ready to come apart, but held together by plastic lamination.
‘Go on, have a look’- said Woolworth.
Harper looked at it suspiciously.
‘That’s my Aunt Angela.’- Woolworth said pointing to a tall rather dark woman wearing an old navy blue dress with a smile that looked rather forced.
‘And that’s me! This was the first time I had picked up a racket!’- Woolworth said placing a finger on a freckled, curly haired boy, holding an old wooden racket and smiling brilliantly.
Woolworth went on- ‘There standing next to me was the first kid I ever played a rally with. I guess he was 4 then. At least that’s what Aunt Angela tells me. You won’t happen to know him would you?’
But Harper knew the lad very well indeed. He couldn’t possibly have known him any better than he already did.
There standing next to Woolworth, with a smile that would give Woolworth’s smile in this picture a run for its money, was a 4 year old Jerome Harper.
He looked up, his mind having run the gamut of human emotions.
'Woolworth’s face wore a smile that would put the smiles of both the boys in the picture to shame.
‘Aunt Angela and the things she remembers.’- Woolworth sighed.
Douglas Woolworth was Britain’s pride, a true vanguard for British’s lacklustre sporting arsenal. Woolworth was the current world number one in professional tennis, a position he had consolidated over the last 4 years. 15 grand slams, 62 career titles later, Woolworth was well on his way to becoming one of Tennis’ most celebrated legends.
On any other third Sunday of July, he would usually be playing the finals of ATP Masters Event in Toronto. With a prize money of 700,000$ most top ranking players didn't think twice about playing the tournament. So, when Woolworth called up Brian Ericson, the Chief Organiser to inform him that he was pulling out, Ericson was compelled to ask him- ‘Are you out of your blazing mind?’ Woolworth had said that he just didn’t feel like it, much to Ericson’s anguish, leaving the 350,000 people who throng to Toronto from all parts of the world to mainly watch Woolworth play and decimate his opponents, in sheer disappointment.
The little Devon Community of Clovelly was surprised albeit pleasantly to find out that Douglas Woolworth would feature in their annual Tennis Championships played out in their town’s small but sedate Tennis Club. The local favourite, Jerome Harper had won the last five editions of their revered tournament. ‘He wants some fresh country air.’- the Secretary of the Clovelly Tennis Club had surmised. Not many bought into his argument as a man like Woolworth with his millions of pounds of career prize money could get some ‘fresh air’ in places which were fairly far more exotic. Not a soul voiced regret as an opportunity to watch Woolworth play was well worth staking one’s life savings for.
Jerome Harper was the scapegoat Woolworth was using to captivate the few hundred people who could be accommodated in the courtside seats at the Clovelly Tennis Club’s Final’s Court. The people at Clovelly had probably never seen so many persons of the Press at once. Woolworth’s pictures were always front page material and the folk at Clovelly wanted to make the most of the chance to sneak into some of them.
Woolworth had been gifted a breakpoint for the twelfth time in the match now. He had successfully converted 7 of those leaving Jerome in an island of despair. He converted this one too with a fiery passing shot which elicited gasps of admiration from the small audience. Such expressions of awe were not unfamiliar to Woolworth who had received similar responses on several occasions when he played on the hallowed Centre Court at Wimbledon.
Woolworth was now serving for the match. He served up two aces on the trot to make the score 30-0. The crowd egged Jerome on, much like enthusiastic parents do when their toddler tries to pronounce a long difficult word.
Woolworth was now gifted three championship points as Harper contrived to frame the ball for the umpteenth time that evening.
He quickly served another sizzling ace to seal his victory and to seal a look of exasperation on Harper’s countenance.
The pair shook hands at the net as is customary after a tennis match and Harper remarked- 'Blimey, you play like how I play when I play in one of my dreams.’
Woolworth returned the compliment as he said-‘You don’t play too bad yourself. Serve up quite a twister, you do. Join me for a drink?’
Harper tried to remember how many times he had got a chance to talk over drinks with someone who had a personal wealth of over 120 million pounds. He couldn’t recollect any such instance and agreed to join the acclaimed sports star for a drink.
Back at the mansion Woolworth was staying in (Harper was aware that this was the biggest and most expensive home in the town), the two sat down across from each other imbibing what was quite possibly the finest whiskey Harper had ever had.
Harper looked around. All he had ever got to see of this house was its resplendent facade and the lavish portico. The interior did its bit of taking away his breath too- extravagant upholstery, tapestry that was fit for royalty, magnificent windows that seemed to accentuate the crimson hue of the evening sky.
‘Taken this place on a month long lease’, said Woolworth casually, as he downed his second peg for the evening. ‘How long have you stayed here in Clovelly?’- He asked.
‘Twenty six years, or simply all my life’, replied Harper.
Woolworth went on- ‘Came here when I was 5, to visit an old aunt. She moved to London some 20 years ago. She stays not far from where I do. Her name’s Mrs. Angela Hawthorne. You don’t know her by any chance do you?’
Harper smiled and asked- ‘5? Do you remember your visit at all?
‘Nothing at all’- said Woolworth grinning.
‘Mrs. Hawthorne you say? I think I’ve heard of her, but nah, I don’t remember knowing such a person’- Harper remarked.
‘She’s become quite batty now, she has. London doesn’t suit her much. But the old woman has the most remarkable memory. She remembers what I wore to her house back when I had visited her 22 years ago. An eidetic memory is what they say she has.’- Woolworth stated in a matter-of-fact tone.
The two chatted on for an hour and a half and Harper was left astounded by how Woolworth seemed to know a little bit of almost everything under the sun, whereas Harper’s very limited knowledge and understanding in the things they talked about, were quick to the fore, each time a new topic was brought up.
‘It’s getting a little late, Jerome. I better take leave of your very generous hospitality. Thank you for a wonderful evening.’- Harper said after finishing his fifth peg. The alcohol had induced a pleasing level of tipsiness, and Harper didn’t want to embarrass himself any further than what he had done with his complete ignorance on most of the things they had conversed about, by drinking more and going overboard.
‘There is something I’d like to show you, before I am deprived of your enjoyable company,’- Woolworth said. His voice betrayed a slightest bit of amusement.
‘And what might that be?’- Harper questioned, a wee bit flustered.
Woolworth went into his room and came out with what looked like a very old photograph, ready to come apart, but held together by plastic lamination.
‘Go on, have a look’- said Woolworth.
Harper looked at it suspiciously.
‘That’s my Aunt Angela.’- Woolworth said pointing to a tall rather dark woman wearing an old navy blue dress with a smile that looked rather forced.
‘And that’s me! This was the first time I had picked up a racket!’- Woolworth said placing a finger on a freckled, curly haired boy, holding an old wooden racket and smiling brilliantly.
Woolworth went on- ‘There standing next to me was the first kid I ever played a rally with. I guess he was 4 then. At least that’s what Aunt Angela tells me. You won’t happen to know him would you?’
But Harper knew the lad very well indeed. He couldn’t possibly have known him any better than he already did.
There standing next to Woolworth, with a smile that would give Woolworth’s smile in this picture a run for its money, was a 4 year old Jerome Harper.
He looked up, his mind having run the gamut of human emotions.
'Woolworth’s face wore a smile that would put the smiles of both the boys in the picture to shame.
‘Aunt Angela and the things she remembers.’- Woolworth sighed.
