Racquet's Revenge!

As a child, the nearest I ever got to a football team was being allowed carry a bucket of half-time oranges to those lucky enough to represent our school. (I've always felt that I danced on to the pitch with a certain athletic grace, but sadly never enough to be promoted to even last sub.) Over the years, I played the odd (in all senses of the word) game of tennis, and I recall that, for a couple of months circa 1965, I was a regular spectator at local rugby matches. A deep interest in the intricacies of the oval ball? Not a bit of it. A deep interest in the sister of the guy who threw the ball out of the scrum.

Anyway, it's not much of an exaggeration to say that I haven't a sporting bone in my body. (Though sometimes, for nothing other than pure relaxation, I do watch football on tv). So why am I writing about sport at all? Two reasons, both of which are somehow connected in my mind. First of all, for the last few months I have been afflicted with a very painful case of tennis elbow. I am receiving treatment, but I can't escape the feeling that there's poetic justice - if I were religious, I'd say divine retribution - in the fact that this, of all ailments, makes it impossible for me to play my beloved musical instruments. And the second reason? One of the big regrets of my life is that I failed to encourage and enjoy my sons' interest in sport; when their mother watched their matches, I should have been there, even carrying the oranges. I wasn't, and I have to live with that.