- Hold the Thin End
I remember the first time I saw Susan Rogers, otherwise known as Raven Rogers or simply “the Raven”: such a nickname was apt because she had long black hair, but also her tennis skills, which enabled her to beat anyone else quite easily. She was a tall young woman of nearly sixteen at that time, slim, tall and long-legged. And there she was, walking onto the grass to play another final; her lithe, graceful gait took her over to the baseline. She was dressed in tennis whites: you know those light polo shirts and little miniskirts. But that wasn’t the best bit: as Susan looked at the crowd and smiled gently, I could see the light glancing off her round metal-framed glasses, and her heavily corrected eyes confined within the thick lenses they thus contained. I could see she had pretty poor vision, that was obvious; something like minus 13 or 14. It didn’t seem to bother her though, and certainly did not stop her demolishing her opponent, who suffered badly at the hands of the all-conquering Susan.
I was out walking in the park a few weeks later, and happened to walk past the tennis courts there. In one court there was the familiar, tall figure of Susan playing, nay beating, some poor unfortunate girl. I stopped to watch, intrigued by Susan. It all seemed to come so easily to her: I was no tennis player, but I could see the skill in her play and how she steadily ground down her opponent. I could not tear myself away from this spectacle, nor from the thought and look of the glasses that Susan wore on her face. The lenses were so thick, they stuck out from behind her silver-grey metal frames, and also slightly in front.
She quickly despatched her opponent, and then turned to me, smiled, then said, ‘hello, we have an audience.’ To which I replied, ‘sorry, I was just passing. Hope you don’t mind me watching.’ She shrugged, so the pair of them had a bit of a knockabout for a few minutes. Susan then challenged her friend to another game, but was too tired and did not relish the idea of another hefty beating, so told Susan that she wanted to go and change. Susan then walked over to me, and fixed me with her lovely bespectacled gaze, her eyes shrunken, her face pushed in each side, and enough coke bottle rings for a whole fridgeful.
She smiled gently, and asked, ‘do you play at all?’ ‘No, I just watch. I saw you at the school championship this year. You were - are brilliant.’ ‘Thank you… Look, I sometimes play men to improve my game. You look like you might be good at the game, if someone taught you. Do you want me to teach you?’ I stammered out a “yes.” I knew that you held the thin end of the racquet, and that the idea was to hit the ball over the net, but as far as doing it, well… ‘OK’ She said enthusiastically, ‘we can start now, there’s people around who will lend you kit.’
I came out some time later dressed in slightly ill-fitting borrowed whites and carrying a tennis racquet. She came behind me and seemed to press herself against my back; I felt her bust like a warm cushion, but actually what she was doing was helping me get into the right stance. She explained, ’this is the easiest way,' then walked away over to her side of the net. She then called out, ‘don’t worry, I’ll be gentle on you.’ Actually it didn’t really matter if she was gentle or not; she still could beat me without trying at all. I then wondered if my best bet was being a ball boy rather than playing the game, but then she came over and told me, perhaps a little generously, ‘you’ve got some promise, you know.’ After our little experimental game, we got changed and went for a coffee. I was blessed with further views of her bespectacled face, which was a real bonus. We parted having exchanged phone numbers and made a date for further training.
- Deuce
All that summer long she taught me the game that she was so skilled at and intended to play professionally. I’m not sure what she got out of it, but she seemed to enjoy giving me the fruits of her knowledge on the tennis court and the occasional meeting outside. Then one day it was the end of the summer season, the tennis courts were shut for the autumn and that was that. We still met up now and again, but nothing for weeks at a time.
It was after Christmas, when I was wandering around in the January sales when I caught sight of the lovely, lithe Susan walking along the street, at first not noticing me, but then as I went up to her and said “hello,” she seemed to wake up and see me. I caught her gaze and she seemed to be squinting a little: for once she seemed quite unlike her normal bouncy self. She asked rather distantly, ‘oh. Hi there. How are you?’ I told her I was OK, then asked, ‘where are going today?’ Her demeanour looked grim and displeased as she said ‘I’m going to the optician to pick up my new glasses. My vision’s been getting worse again.’ Susan had never spoken about her eyesight before, but this news both disturbed and interested me. I asked, with more hope than I dared believe I could muster, ‘can I come?’ ‘Yeah, OK.’ We walked and chatted amiably about tennis and a few other things, then after a few minutes and round a few corners, we were in her opticians. She seemed slightly nervous: which was a novelty from her, the queen of cool. After a short time waiting, she was called into the optician’s office, wherein she remained nearly half an hour.
She came out, putting her hand on the door for support and encouragement, then she looked straight at me though her glasses: they were considerably thinner and lighter from the side, but the means by which this had been achieved was by the expedient of a myodisk bowl ground into each lens. It seemed to me that she couldn’t quite see as well as she had before; perhaps that was because her eyes narrowed a bit, or just because she needed to get used to the new lenses. She semi-groped her way over to a chair next to me and sat upon it. She then said, rather breathlessly, ‘sorry, I should have told you, my vision is pretty poor and getting worse. These are called Myodisk lenses, and what they cost in looks is made up for in effectiveness. Now I think I’d better learn to play tennis all over again!’ I took Susan home in my car, during which I asked her, ‘can you see clearly now?’ She said yes, but I wasn’t sure if she was telling the truth.
I did see Susan again before the summer, still sporting her new glasses. But this time it really was apparent that she could not see particularly well, even into the distance. I got the impression she was trying to hide her poor vision from me: I wished I could tell her it didn’t matter at all.
The next summer came, and was half over before Susan agreed to meet me for a game. I’d been practising over the summer with someone else, getting passably good, even considering how little interest I’d had in the game before I’d met Susan. She came striding onto court, her black hair tied behind her head, and wearing her glasses; except the lenses seemed thicker than the last time I’d seen her. I could only guess at her prescription, it was something like minus twenty, I estimated. Playing her was very interesting, because although I wasn’t that good, I nearly beat her. The reason was clear: she couldn’t see the ball as well as she used to, and therefore made mistakes. I said nothing about this as she congratulated me, looking rather longingly at me though her powerful lenses.
- Advantage
The months rolled by after summer: Susan started going on tour again, trying to win all sorts of trophies, but a few months later, well into spring the next year, she came back and visited me. I asked her how many trophies she’d won, and she replied unhappily, ‘only two.’ That was incredible news. I steeled myself, then asked, ‘why is that?’ She blurted out, almost angrily, ‘because I can’t see very well, that’s why!’ It was true: The great Raven Rogers was being beaten, and beaten badly, being as her vision had deteriorated from minus twenty to minus twenty-four. I offered to give her a game, “so that she could beat someone,” but she sadly shook her head and replied glumly, ‘I need to rest. I’m getting burned out.’
After several phone calls a few months later, we met up at an indoor court in early spring, the weather being too inclement to allow outdoor play. These days Susan took to wearing her glasses with a black head strap to hold them on: they were that heavy. She stood poised at the back of the court, squinting occasionally at me or something else in the distance, shuffling around with some degree of nervousness. Then we started. She still had the reactions of a cat and the strength of I don’t know what, but these were now not enough: I soon discovered that I could fool her very easily with spin and bounce, and before long I was actually winning! Imagine that, me; someone who had no real aptitude for the game against the mighty Raven, who had more talent in her little finger than I had all over! I felt so good, and yet so bad, and also so sorry for her. I started easing up on her: at first she did less badly, but she quickly realised and complained, ‘don’t do that!’ I replied, trying to sound completely innocent, ‘do what?’ ‘Let me win! I never did it to you, you know!’ Thus she obliged me to stop easing up, so of course, I beat her: not so badly as she had beaten me at first, but enough. She went to the benches, then sat looking exhausted and very unhappy. A few moments later, as I walked over to her, I could hear her sobbing softly: it was a cruel fate to be given such talent and then be robbed of the ability to put it to use. I jogged over to her, sat with her and gave her a hug. It wasn’t much, but it was the best I could do.
- Losing service
I met Susan again just after her eighteen birthday, so I forced her to let me take her out to dinner: she seemed to be looking at me with new eyes; they couldn’t see so well but certainly had me hooked. Later that evening I took her home and we ended up in bed. It was absolutely lovely: she thanked me, saying, ‘oh, I thought I would never find such a man as you, one who overlooks my poor vision.’ I nearly told her I wasn’t overlooking it, but didn’t want to overcomplicate matters.
More weeks and months sped by, taking us into wintertime. Her vision got worse and worse; her prescription starting to arrive at the minus 30 zone, thus requiring very thick myodisk lenses, visual acuity easily too poor to drive a car, I think something like 20/80. Just before Christmas that year she surprised me by challenging me to a game of tennis at the local sports hall, so we went there, both all dressed in whites. She was just the usual bespectacled girl I’d seen many times around my house and hers, tall and elegant, carefree and lithe. I wondered if I’d better ask her if I should go easy, but thought better of it. Well, I served the ball fairly softly, as it happens, but she missed it completely. She called out, ‘go on, give me a chance, it’s not fair!’ I did it again, really softly; this time she saw it just in time. She complained, ‘hey! No spin, please.’ This was a bit silly, really, and I knew it, but I didn’t want to make her feel bad. To see the mighty Raven reduced to this made me sad, but I was very glad I had been blessed with the opportunity to meet her and interact with her.
It didn’t take much time nor effort to beat my friend Susan now: she simply could not see well enough, nor far enough to spot the ball in time whenever I hit it with more force than a gentle tap. She gave up after the first set and came over to me, looking and sounding quite sad and despondent as she said ‘I thought you might at least give me a chance, thanks. Now what do I do, now that I’m partially sighted?’ ‘How about going into coaching?’ She did not look at all convinced, so I continued, ‘yeah, look, you taught me, after all, and I was completely hopeless at the start.’ I stopped myself saying I still was: that really wouldn’t have helped.
- New balls Please
Well, here we are two years later. Thankfully Susan’s eyesight has stabilised at minus 33 each eye but her visual acuity is around 20/100, and thus it’s pretty pointless playing tennis with her: she can’t see the ball very far away even if it’s not whizzing along at 100 mph plus, let alone with top spin and all the rest. But she’s a good sport and a good teacher, imparting all she knows to young kids on the tennis court down there. I can’t wait to get married to the lovely girl, all legs, squints and smiles…