Summer 1964 and Summerfield Park was the chosen venue for the mini HLSS Tennis Tournament (I know what you are thinking, Handsworth would have been closer) I don't know how we got there - don't recall going in the city and out again, which means we must have got the bus opposite Springhill Library - quite a walk from the school. Anyway the six of us set up camp at one of the tennis courts,
minor problem - only 4 rackets, but we all got a fair share of play.
We had a great time, don't think anyone was keeping score, the main thing was just to enjoy the games - singles and doubles. 7.00pm approached rapidly so the next match was going to be the last, it was my turn to have a racket for the finale but two individuals would be left out, for want of equipment - my mate Brian thought otherwise, he searched around for anything he could use as a racket, all he could find was one of Big Barry's size 9s, and, with shoe in hand, he headed for my side of the net, the other racket-less player did the same so there was 3 a-side.
Big Barry was well named. He was tall and, frankly, a bit on the heavy side so it didn't take more than a mediocre drop shot or a ball further than a yard from him to better him, but when it came to serving
that was a different ball game. We'd been playing a few sets and it was obvious 3 a-side was cramping everyone's style; the time came for Big Barry to serve, it was then I got this sense of impending danger, which I dismissed as
silly, what possible disaster could occur on a tennis court,
and a grass one at that?
Read on.
I was an on-looker at this point, I wasn't due to receive Big Barry's serve so I could watch events unfold.
Then something strange happened as Big Barry prepared to serve, in a most professional manner he bounced the ball on the turf a couple of times and then, suddenly, it was as if I was watching everything in slow motion as an eerie stillness descended over the court - traffic noise stopped, birds fell silent and the gentle breeze disappeared.
Big Barry took a deep breath and launched his ball high into the air, whilst swinging his racket behind him as far as it would go. The ball reached its zenith, paused for a split second and began its decent, at exactly the right point Big Barry made contact with the ball,
and I was amazed at the quality of his serve. It was the sort of serve that an amateur makes once in a lifetime -
if he is lucky and the sort of serve that a Wimbledon Champ might make 2 or 3 times in their career.
To call the serve an Ace does not do it justice, it was absolute perfection in every respect.
The racket distorted under the strain as the ball left Big Barry's racket like a shell from a Howitzer.
Now, in the split second all this was happening, Brian, with shoe-racket in hand, made a fatal error of judgement, he got between Big Barry and Phil, who was receiving the serve. The ball crossed the net just a few inches above it in a blur and at near-sonic velocity. Brian looked on in horror as the missile approached him, with only a shoe for a racket
his fate had been written.....
Ladies, and those of a sensitive, innocent and caring nature, are advised to fast-forward to the next post, avoiding clicking on the thumbnail.
.....the tennis ball caught poor Brian full-on in the family jewels. He dropped like a stone, in fact I've never seen anyone fall to the ground so rapidly, and there he lay curled up and writhing in agony.
I know what you are thinking,
"His friends must have rushed to his aid." Wrong!
We all collapsed laughing, in our defense we couldn't have dome much to relieve his suffering, had there been a cylinder of oxygen nearby that would have come in handy. After a few minutes Brian uncurled and began to recover - no lasting damage would result, although he was destined to walk a little strangely for the next few days.
Needless to say the match was abandoned, we got our things together and headed for our respective bus stops - my 5 friends headed generally in the direction of school but I had to get to the Erdington-Sutton border, and I've been trying to retrace my journey home , there is no direct route as far as I can tell - I must have got the Outer Circle 11 bus via the Crown & Cushion, Perry Barr, onto Witton and then the Plaza, Stockland Green getting off at 6 Ways, Erdington and getting the 64 bus to the Yenton.
Goodness knows what time I got home, too late to do any maths revision,
again.
Ah! Happy days.
Regards,
Peg.
dad went to icknield st school after leaving burbury st school... yes i would imagine it could be very dodgy on brake testing days but as you say happy days
