I love tennis. I’ve been swinging a racquet for 35 years now – it was at the gentle age of five that I began hitting foam tennis balls at the local community centre. Now that I’ve revealed my age, I might as well reveal that I often feel like my level of tennis is stuck in the 1980s. It doesn’t stop me, however, from absolutely loving the sport and all it entails.
In 2016, after having spent a couple of years settling into life in Hobart, something primal told me it was time to join a tennis club for some much-needed time out. It just so happened that my local club was The Domain Tennis Centre, and I promptly called to introduce myself.
I was asked by the club’s manager to come along and have a rally. I put on my old trainers, grabbed my Wilson racquet, and armoured myself with any courage I could muster.
Graeme, a much-loved organiser of the club, could not have been friendlier, and after just a few minutes of hitting the ball down the clay court, I had forgotten how rusty my game had become. That day, I knew that this place was going to be a perfect fit for me.
Thursday night pennants were nothing short of good old-fashioned fun, regardless of whether players came off the courts victorious or defeated. The beaming faces of members at the après-tennis quaffing sessions upstairs in Ye Old Fyshe & Frog Bar, are still emblazoned on my heart. I would stumble off the court after a gruelling match with Kath, often to find Vanessa, her sister, victoriously sipping bubbles in the bar area with a fulfilled smile on her face. Bubbles have a strange and highly contagious effect on me, which would always explain my prompt disappearance in search of some Jansz.
At the bar, I would instantly find that Justin, an indomitable player and fellow Brit, had beaten me to it, and was being served by a magnanimous Chris. The latter would often share his tales of bygone days – with stories of heroes, one of whom was a legless (in the literal sense) fighter pilot he had met along the way.
There were many pieces of memorabilia mounted on the wall behind him: vintage rackets, framed photos, old tennis balls and trophies. The photo that most stood out for me was of Serena Williams, who had played there years before.
The club is home to the Hobart International, where the best of women’s tennis comes together in the run-up to the Australian Open. Every January, the tennis centre opens its doors to the public for a fortnight of world-class tennis. Now that I live in England, I don’t know when I might next get the chance to sit in those stands and enjoy watching the Women’s Tennis Association play out their tournament.
Memories of jumping in the car and driving towards the Queen’s Domain to watch the Hobart International tend to flood the memory bank when a Grand Slam is on. It happened just recently, propelling me suddenly to jump online in the middle of the night in the hope of grabbing some tickets to Wimbledon. Withing 48 hours, we were on Centre Court-side watching Roger Federer play Lorenzo Sonego.
These tournaments offer the transcendent experience of seeing top-seeded players in action – fighting to the end to justify their professional ranking on the world stage. The skill and fitness of these players can be soaked up in abundance at such events – especially when they are just metres away.
The stakes are high for every player, and while most of us are hoovering up strawberries, a military operation is under way to ensure the smooth running of the competition. The tournament’s reputation is to be left unblemished. Ball boys and girls are all in position, focussed and robotic in manner; the lines people regularly swap, because a drop in concentration can result in injury from lightning bolt balls; retired champions-turned-commentators, like McEnroe are in their allocated boxes ready to give their experienced insights on the game.
The hierarchy is structured like a beehive. Everyone has a unique operation to manage. Suddenly the crowd applauds and cheers. The queen bee has arrived in the form of Roger Federer. The atmosphere on centre court is electric and I quickly realise that it’s not just anyone who can win a crowd over like this. The tennis legend has earned the respect of tennis lovers through resilience and dignity. I see him as a treasured oak tree who has grown through grace and strength. I suddenly feel overcome and realise that it is an honour to be in the London SW19 stands watching him play – maybe for the last time on this famous grass court.
From my seat, I stared at Federer as he delivered one of his seamless backhands down the line – and I wondered if my Tasmanian tennis friends might be watching Wimbledon on TV from the comfort of their living-rooms, just as I once had. Imagine if they spotted me in the crowd! It made me smile to think of them and the oodles of fun I had playing tennis in Hobart. The Domain Tennis Centre truly had been my Tasmanian Wimbledon and I loved every minute of it.
Clarissa Horwood grew up in Oxford, courtesy of her English father, and spent all her childhood holidays with relatives in France, courtesy of her French mother. She has a keen sense of the ridiculous, and can swear better in Spanish than either English or French.
Despite being so thoroughly European, she married an Australian and moved to Hobart in 2013. Their three children are adept at switching accents.
The family returned to Oxford in 2020 to be with Clarissa’s mother during Covid-19, and the move was such a major upheaval that it looks likely to be permanent. Her column, Letter from Oxford, will be about memories and connections between two cities a world apart, but it will be written in a Tasmanian accent.
.