Racquets and balls.
Maybe it was due to inexperience, or maybe they had better things to do on a Sunday afternoon, as nobody in their right minds would organise a tennis tournament at midday in summer in Spain. The fact is that the final match had to be played off religiously.
This was the first time anyone had played tennis in public in this village, and the young people had decided that any decent twentieth century community should be open to tennis. The older folk neither knew anything about it nor did they really care. This became evident when they tried to find a place to put up the net and mark out the court. Total lack of sympathy with the cause denied them the possibility of setting up the court in the village square and even on the recently conceded football ground.
Finally, an open space on the outskirts of the village was found, and the enthusiastic youngsters set about to prepare the court. This was not at all easy as the land was dry, covered with loose soil and tufts of tough grass which stoically resisted the innocent attempts to pull them up as if they were enormous turnips, and these attempts more than often ended with bottoms hitting the dust. Another problem was painting the lines as the brush got clogged up with dust, and the lines turned out to be mere suggestions, a circumstance which was to cause considerable trouble later. The stakes which held the net up were hammered into the ground with great effort as the earth was a dry, almost impenetrable block, which would have needed an electric drill to do a decent job so stones were subsequently jammed around them to stop them wobbling.
However, against all odds the court was ready and the tournament began. Eleven brave boys ventured to enter the contest and by some unfathomable, mathematical miracle the number was reduced to two. These two were to dispute the final at that inappropriate hour on that memorable Sunday morning.
The umpire was Juan, a much respected and responsible member of the community, just eighteen years old at the time, who was determined to do things correctly. He had studied the exact measurements of the court and the rules of the game and was fairly satisfied with the results so far, especially considering the prime number of players. He appointed line judges and distributed the rest of the public, about ten people in all, strategically around the court to avoid having to pursue the balls down into some ditch or over some wall, a dangerous and tiresome task.
At last, the match was about to begin and the two finalists ventured onto the court. A coin was tossed to designate ends and the match started. By some twist of fate, both the players were called Antonio so the public had to shout surnames, Sierra and Perez. Sierra was the first to serve. He was a tall, dark, athletic boy, who leaped around the court with ease. His rival, Perez, had wavy brown hair and was more heavily built, but had a strong arm. This was not the first time they had played against each other as they were both seventeen and went to school together, and the results so far had been more or less a draw. This made the outcome more unpredictable and more exciting.
After an hour running around the court, both Sierra and Perez were beginning to suffer from the heat. There were various earthen jars with narrow spouts which keep the water as cool as possible and every now and then the players drank from the refreshing spurts. Soon they began to wet their faces too, but they were resisting. The score was one set each. The people around the court were beginning to sit down and move around trying to find a bit of shade. Every now and then a ball went dribbling down the slope on one side and somebody had to run off down to retrieve it. At other times the ball went too high and was lost over the garden wall of a nearby house.
After two hours, Sierra was winning by two sets to one, but Perez was winning the fourth. The game was slowing down gradually as it took more of an effort to keep running around. The sun at two o’clock was relentless. The players were sweating, the umpire was sweating, the public was sweating and wondering how long it was going to last. The players began to pour water all over themselves so their T-shirts stuck to their bodies and the dust stuck to their legs. Sometimes a ball hit a member of the public and whereas at first it was received with good humour and understanding, it was now received with grumbles.
Suddenly the umpire cried, “out” and there were protests.
“That wasn’t out. I saw it. It was in.”
The game stopped while everybody crowded around the spot. Sierra who had hit the ball had no idea. Perez was not sure. Some members of the public shouted in favour and others against.
“It was on the line”, cried out one.
“Where is the line? enquired another.
Finally, Juan decided that the umpire’s decision was final and the game continued.
This little incident, however, changed the climate of the game. As the atmospheric temperature got hotter, temperaments got hotter and the public began to shout out.
“That’s not fair!”
“Give him a beating!”
“Finish him off!” and other expressions of irate enthusiasm, provoked more than likely by an inward desire to go home and have some lunch, rather than a real involvement in the match. Nevertheless, the public stuck it out with great solidarity as it would have been just too much of a mean trick to leave the poor players to strive on alone.
After three hours, the score was two sets each and the scene was really pitiful. Both players were evidently exhausted and, if it had not been for their youth and self-esteem, one of them might have given up. The public would have been only too pleased because the thought of a nice cool beer, a decent meal, and a relaxing siesta was causing more than one inner conflict.
“Why don’t we put it off until later?” suggested someone hopefully.
”Yeah, come on, let’s finish it off later”.
Once more the game was stopped and Juan pronounced his decision.
“This is the last set and I think we should finish it now. What do you think?”.
He was asking the players and they agreed they should continue.
The last half hour was a bit more lively. The thought that the match was nearly over seemed to inject strength and will to resist. The public also saw the end nearer and began to give more positive support. Everybody seemed to resuscitate and the players were squeezing out their last bouts of energy. At last the score was five games to three in favour of Sierra and Perez was serving. His balls started to go out and, when he finally managed to get one in, Sierra hit it so softly that it just dropped over the other side of the net. Perez ran forward but was unable to reach it. He slipped and crashed into the net. That was the end of the match and Perez just lay there sprawled in the dust completely exhausted. Sierra ran over to see if he was all right. When he saw that he was, he helped him up surrounded by public and judges.
In the end, Sierra had won the match but neither of the players was very bothered at this stage about the result. It was a question of guts to stick it out and at the end, they were both satisfied and were equally congratulated by a very much relieved public.
They got the balls and racquets together, picked up the water jars and the whole little crowd set off down the hill for a shower, a late lunch and a long siesta. A glow of satisfaction had invaded them all, with an inner feeling of having taken a decisive step towards dragging their little village out of the dark ages and into the illuminated twentieth century.