Results tagged “wheelchair tennis” from Looking Up

This weekend, I got to tick another box on the 'Bumper List Of Unusual Experiences.'

It was quite tricky finding the box marked 'Played tennis in Trafalgar Square', hidden as it was between 'Pickled a jar of ants eggs' and 'Pleated home-made kilt'. Some say it is pointless keeping such a list, but as I demonstrated on Saturday, you never know what opportunities life may present.

The event was the Liberty Festival 2010, an annual event in Trafalgar Square which celebrates all aspects of disability arts. Sadly, the event suffers from a real lack of publicity, as can be seen with a quick web-search. The top hit is a hotel group website that announces,
"The Liberty Festival provides deaf and disabled people a golden platform to expose their instinctive talent in front of British people."

Though we sadly lacked a 'golden platform', I took part in the event as a part of the Wheelpower presence. We were there to demonstrate wheelchair sport as part of the wider move to publicise disability sport ahead of the Paralympics in 2012. It was great to play a a little 2 on 2 basketball, which reminded me of the fun to be had with the sport. I have great intentions of joining the training with my local team, should I ever get around to it.

Following the basketball, we attempted to demonstrate wheelchair tennis in a space that was 10 meters square. With a small net and transition balls in an attempt to reduce injuries among the crowd, we ran through some drills and got some of the kids in the crowd to have a go in a sports wheelchair. Luckily I only walloped one person (who was part of the staff) when we tried to demonstrate the service action. The rest of the event passed off peacefully and the response from onlookers was really positive. I felt proud, having 'exposed my instinctive talent in front of British people.'

An exciting extra dimension to the Wheelpower contribution was provided by Rachel Gadsden, who set about capturing the event in dramatic style on a huge canvass in front of the National Gallery. The coming together of art and sport in this way was really inspiring, and has led me to add a number of other boxes to my Bumper List...

So, it was as I predicted. I choked, I froze, I generally went to pieces on the baseline, and the court stubbornly refused to open up and swallow me. In short, I did more to demonstrate the importance of good sports psychology in one weekend than could have been achieved in a year of victories.

But for all of that, I came back from the weekend feeling energised and more enthusiastic about tennis. I remain a passionate believer in the vital role that sport can play in physical well-being for many people, especially after sudden disability. But there's something more and, not for the first time, I find an entry on Andrew Farrow's blog that is both timely and apposite.

For me, tennis provides me with moments of total focus when I am oblivious to all else. It was this sense of my 'mind quietened' that drew me to climbing and working at height (up a tree for example). This coupled with an acute awareness of every movement, and an almost hyper-reality that I felt which no doubt came from overcoming one's instinctive anxiety about being off the ground.

However, tennis involves something altogether less familiar and utterly fascinating. When playing under pressure, the body suddenly decides to do something completely different to what is asked of it. Instead of fluid hitting through the ball, the shoulder decides to get heavily involved and a simple topspin forehand becomes a drive that a pro-golfer would be proud of.

Please forgive me if it sounds like I am covering the same ground as in numerous previous missives. It's just that I think I am beginning to understand what fascinates me about the collapse in my co-ordination...

Over the last five years, I have spent many, many hours becoming extremely aware of my physical manifestation. The loss of function and sensation in one half of my body seems to have intensified my experience of 'how the other half lives'.

Coupled with this increased awareness of sensation has come a need to consciously think about how to look after the rest of me, the part I can't feel. I have had to learn how to assess circumstances or incidents in terms of injury risk without the signals that one instinctively relies upon. In other words, just because it don't hurt, doesn't mean it ain't broke. And fixing it is often more complicated, too.

I have learned how to balance myself and my wheelchair when even the tiniest movement can be enough to throw me off balance. There is a tendency among some in the SCI community to view people who still have functioning abdominal muscles as being able to balance and function like any able-bodied person sitting down. While it is true to say that I can sit upright in a chair without leaning on a backrest, it takes very little to unbalance me. If I reach out with one arm, for example, I have to work extremely hard to avoid losing balance, and I certainly couldn't pick up anything of even modest weight without holding on to something with the other hand for stability.

But all of this has become (almost) second nature, yet another example of our astonishing ability as a species to adapt and overcome profound adversity.

I still can't hit a tennis ball if anyone is watching, mind.

Ah, the joys of the self-fulfilling prophesy.
Late due to traffic, I take to the courts in a hurry (unnecessary as there were few matches to be played today). Sure enough, my serve abandons me, returning late in the game, just in time to say farewell to my forehand.

The annoying thing is that I lost to a player less experienced than me who I play with nearly every week, and who simply held it together better than me.

I have realised that this is because I don't play enough tournaments to get used to the competitive pressure. I hate it. But yet I can't help coming back for more. Tennis competition is the crack of the sporting world. After 'tournamenting' I feel sullied and grubby. I leave my dignity on the service line, along with any ability to play that I may have erroneously believed I had.

If I win, then there is a high, but it's tinged with an 'it's only a game' hollow feeling. But if I lose, then it's 'I knew that was going to happen, who am I kidding.'

And still I come back for more. I am fascinated by the battle for self control, for focus. I am intrigued by the feeling of exposure- there is nowhere to hide on the tennis court. If I double fault, then the next serve holds even more pressure. It can get worse. I could double fault through an entire match. It is possible.

One good shot and I'm planning ahead, thinking of the games, sets and eventually match I'm sure to win. One bad shot and I can feel the humiliation of not winning another point. EVER. And I can feel the eyes of the entire world boring into me through the tinted glass at the end of the court.

All this goes to show that I'm just not cut out for this, and I've still got the doubles to go.

But I'll still be back next year.

Yes, people.
It's that time of year when I drag myself screaming (but not kicking) to the National Wheelchair Tennis Championships in Gloucester, just so my serve can fall apart, I can buckle under the pressure of playing in public, and come home full of frustration and remorse at losing to people I know I should have beaten. And all for fun.

That's the trouble with tennis. At some point in the first few goes, you hit the ball well. By accident, it may be, but it doesn't stop the brain from setting that as the benchmark by whihc all future shots must be judged.

At least when I played football, it was a fluid situation, where I could run around lots and show willing, even if I was having a bad game. And I could always hurl myself enthusiastically into a tackle to win the respect of my team-mates.

But in tennis, you're all alone. In fact, it's worse than that. You have yourself for company, and that's often the most difficult person to win over.

At least it's a different kind of pain, for a change. And it's all for fun. Wish me luck.

It's taken several days for me to face up to the weekend's events. I have been brooding, asking myself what went wrong? Could I have done anything different? and where does this leave my future plans?

OK, here we go.
My tennis coach Stuart arranged a surprise opponent for a match on Saturday evening, and I turned up at the National Tennis Centre with a keen sense of anticipation.

The match was not my best, I served too many double faults, and failed to take the break points when I created them. I lost the match 2-6 3-6. My opponent Alfie was just too good for me on the day.

As I'm sure many people will gleefully testify, this is not the first time I have lost at tennis.
However, it is the first time that I have been beaten by an 11 year-old.

In my defence, he is an exceptional 11-year-old. His technique is good, as is his shot selection, and his reading of the game is particularly astute for his age. The funny thing is, all the talk in most sports is focused on 2012 when he'll still be only 14, although if his progress this far is anything to go by, he'll certainly be there or thereabouts.

But this tale serves to highlight one of the great things about wheelchair tennis. Until you get to the very top level the sport acts as a great leveler, where strength or speed don't always win out. If you can put your opponent on the 'back foot' as it were, then you make them do all the work. I know this, because people often make me do all the work.

So, once again I left for home feeling crestfallen. Still, at least when I got there I could enjoy a glass of malt whisky, check my lottery ticket and stay up as late as I wanted...

As predicted, there was a certain amount of precipitation during our camping adventure. Not enough to cause us to flee to the nearest hotel, but just enough to remind us that we were camping.

The other reminder that we were camping came every night when I attempted to lie on an air mattress. This was a cheap and cheerful model which we were using to make up the full complement for our tent, but could just as easily been employed as a fairground ride.

Getting on the mattress was rather like trying to climb on an irate dolphin in a paddling pool full of lard. But the real fun came when I tried to turn over in the night. Plunging my fists into the mattress in order to shift my weight would result in my backside being thrown up in the air. As soon as this happened, I would lose my balance, causing me to land awkwardly and bounce off sideways. Once I had regained my dignity, the whole process would start  again.

This worked well as a distraction from the pain in my legs which wakes me up most nights, but which was made worse by the cobbled streets of Chartres and the bumpy ground of the campsite.

Otherwise it was the usual litany of excess that France seems to subject me to. Lots of wine, cheese, and meat products topped and tailed with pastries and what must surely be the best bread in the world.

In fact, I didn't even manage to do much in the way of holiday reading, the calorific overload and the prospect of the effort involved in winding up the wind up lamp reducing me to idle thoughts, such as:

Why do so many people now lift the hose up and shake it after filling their car with fuel, when they have just used the trigger on the nozzle to turn the flow on and off?

and:

In dry cleaners, are those machines just behind the counter just pretend to give the whole place a cleaning vibe? There's never anything going around in them, and they look like a pimped up version of the machines in the launderette.

and, of course:

What's that crawling around outside? Should I try and get up to investigate, or will the airbed fire me out of the tent at high velocity, causing me to crush some kind of local endangered species?

So now we're back, and it's time to put the brain back into gear. For those that didn't see it, my weekly column for The Times finished this week with a look back and forwards.

It was great to have the opportunity to reflect on the fantastic stories, comments and support that I have received over the last six months, and I would like to offer my thanks to all of those who got in touch.

So now I'm getting ready to speak at a Symposium on Integration in Sport up in Nottingham tomorrow, of which more in due course...

Yes, Wimbledon. Sun, sandwiches and the most outrageous parking charges. And swarms of hysterical adolescent girls, including one who was squeaking into her phone,
"Mummy! Mummy! Roger Federer just TOUCHED me!"
 It was of course hero worship rather than anything inappropriate, but I'm not sure it's a great boast to make in public.

The tennis was great. A thrilling final that went all the way. Fantastic rallies in front of an appreciative crowd. That said, we all looked up from time to time to see what was going on over on Centre Court, watching the scoreboard ticking over.

As you may have gathered, I was not on the 'show courts'. I'm instinctively suspicious of anything prefixed with 'show'. Show trials, show jumping, show tunes, show offs, and of course, 'show me the way to go home'.
For me, Wimbledon was all about the wheelchair tennis on court 4, which culminated in a fantastic final match eventually won by the French pair Houdet (professorial) and Jeremiasz (Jean Reno lookalike).

One of the most entertaining aspects of the weekend came in the form of overheard comments made by people passing the court. Comments like:

"It's amazing! It's like proper tennis!"

Or the conversation between two passers by on their way to Centre Court:
"We're going to miss our seats."
"F**k that! This looks much more fun!"

The weekend has left me exhausted, red of the face and neck, and determined to improve my tennis...

Today's Times piece is a timely reference to tennis. For while the echoes of the centre court excitement have barely faded, I am preparing for my appearance on court 1 this evening.

Ok, it's court one of the National Tennis Centre at Roehampton. But I had you wondering, didn't I? And I do have a mean backhand slice, by the way.

There will be wheelchair tennis on the last three days at Wimbledon, but it will be doubles, as grass rather slows the wheelchair down, so the doubles game will offer a better viewing experience. It will feature the top seeds in both the men's and women's game and there is going to be coverage on BBC interactive, so if you can, I would recommend having a look.

I know I probably keep banging on about it, but I do think that wheelchair tennis  has tremendous potential to be more integrated into mainstream sport. There is no reason why the wheelchair draw could not be integrated into the top tournaments. Thanks to the hard work put in by Mark Bullock at the ITF, there is now a wheelchair competition at all the Grand Slam tournamnets, but it would be even better if the matches were played on the same courts during the main competition, the same as doubles, juniors, etc.

Obviously, Wimbledon presents a unique problem, as the grass prevents decent singles competition, and no doubt players would complain if there were tyre prints all over the baseilne, but certainly the hard-court tournaments could be more integrated.

I know, blah, blah, blah, so I'll stop now.

By way of a contrast in the integration game, here's a conversation I had on the forecourt of a supermarket petrol station with the operative who had just filled the tank for me.

He: Did you have an accident, then?
Me: Erm, yeah.
He: Were you rock climbing? Diving? Mountain bike?
Me: No, I fell from a tree.
He: Are you like that for good?
Me: (thinks: no, for evil) Yep, for good.
He: That's really bad, isn't it?
Me: (Thinks: well, d'uh) Yes, but I still wake up every morning.

I'm not sure what that means, or even whether I should be having these coversations on the forecourt of a petrol station with a complete stranger, but I've developed this habit of breaking the awkwardness by saying something nonsensical but with a serious expression and a profound tone of voice.  Things like:

I'm still at the races.
You've got to be in it to win it.
It's not the volts that kill you, it's the amps.
If you keep looking backwards you just bump into stuff all the time.
The game of life has a very large dice.
Life's all about how you land.
If God wanted us to speculate, he'd have to be real.
Or:
Just shut up and fill the tank.

Firstly, a pointer to my Travel article from Saturday's Times.

Then on to matters of the racket. Or racquet. Or whatever. You know, the bat with strings in.

Anyways. I am doing the equivalent of mumbling on the keyboard for I am plum tuckered out, and all I have to show for my endeavors is one measly 'runners up' trophy from the doubles. I lost in the semi-final of the singles, and the final of the doubles. Both B division, a step up from last year's novice category.

I did manage a fairly spectacular cough and splutter  midway through the first set, but we (Sarah and myself, who won the novice doubles last year, but haven't seen each other since, on account of her being in Scotland and me in London) rallied spectacularly, coming from 5-1 down to lose the second set 7-6 on a tie break.

All of which goes to show, dear reader, that I am now a tennis bore. Hooked on the horror of competition. I have never enjoyed horror movies much, nor roller-coasters, but I imagine there is a similar mental process involved, as I find the time on court in competition, terrifying and generally emotionally unpleasant, but once I come off, I can't wait to get out there again.


Enough of this drivel. I'm away to my bed.

Today's Times column. And I would like to clarify something. While wheelchair trolleys don't have baby seats in them, that is not the only reason why I have never used one.

I don't like wheelchair trolleys, as they are often ill-fitting, and they make the trip through the supermarket feel a bit like driving a milk-float through a...well, a supermarket.

Other news:

I have a cold. Yep, middle of May, and I have a cold. Thanks to our beloved daughter for bringing it home to share with the family. Unfortunately, timing IS everything, and so I am trying to shake it off in time for my attendance at the National Wheelchair Tennis Championships at the weekend.

Yes, it's that time of year again. After some emotional turmoil, I have decided that I can not, in all conscience, defend my Novice Title. It would certainly be a linguistic contradiction if nothing else, and so once again, I step up to the B division, as I did when I so famously CHOKED in Cardiff.

Well not this time. I shall cough and splutter because of my cold, but that only adds to the chair adjustments and new rackets that I have gathered together to ensure that I have a basket full of excuses to draw on when the going gets tough.

Here's a link to the Wheelchair tennis yearbook from Take Two Magazine. There's a piece from me on page ten, all about my experience of taking up tennis as a wheelchair sport...

Well, hopefully. I've got a piece running in the Times2 family section of Tuesday's Times. It's going to be a busy day, with meetings at the hospital (Stoke Mandeville), where I sit on the Service User's committee. See? I can do proper grown-up stuff sometimes.

Actually, it's something that I am very happy to be involved with, as the National Spinal Injuries Centre are serious about patient involvement, and as ex-patients remain outpatients of the spinal unit for life, the input they give is invaluable. This is one of the things that I found very supportive when I was first admitted. The idea that the centre is concerned with providing treatment and support for the rest of my life, not just to get me through the rehabilitation process.

While we're praising, I would like to make another (yet another) mention of the International Tennis Federation, The LTA and the integration within the sport. I play fairly regularly at Roehampton, and some of the other wheelchair players train there frequently, often on court next to the likes of Andrew Murray. Actually it has been fairly unbearable playing there of late, as players have been acclimatising for Florida and the Australian Open, which has meant that the heating has been set on Australian high summer.

Which leads me, and quite neatly I thought, to more adventures. In February, we are heading Darn Sarf as we cheeky London chappies are wont to utter. But in this case, dear reader, it is not the wilds of Peckham that we are headed for. Instead we are settling for Australia.

The plan is for three weeks of family catchup fun in Sydney, followed by a week in Perth. We haven't been to Perth before, although people assure me that Perth in February is not dissimilar to the inside of a preheated oven. Obviously they don't actually say that. And certainly not from inside our oven. That'd be weird. Although thinking about the whole acclimatisation thing, it could work...

We are due to arrive in Sydney halfway through the biggest wheelchair tournament in Australia, which I intend to report on. The trouble is, jetlag does all kinds of strangeness to my short term memory, so I could end up writing about anything from the car-park to the inside of my eyelids.

It will most likely end up being some babbling incoherence about the staggering coincidence of so many wheelchair users from around the world all being in the same place at the same time. And all with tennis raquets. What was I saying? Oh look , there's a guy in a wheelchair. And he's got a tennis raquet..etc.

Yes, dear reader. I choked. There's no point in dressing it up, I should have, could have done better.

It was my first B draw tournament, but still. I won two of my three round-robin matches, and then lost the consolation final. And my best decision all weekend was to steer clear of the Saturday night buffet, which resulted in eighteen people going down with food poisoning, leaving the organisers with a table full of trophies and very few finalists.

 Sadly, even this ill-wind (and worse) didn't result in my winning anything, as the three people ahead of me arrived bright-eyed and bushy tailed on Sunday morning, preventing me winning B division by default as the last man standing (ho ho).

Still, I've only been playing for eight months, so not too shabby, if I'm honest. And it was fun. Some of it. Not the bits where I served three double faults on the spin. And that didn't just happen the once.

Anyways, enough tennis. The best bit of all of this is that my weekend has been remarkably pain free, unless you count aching muscles and blisters on blisters. It must be the endorphins released during physical exercise coupled with so much distraction.

The other high point of the weekend was talking to R on the telephone. It felt really strange, as this is the first time that I have had a proper conversation with her over the phone. In the past, she has tended to rebound between shouting and nodding, neither of which work terrifically well over the phone. Another landmark moment, I suppose...

Yes, the time has come for me to sally forth once more, racket in hand, and demonstrate how completely incapable I am of holding my nerve in a competitive situation.

Saturday saw a family outing to the Royal Festival Hall for G and S's wedding. It was a fantastic day, immersed in the newly refurbished building that celebrates the original design, right down to the carpets...

It was a great event, with a touching attention to detail. All the kids were given their own copy of
This is London...

No, not really, just a cold, but as a man I am suffering way more than anyone else who's ever had a cold ever in the world. Ever.

So, I'm back down to earth with a bump. After the dizzying heights of tennis success, it's back to domestic routines. Suffice to say, my tennis has also taken a severe downturn. On a positive note, my friend Adam pointed out that I must have got my training spot on to peak at the right time.

I went to be background scenery at the presentation of official paralympic training venue status to Brunel university last week, and it's just as well I did. Were it not for myself and three other wheelchair tennis players, there would have been no sporting activity of any kind for the cameras. As it was, we were reduced to hitting foam balls over a lowered badminton net, in order to provide something sporty for them to film.Hurrah for 2012!

My latest Ouch column just went up today (ouch!). Inevitably, it is on the subject (ouch!) of pain (ouch!). It had to come up sooner or later, so I thought I'd just get it over with. Still no developments in terms of finding any improvement, although I'm sure that being active helps to keep it at a more manageable level.

 It seems like one distraction after another so far this month, as P had jury service for two weeks to start. Many people have asked if she couldn't have got out of it, but from my own point of view, were I ever in front of a jury, I would hope that it was comprised of people who would be as considered and fair-minded as she. It's a funny thing jury service. We, most of us, see trial by jury as a vital part of our legal system and a benchmark of justice. But when it comes to being selected to take our place, we consider it an unpleasant chore and try to duck it. Which leaves who exactly?  people who are not canny enough to dodge it, or have nothing better to do?

This said, P did point out that they could make the whole experience less painful. Simply improving the area where jurors are required to spend many long hours waiting to be called would be a start. Maybe a juice bar?  Or some books and magazines? And perhaps old reruns of Crown Court showing on big screens to get people in the mood.  Apparently the jury box wasn't wheelchair accessible either...

Now my focus is on planning our possibly foolhardy camping trip in France later in the summer.  But then, if we're going to holiday with a wheelchair user and a toddler, it seems only natural to want to include a language barrier in the equation. Still, it will be a huge box to tick, and testament to the little ways in which my experiences on the BackUp multi-activity course have helped me to view things like camping with less anxiety.

Finally, I thought I'd best slip in a mention of the football, especially after tonight's demolition of the Italians by Holland. Did I mention my grandmother was Dutch? Now would be a very good time to read David Winner's most excellent book on Dutch football, called Brilliant Orange...

Ah well. Back to the tissues and throat pastilles. Nurse! Nurse! I'm fading fast! etc.

No... Not extra large, but 40, see?
Yes, I have trundled over that particular hill, and I must say the view is largely the same. Not perhaps where I imagined I would be sitting at 40 (in a wheelchair, and all), but if you think a little too much, it's a wonder I made it this far.

I have received a fantastic array of cards initiated by Penny, each containing a memory or impression of me from down the years. From standing in a doorway with my terry-toweling nappy around my ankles (I was three, OK?), to tales of excess or witticisms cast around like grain. I'm touched that people think well of me, as I must be one annoying bastard sometimes...

On the subject of this annoying bastard, my ego has been inflated after I was recognised in the street for the first time last week. It turned out to be someone whose brother was in an accident on his bicycle a couple of months ago and has a T4 spinal cord injury. I hope that he finds the book useful. It's always a bit weird thinking of people who are just embarking on the long and painful journey back to picking up their lives again.

I had a few pangs the other day. Once when R insisted that I take my shoes and socks off to play with her in the sand pit in the park. I really struggled to work out what to do. Seeing as I can't feel my feet, am I supposed to avoid getting sand between my toes? Or should I be avoiding getting sand in my shoes? I did remove my shoes and socks, mainly because I was told to by an insistent nearly-three-year-old, but all that happened is I longed to feel the sand between my toes OR in my shoes. Then when we got home in the evening I found myself looking at the steps up to the front door, and spent the minute or so on the annoyingly slow platform lift remembering how I used to run at the steps and clear them all with one stride. It's the simple, energetic exuberances of spontaneous movement that I miss most keenly.

I'm busy trying to play as much tennis as I can to minimise the embarrassment potential as I hurtle towards the National Wheelchair Tennis Championships at the end of next week. I must point out that I am competing the the Novice division, which I think is a great concept.

In fact, I don't know why this model isn't adopted for all major sporting events. The World Cup (novices, or just people who are rubbish at football), Test Matches...actually, come to think of it, England seem to be following this model already.

Right, I'm away to prepare myself for the latest magazine photoshoot. Ah, the glamour. What? No, it's not for a 'glamour' magazine, I just meant..oh, never mind.

Well, folks. It's up. My first contribution as a columnist on Ouch! the BBC disability website. I hope that I'm not attacked by a gang of irate medal contenders who feel that my attitude is, well, that of someone who knows that they are destined to always be mediocre in any sport undertaken. With this in mind, I feel obliged to offer a clarification, especially as I will no doubt fall under a hail of disabled rock climbers abseiling down on my ass.

Not only do I have no problem with people who achieve such a high level of expertise in their chosen field, but I too find them inspiring. My point is merely, some might say trivially, that we can't all be the best. It's just not possible. A pyramid, by definition has a pointy top, and that's where the best Paralympic athletes reside. They have to be the best, as anyone who's attempted to push a wheelchair up a pyramid will tell you.

Just as you don't have a 100 meters for people who are a bit crap at running, there has to be canon fodder in every sport.  But there are occasions where, unbeknown to the elite, the canon fodder get together and enjoy pretending that they're actually pretty good. And if they hadn't had that knee injury or tennis elbow or gone to college or work or prison, they could have made it into serious competition.

It is this level of sporting competition that I miss. But hopefully tennis will provide me with that thrill. The local park, way too much kit and the complete deterioration in the standard of play as soon as anyone's watching. Ah, you should have seen my last shot...