The sky was blue and the air was still above the seven levels of the Groenkloof Tennis Club, which sounded with an Afrikaans - accented woman’s microphone announcements. The brick path that opened up the grounds baked brightly in the midday sun.
The path’s central column lead up between two rows of courts before dividing further among the higher, less used courts, where the familiar shouts and sounds gave way to quiet mystery. The front courts were numbered 1 through 10 or so, and were full with the rhythmical thwack of shots and the hustling youngsters who were producing them. The sound of the mic bumping against a table was amplified through the air. The announcer lady called for one Happy Maluleke and me – the next match. I took my opponent for granted. With his second-hand “ITF” tennis bag and eager spring in his step, and naïve decision to let me serve first, I thought him just another motley product of development tennis. So I was truly awed when he kicked me off the court harder than I’d ever been kicked before. He went on to reach the quarter - finals of the tournament before going down to the number two seed.
Turns out he was Zimbabwean, and in the tournament of the following year there was a whole crew of them, as well as Zambians and Malawians, all kitted out with this unusual brand called “ITF”, which I later found out stood for International Tennis Federation. When I arrived I saw them, warming up in the crisp shadows and bright sunlight of the centre court. They were just smacking the ball back and forth, over and over again to one another like it was nothing, and playing in this wristy, unorthodox style that was so interesting to behold. Though I didn’t know they were from across the border then, I supposed that they were from some academy, and knew without a doubt that this academy must be the same one that my mysterious opponent of the previous year belonged to. I played against one of them that tournament. He wore a Tom and Jerry peak cap backwards and had bunny teeth. But I knew better than to take him for a droll spectacle. Of course, this knowledge didn’t make a bit of difference when we played, and he whipped me like cream, using the same unorthodox topspin I had encountered the previous year. In our round robin group there was a Mauritian guy of Asian descent, incredibly potent, and there was quite a bit of excitement when he faced the guy with the Tom and Jerry cap. I thought it would be pretty even, but the Mauritian made light work of his foe, a reminder to me that there are many, many rungs on the ladder of mastery. There was another Mauritian, who was not Asian-looking, and I remember him also to have been incredible. He had the coolest stroke style ever, which I’d love to explain but it’s really too complicated, and I think he was even better than his compatriot. That year I saw a colourful side to tennis I had never thought existed. Here were all these characters from apparently destitute countries with the coolest, most potent styles.
Those two years were my last living in Joburg. Then we moved to Cape Town, where I kept playing tournaments for a while, but it wasn’t the same. I missed those crisp Pretoria skies, and the exotic displays of skill that went down on the courts beneath them. I didn’t think about those styles again and then one day I was in Pretoria on Western Province Tour, and it was the end of the week and the top seven or so SA players were going to have an exhibition match of sorts. I was at the gate to the school where it was going down when I saw a minibus filled with African faces bounce in, which had ITF written on its side, and I felt a surge of excitement. And how exciting it was! Our SA players all got annihilated in the glorious afternoon sunlight by this bunch of dudes who had just rocked up in a minibus. And Happy was one of them. But he was in the background. The main attraction was a seven foot Zimbabwean called Takanyi, who before he started playing I saw standing around with his friends, grinning away, and wearing an awesome animal tooth/ ivory necklace. Behind them, a big tanned white guy, in his forties, looked on at the current games. He was their coach, a tennis mercenary of sorts who had fostered their bright skills, and he taught them down the road at Groenkloof where they lived, slept and ate tennis, albeit their own unique style. With an enormous serve, the tall guy, Takanyi, who was only sixteen – a year younger than me at the time – absolutely caned his under-eighteen opponent in a game the level of which blew many a mind that day.
What those academy players lacked in equipment and parental involvement they more than made up for with a positive attitude and determination born out of a deep love of the game and of competition. Ironically, this love of competition is what allowed them to see past the obsession with match point and play such exciting tennis.
