Post World War 11 UK must have been very different to what it is today.   My mum , when she talks of it, makes it sound an idealized picture of innocent pursuits and outside enjoyments. Now, we are talking about Scotland here, so although the way she talks about it sounds as if there was glorious sunshine all year round, I’m sure there wasn’t. I’m sure the memory has kept the good bits and jettisoned the bad.  That’s one positive of memory loss! Tennis is one innocent pursuit that took up a lot of her time when she was first married and before me and my two brothers entered the scene. It is one subject that once she starts, she can go off on a rambling monologue about the good old days. And it isn't just tennis – it is the whole social scene surrounding tennis in those post war years that her memory has captured.

She was a member of both the Larkhall Tennis Club and later the Hamilton Tennis Club.  My dad was too. They both must have spent a lot of time playing tennis. My mum remembers years of driving around Scotland visiting other clubs and playing in them. She remembers especially making the sandwiches and the cake for the men after the matches, the ladies clubbing together and each contributing something  -  a challenge due to the food shortages post war but also a delight as some food items had just become available again. She remembers the social events and the dances at the end of the season.  She remembers entertaining visitors from other clubs and being entertained by them - the entertainment often becoming as competitive as the tennis.  Strangely, she doesn’t remember much about the actual tennis. She still keeps in touch with her friends from her tennis days.  Flora and Annette, she talks about with special fondness.   

I played a bit of tennis when I was a teenager but it was never for me. Running around in the sun (again my memory must be playing up – sun in Scotland?? ) after a ball just seemed a bit pointless.  Mind you, these days, with the prizes up in the millions I can certainly see more point to it. Wimbledon though was watched by everyone in the house. My dad even travelled down regularly to London to attend it; I always planned on going there with him one year but never did.  I remember Bjorn Borg, the cool Swede, and John McEnroe, the fiery Yank, especially. The 1980 final where Borg (aiming for his fifth Wimbledon win) beat McEnroe (in his first Wimbledon final) was a major event in our household. It was exhausting!  Wimbledon was never rained off in those days (again memory loss perhaps.)

Tennis for my mum these days holds her interest in a funny sort of a way.  She cannot follow a match and tell you who is winning or losing; she doesn’t know the names of the players anymore although she does try to pronounce them when they come up on the screen; she can’t tell the difference between Wimbledon and the Dubai Open; and she doesn’t know a drop shot from a backhand.  But she still gets a huge kick out of it. She can still appreciate a well-played point though she doesn’t quite appreciate that it is a game, set or match point.  She can still gasp at an effective overhead smash and take a sharp intake of breath at a series of fast volleys. She can enter into a discussion about the ball being in or out. She has a huge issue with Serena Williams’ hair and worries about the person in the direct line of fire of the aces. She knows Andy Murray has a brother who also played tennis; she knows his mum will be watching him. But when she sees her in the audience she doesn’t know who she is.  She knows she was a coach.

She doesn’t quite get the excitement around Andy Murray being in the men’s final. But we will certainly be watching him tonight. My very Scottish tendency to avoid big sports events where Scotland is playing because it is too depressing has been overcome this once.  Win or lose, we will be cheering him on. And so will the rest of the family. John and Dorothy have already hung a huge Scottish flag outside their house in Holland. Robert and Julia will be watching somewhere in Scotland where they have gone for a week’s R and R. Carolyn and Sam will be glued to the screen on the outskirts of Edinburgh.  My dad will be there somewhere cheering him on. A Scot in the final of Wimbledon – such a pity he didn’t live to see that day. There will be both ecstatic and suicidal (the Scots are a dour lot!) text messages bouncing to and fro between Sri Lanka and Scotland depending on points won or lost.   In the end though, win or lose, he made it to the final.