Disclaimer: All post-match snacks were ethically sourced from the McFlurry machine. No rackets were harmed in the making of this blog.

Additional Disclaimer: Fish may have been shared. Chips were not.

Last weekend saw us return to the sunny (and slightly smug) courts of Bideford for another round of U9 tennis — same ARC venue, same 1hr 20 drive from Taunton, same cheeky McDonald’s en route (because obviously nothing screams “elite sporting preparation” like a Happy Meal).

After our son’s shock win over the local favourite Jay in the previous week’s tournament, the organisers had a dilemma: they were short of boys for the next event.

Cue a subtle question to our son:
“Wanna play again next weekend?”
His response: “Yes. But only if I get Court 3 again.”
(Priorities.)

This time the tournament had a little more bite. Grade 4. Bigger names. Sharper serves. And a new level of intensity that, frankly, didn’t stop us from still bringing banana slices and cooling spray like overachieving Wimbledon parents.

Match 1: Dylan (aka The Devon Djokovic)

First match? Boom — up against Dylan, the local golden boy and Millfield champ. A very good player. Our son fought well, but the match was two tiebreak sets to 7, and he lost 2–7, 3–7.

He walked off the court with tears forming — not full meltdown mode, but a respectable “I-care-a-lot” level of sulking. A sort of damp-eyed Djokovic.

We hugged, reassured, emotionally bribed — and as always, he did what we admire most: he got back on court.

Match 2: Jay (The Revenge of the Backhand)

Ah yes, Jay. Last week’s scalp. This week’s vendetta.
Confidence was high… perhaps a bit too high. The match was a rollercoaster — a full three-set thriller:
10–8, 4–7, 4–7.
Just over 25 minutes of drama, sweat, near-misses and “LET’S GO!” screams from the sidelines.
And at the end? A crushing loss.

Cue the emotional collapse. Again, not cataclysmic, but heartbreaking in its quiet despair.

And to be fair — if I lost a 3-set match by that score line at the age of eight, I’d still be talking about it in therapy at 38.

Match 3: Sandy (and the Hidden Resilience)

After a good stretch and some Dad-counselling (mostly consisting of “you’re doing AMAZING” and “shall we get another banana?”), he faced Sandy — another strong local lad.

First set? Lost it 5–7.

Second set? Found something new inside himself.

He clawed his way back: 7–5, then dominated the final tiebreak 7–2.

It was gritty. It was long. It was epic.

It also meant that our son spent the most time on court of any player in the tournament, despite being the youngest and shortest by at least a year. (We checked. It’s science.)

The Aftermath (and the Seaside Reward)

Despite everything — the hours of effort, the comebacks, the sportsmanship, the sheer determination — our son still came away disappointed. He wanted to win all his matches. He didn’t see what we see:

• The growth
• The grit
• The courage
• The fact that an 8-year-old just held his own against kids twice his size (and probably with private coaches named Björn).

As parents, it’s a tricky balance. You want to tell them winning doesn’t matter… but also scream “YOU LEGEND!” from the rooftops when they win a point.

He’ll get there.

One day, it’ll click. And until then, we’ll keep doing what we do: cheering, encouraging, packing bananas, and praying to the draw gods for court 3.

To round off the day — and soothe some bruised egos (ours included) — we headed over to Westward Ho!
Yes, the one with the exclamation mark.

Shoes off, toes in the sea, and a proper fish & chips on the wall moment while watching the sun set behind slightly feral seagulls.

It was the perfect ending: salty air, sandy socks, and a few giggles back in the system.

Next blog post?

The Yeovil tournament from yesterday.

But first… BOMSS Journal Club on Wednesday (because apparently my life isn’t just mini-tennis drama).