Disclaimer
This article contains junior tennis, NHS staffing shortages, temperatures incompatible with British life and one brief reference to ERCP. No gallbladders were removed during the tournament, although several parents may have considered donating theirs by the end.
As the cricket season slowly begins to wind down, tennis has started circling the Richardt household again.
It never truly went away, of course. It merely stood quietly in the background, holding a racket and waiting for a small gap to appear between cricket training, cricket matches, cricket festivals, martial arts, swimming, school and the occasional attempt at family life.
My wife had looked for suitable tennis tournaments a few weeks ago and earmarked two U10 events for our son. The first was today in Congresbury, just south of Bristol, followed by another tournament next Saturday in Frome.
With no cricket scheduled this weekend, U10 tennis was officially allowed back into the house.
My wife, meanwhile, had accepted a locum shift to cover sickness. This meant it was once again my responsibility to drive our son to the tournament and deal with whatever emotional debris might be produced during the afternoon.
Junior sport is always easier when one parent is safely at work.
To be fair, I had already been off for the previous two days. Thursday was my usual day off, while Friday involved travelling to Birmingham for the ROSIER investigators’ meeting.
ROSIER stands for Requirement for Surgical Intervention After ERCP and is a multicentre UK study examining what should happen after patients have undergone successful ERCP and clearance of bile-duct stones. Participants are randomised either to expectant management or laparoscopic cholecystectomy.
That explanation will do for now.
There will probably be a more detailed article about ROSIER at some point, complete with evidence, clinical uncertainty, health economics and enough abbreviations to make a normal person quietly close the browser.
For today, however, we shall move away from gallbladders and return to the equally unpredictable subject of junior tennis.
I had never been to Congresbury before, but a brief inspection of the map suggested that it was somewhere south of Bristol and not particularly far from Puxton Park.
This was useful geographical information, although the M5 generally regards geographical information as nothing more than a loose suggestion.
The entire household was awake at approximately 6am.
This was far too early for a Saturday, but several departments of the Richardt household had already commenced operations. My wife was getting ready for work, our son was awake, and the kitten was running around the house like a headless chicken undergoing a caffeine challenge.
Whisker had apparently started the day by licking our son’s face.
There are worse alarm clocks, although very few of them have recently used a litter tray.
Before tennis, there was swimming at 8am because apparently travelling to Bristol for a tournament in scorching heat did not provide sufficient sporting content for one day.
After swimming, we returned home and prepared the tennis bag.
This contained ice packs, snacks, cooling spray, iced water and three different shirts.
The three shirts were essential because junior tennis in hot weather requires the logistical planning of a medium-sized military operation. The only thing missing was an intravenous fluid prescription and a formal escalation plan.
We left Taunton at approximately 11am.
The tournament was not due to begin until 12.30pm, but anyone who has travelled north on the M5 knows that leaving ninety minutes early for a journey of less than an hour is not anxiety. It is experience.
Against all expectations, the motorway behaved itself.
We arrived in Congresbury at around 11.50am, making us the first people there.
Being first meant that our son could warm up while I stood beside the court wondering whether arriving forty minutes early represented excellent parenting or simply a failure to judge traffic.
Gradually, the other players arrived.
Our son had entered the competition as the eighth and final player in an eight-player draw. Grade 5 tournaments operate on a first-come, first-served basis, meaning that current ranking is largely irrelevant when determining who gets into the event.
You can be the next Carlos Alcaraz, but if eight parents completed the online entry form before yours did, you are still on the reserve list.
For once, therefore, my wife’s early tournament planning had paid off.
The weather was exceptionally hot. Court temperatures appeared to be somewhere between the high twenties and the surface of Mercury.
Water breaks were essential. Sun cream was applied. A hat was worn. Iced water was available.
The cooling spray was also present, although I was never entirely sure whether it was intended for our son, the tennis racket or whichever parent collapsed first.
Our son’s first-round opponent was Barnaby Manaton, a 2016-born player representing Avon.
Our son lost 4–0.
I did not watch much of the match. This was partly deliberate, as I am increasingly trying to avoid hovering beside the court and transmitting parental concern through interpretive body language.
From the limited amount I saw, however, the scoreline appeared rather harsher than the actual tennis. Our son played better than the naked result suggested, but Barnaby was clearly the stronger player.
He subsequently won the entire tournament, which provided helpful context.
There is always something reassuring about losing to the eventual champion. It does not alter the score, but it gives the loss a slightly more prestigious finish.
When our son came off the court, I was initially unsure whether he had won or lost.
This was significant.
We have repeatedly discussed how he behaves both on and off the court. During one of those conversations, I explained that I should ideally not be able to tell from his behaviour whether he had won or lost.
No tears.
No racket-related protest.
No facial expression suggesting that the Lawn Tennis Association had personally conspired against him.
He simply acknowledged that his opponent had been better.
That was it.
For a child who has previously experienced sporting mistakes as if they were major constitutional crises, this represented genuine progress.
We have also spoken to him many times about learning to let things go. A missed shot, an unfortunate bounce or a decision he disagrees with cannot be allowed to occupy the next five points rent-free.
The original mistake is rarely the main problem. The problem is carrying it around afterwards like a small emotional suitcase.
His cricket coach had recently told him something very similar after he became extremely upset about making a mistake during a cricket session.
Interestingly, the advice sounded almost identical to what my wife and I had been saying.
However, when parents say it, it is apparently repetitive background noise. When the Taunton cricket head coach says it, it becomes ancient sporting wisdom delivered from the summit of Mount Olympus.
This is normal.
Parents could tell a child every day for six years that drinking water is important. A coach can mention it once on a Tuesday evening and the child will return home announcing a revolutionary new hydration strategy.
The first-round defeat placed our son into the consolation draw, sometimes less diplomatically known as the losers’ draw.
He then had approximately thirty minutes before his next match against Elliott Rudge, another Avon player.
Elliott is the same age as our son but was born earlier in the year.
How do I know this?
Because two fathers began talking about their sons’ sporting activities.
Once that happens, there are no meaningful boundaries.
Within several minutes, fathers can exchange birth months, tournament histories, county affiliations, preferred sports, training schedules, racket sizes and a detailed analysis of their child’s current serve.
I started talking to Elliott’s dad without realising that our sons were due to play one another.
This only became apparent afterwards, by which point we had already established a temporary diplomatic relationship.
I again tried not to watch the match too closely. I stayed nearby and followed it peripherally, resisting the temptation to become emotionally involved in every point.
Around fifteen minutes later, our son walked off the court.
His demeanour was almost identical to the one after his first match.
For a few moments, I again had no idea whether he had won.
Then I overheard him giving the result to the tournament organiser.
He had won 4–0.
This was pleasing for several reasons.
Firstly, it was a good win.
Secondly, he had responded well after losing his opening match.
Thirdly, his post-match behaviour remained controlled regardless of the result.
Naturally, he was happy. But there was no excessive celebration, no triumphal parade and no request for an open-top bus through Congresbury.
He simply took the win and moved on.
This meant another thirty-minute wait before the match for fifth place.
His final opponent was Will Goodson, a 2017-born player from South Wales whom our son had played before at the regional Grade 3 tournament in Bath last year.
On that occasion, our son had lost.
The defeat had been slightly disappointing because it prevented him from progressing into the winners’ side of the competition. It had felt like a missed opportunity at the time.
Today was different.
I expected the match to be close, particularly given their previous encounter.
This time I watched a little more from the side.
Our son was superior in every department.
More importantly, when something did not go his way, he did not cry, complain or begin a prolonged internal investigation into the injustice of it all.
He simply prepared for the next point.
This sounds straightforward.
It is not.
The ability to reset after a mistake is one of the most difficult skills in sport. Adults struggle with it. Professional athletes struggle with it. Several international football teams appear to have built entire tactical systems around not recovering from setbacks.
For an eight-year-old, remaining composed while competing in uncomfortable heat against unfamiliar opponents is an achievement in itself.
Our son won the match 4–1.
That gave him fifth place overall.
Considering he had entered the eight-player tournament as the final accepted player, lost his first match to the eventual champion and was playing only his second U10 tournament, fifth place was an excellent result.
The tennis was encouraging.
The mental side was even better.
Of course, we have been here before. There have been previous tournaments where he appeared to have turned a corner, only to rediscover his older habits at the next event with the enthusiasm of someone reuniting with a beloved childhood toy.
Progress in children is rarely linear.
It tends to move forwards, sideways, briefly backwards and occasionally disappear behind a hedge.
Still, today felt like another important step.
He lost without collapsing.
He won without becoming overexcited.
He recovered from disappointment.
He played the next point rather than continuing to play the previous one.
That is probably more valuable than any finishing position.
Next Saturday, Frome awaits.
Before then, however, the family schedule remains pleasantly understated.
There is the cinema tomorrow, martial arts on Monday, cricket on Tuesday, tennis on Wednesday and Thursday, cricket again on Friday and the tournament in Frome on Saturday.
There is also still a week and a half of school remaining, which now appears to be the extracurricular activity squeezed between the sport.
But before any of that, there is tonight’s “important” England football match against Norway, kicking off at 10pm.
Our son is determined to watch it.
Whether this will actually happen remains uncertain.
The entire household has been awake since 6am. He has already completed a swimming session, travelled to Congresbury, played three tennis matches in intense heat and travelled back to Taunton.
At 10pm, he may be watching England in a World Cup quarter-final.
Alternatively, England may be watched by a sleeping child wearing one of three tennis shirts while Whisker once again licks his face.
At least his recovery will be immediate.
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