Last week, cycling next to Jett, I was on my way to Jeffrey Vermeulen, second in the Open Cadollen, which I ‘came up’ against. At the end of that column, Jett yelled, “Tell me how it was next week!”

“It depends,” I called back, but forgot to write it down. Stupid, because now it is: whoever says that sometimes he has a friend who has to say b, and in this case it is me.

Well, after a short phase in which it was evenly matched, the match ended 6-0, 6-0. A few days later, Jeffrey Vermeulen actually made it to the final, which he lost, making him actually second. Well, one of those tournaments where the outcome is predetermined. I don’t want to call it a broken card right now.

But that wasn’t until later. First we reached defeat. It was immediately noticeable that Kadollen looked countless times bigger and more impressive than our own club, where everyone knows your name, as it used to be. cheers, sitcom. I only had my racket. Why wasn’t the cover, you see other tennis players think. Everyone had at least one cover for their racket, preferably a large bag. The bigger that bag, I feel looking around, the better the tennis player. Someone like Federer came to mind, even two, bags the size of small family cars, one for his racket, one for his bananas. The obscene naked object in my hand suddenly disappointed me, something came out of it.

My bad luck Amidst the fields, which spread like a farm, the clubhouse grew. Inside I reported on a table with a bowl of bananas. Mouth watered, I looked at the bowl. And, of course, I get to pick one. With a banana in one hand and my racket in the other, I went to the roof, where Jett was already looking for Jeffrey Vermeulen. “Say Jeffy, do Jeffy,” I murmured with each bag that arrived, but no, it was always a different semi-professional in flip flops, a dress at odds with me. I already wore my tennis loafers at home, why not? Did I seriously have to change shoes here on the roof?

“Aren’t you hot?” Jet asked.

Yes, I knew, in this whole tennis complex where the sun never sets, only one person wore long pants, and that was me.

“Yeah,” I said, “but this is my warm-up.” I’ve been playing tennis for about five months now, and until now always in long sweatpants, a trademark. Switching to one of those tennis Bermuda shorts with pockets in which you can even barbecue, was almost intimidating.

Five minutes late, a blond teddy bear came running towards us: the great Jeffrey Vermeulen in second place. Trained, as in my philosophy, he was not. Not even friend. His bag was modest. Like a dentist he comforted me, if it hurt I had to raise my hand. (No, he didn’t say that, but that was the vibe.)

When I bowled him a few balls, he used to give me a lot of thanks, thanks, per ball, and his thumb as well. If I scored a point: ‘Good ball, Peter.’ When I said ‘well’, he said ‘Thanks, Peter!’.

But when it was 6-0, 5-0, 40-0, in front of him, the great Jeffrey, a hopper of a match point, the biggest match point imaginable, and he made his first serve right out of the box. Hit outside, and I roared ‘out there,’ he said, “I saw him.”

“You go,” said Jett.

‘Thanks, Jet,’ said Jeffrey Vermeulen, ‘but let’s go back to it.’