Our forefathers began an annual Family Tennis Tournament one hundred and twelve years ago. Good rules and values get passed down in families when the matriarchs and patriarchs take responsibility for a time, teaching the younger ones how it is done until it is their turn to take the baton.
On the weekend those who could make it united once again, a joining of the clans, all of us descending from the fourth and eighth children of the original eight. We congregated out on the farm in the middle of nowhere where a Msasa tree in new leaf stands sentry beyond the clay court; golden grasses and granite rocks nestling us in from all sides. This was no Wimbledon with tickets and crowds and all the best players; this was Family Tennis in Africa, for free, with all the most willing players and a motley crew of spectators all eating cake and placing bets on the sideline. Low key, no crowds, just as significant.
Some things you hear every year. For example, it’s better to say “Oh bother!” if you need to swear on the court and it’s important not to stand in No-Man’s-Land unless you are asking to lose the point. Some new things stood out to me this year though and I realised that a tradition can get richer with each passing year. I learnt that a playroom filled with toys that have been passed down the generations really does thrill a child’s heart. Whilst the older crowd played tennis, the younger ones put puzzles together and filled doll’s houses and made copious cups of pretend tea. I learnt that it is meaningful to stop for mid morning and mid afternoon tea and triangle sandwiches and carrot cake and millionaire shortbread, if at all possible. Getting together to play tennis is not just about tennis. It’s about all the weaving together and bonding that occurs both on the court as well as off; whilst pouring tea just as much as when you nearly do the splits trying to get the ball your partner missed when they were day-dreaming.
This year I noticed that this family have a great love and tolerance for children. No, children are not little lords and ladies who run the show and yes, children must mind their manners and behave, but they are valuable members of this family worthy of time, eye contact and having their every need met. The Lady of the House, so busy organising beds and meals, was the very one who stopped to read bedtime stories when she was asked, not for a moment making out that she was busy when she, most definitely, was. When one of our little boys sauntered through in his dinosaur pyjamas during dinner, the Man of the House got up and found him a little table to sit on. He pushed that little seat in beside him although there wasn’t really the space and he offered him a second meal in case the earlier one for the children hadn’t been enough. I watched my children thoroughly enjoy being a part of something bigger than themselves. I enjoyed them being told to wear helmets and always go with someone and not to rev so much by people other than myself. It can get so boring, as a parent, hearing your own voice the whole time. It’s so pleasant when someone else who cares steps in with the same sentiments from time to time.
Meal times were opportunity for nourishment of the body as well as the soul. A table was dressed with huge glass jugs of water, flickering candles, toppings in pretty little bowls and delightful mismatched serviettes that we thought might look really good in frames on the wall; all this before we had even dished up the food, plates piled high with goodness, so many eyes too big for their stomachs. I have never been part of a meal where so many conversations were occurring all at once; guffaws and jokes and meaningful words and “wait, how are we related again?” or “Don’t you think so and so looks like so and so?” Always going back to the common relatives and finding a sense of belonging strengthened.
Singing together in the evening is also part of the tennis. “I don’t know this one” someone would say and then moments later that same person would be singing with gusto as the realisation that somewhere in childhood they sang that very song or it was sung to them. With the words and tune would come a rushing wave of nostalgia and as all the voices rang out together, a sense of well-being.
Our ancestors put in place something that we cannot drop the ball on more than one hundred years later. Although they are long gone, they keep bringing us back together to play tennis, eat food around the table and sing into the night. This weekend was good for the heart. Our family tradition unleashed a heap load of fun, rest and stress relief and the family roots went deeper still. It all begins with love it seems, both on the court and off and we will keep getting better at this game, year by year.
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