Playing Matthew Perry in Tennis

I was one of those guys who managed to make a lot of teams in high school, but was unable to star on any of them. What this means is I wasn’t a particularly good athlete, but was rather one of those “character” guys. A warm body that hopefully wouldn’t do too much damage if forced to play. It was relatively easy to be invisible in soccer or basketball—all you had to do was pass the ball rather than shoot it and play half decent defense—but tennis was a trickier matter.

I went to high school at Lisgar Collegiate Institute during the eighties. At the time, Lisgar had the reputation of being a school inhabited by students of wealthy parents, and of being a tennis powerhouse. These two things were connected. You see, tennis was considered to be one of those sports that only rich people played—like Polo or Yachting. You needed memberships at exclusive clubs, expensive rackets and dashing Lacoste outfits in order to succeed. Apparently, Lisgar had those things in abundance and at the time had never lost a city championship in tennis.

In tennis I couldn’t simply pass the ball to a superior player, but had to actually hit it myself. That wasn’t an ideal role for a player of my particular abilities. At the time I liked to think of myself as one hundred and twenty-five pounds of tennis fury. I was a power player, in spite of my size. I had a reckless philosophy to the game, a manly philosophy. I would hit my first serve as hard as I possibly could and then charge the net like my hair was on fire. If my serve went in, which happened about five times out of a hundred, I had a pretty good chance that my opponent wouldn’t be able to return it. If he did return the serve, the ball was more likely to strike me in the head than it was to be successfully volleyed. My game was deeply flawed. The only thing I knew how to do was hit the ball as hard as possible. I only made high risk, low percentage shots. To do anything else was to play like a girl.

Naturally enough, the try-outs for the tennis team took place at the  Rockliffe Tennis Club, of which I was not a member. Matthew Perry, star of Friends and few successful movies,  was a member. He went to Lisgar at the same time as I did, and at the time was short and funny. He carried with him the scent of celebrity and the reputation of being a bit of a tennis diva–the type of guy who had four or five different rackets, each one for a different surface or a different style of game. Mr. Glavine, the principal of the school, presided. As fate would have it, the last spot on the team was to be awarded to the winner of a set between Matthew and myself.

Matthew was a much better player than I was and he knew it. He was smug and kind of lippy, a little bit like his character on Friends. Intimidated by his dazzling array of tennis rackets and easy California charm, I panicked and changed my normal game. Instead of attempting to win points, I would try not to lose any. I wouldn’t try to clobber the ball at every opportunity, but would treat it like a delicate and precious creature. And so I moved daintily about the court, softly pushing the ball back over the net, toward the gathering menace that was Matthew Perry. Matthew, naturally, would attempt to pound these spongy invitations back down my throat. To play somebody who is making no attempt to win the match is immensely frustrating, and so Matthew became frustrated. He would slam shot after shot into the net or out of bounds. He would lose his temper. He would fling his racket. He would make lacerating remarks about me playing like a suck, but still, I resolutely bunted the ball back in his general direction.

I’ve been lying about  this for years, about how I beat Matthew Perry, but I never did beat him. After another one of Matthew’s tantrums on the court, Mr. Glavine halted our set tied at five a piece. He said that he thought he’d seen enough to make his decision, and awarded me the final spot on the tennis team. It was a mistake.

The rest is anti-climax. I was quickly dispatched in the city tournament by some guy with red hair who went to Glebe. He employed the same strategy I had used against Matthew, and to great effect, I might add. I should have known better and played my newly minted “safe” game, but Rebecca Gwyn was playing on the adjacent court and well, I guess I just lost my composure.