At
3-2 in my favour, I essayed a journey to the net, only to have
Kingscote pass me 'cross court to my backhand. I turned and
started rapidly for the shot murmuring "Peach" as I went.
Suddenly my feet went out and I rolled over on the ground,
sliding some distance, mainly on my face. I arose, dripping, just
in time to hear, sotto voce, in the gallery at my side: "A little
bit crushed, that Peach." The sense of humour of the speaker was
delightful. The whole side-line howled with joy, and the joke was
on me.
I am always the goat for the gallery in these little jokes,
because it is seldom I can refrain from saying something loud
enough to be heard.
I remember an incident that caused great joy to a large gallery
in Philadelphia during a match between two prominent local
players. One of the men had been charging the net and volleying
consistently off the frame of his racquet, giving a wonderful
display of that remarkable shot known the world over as "the
mahogany volley." His luck was phenomenal for all his mis-hit
volleys won him points. Finally, at the end of a bitterly
contested deuce game in the last set he again won the deciding
point with a volley off the wood, just as a small insect flew in
his eye.
He called to his opponent: "Just a moment, I have a fly in my
eye."
The disgusted opponent looked up and muttered: "Fly? Huh! I'll
bet it's a splinter!"
There was a certain young player who was notoriously lax in his
eyesight on decisions.
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