THE ACHILLES PHENOMENON

I started off badly at the badminton. I'd been off for seven months with a serious achilles tendon injury. I thought I was finished, washed up, at the age of 59. Last week was worse, my first night back, because I couldn't even see the shuttle, let alone hit it, and I lumbered around the court like a sofa. This week, I could see it better because I wore my 2003 lucky spectacles, one leg of which is bound with duck tape, and my lucky shorts, covered in paint and with the waist-tie snapped and re-knotted in no fewer than three places. I moved slightly more easily, though not with the smooth and silky motion of old, more like a derailed tank engine. My backhand had all but disappeared, and I could not smash for toffee, but I persevered. I kept going. I was dogged. As the night wore on, I started to put one or two shots together. I could feel my game, however rustily, start to fall into place. I played six games of doubles, and my partner and I finally won the last. I knew I had done my very best and that compensated for my lack of form. I felt as cheerful as I had for months. I soon realised why. I was amongst friends, people who cared for me, people with whom I could swap feeble one-liners, people who were warm-spirited and generous. After months of tramping round the streets with a lame dog, seeing no-one, speaking to no-one, I was back doing what I like best, being around my chums. As I was leaving, my good friend John Elcock said to me 'You know the best thing about tonight? You're back.' I could have reached out and hugged him. Now all I need is for this pesky Achilles to hold out till I'm 65 and can finally hang up my racquet.