OUTC Girls on Tour
Friday, September 26, 2014
Tour video
Monday, September 22, 2014
16th - 19th September - Aiken
Having discovered our blog's most animated supporter, we would like to dedicate this post to our favourite little fat fan-girl, Parker Stoker, without whom we would undoubtedly have been lost in Aiken. Not only has he won prizes for good character and moral compass at school, he was also a Wellington at University and most importantly was able to quote our blog back to us, a sure fire way to our cold British hearts. Parker, we hope you enjoy this dedication.
With stomachs uncomfortably full of Taco Bell breakfast and Pizza Hut buffet lunch, we arrived in Aiken after a tetchy eight-hour drive. Unaccustomed to American salt levels, our parched tongues ached at the sight of a fountain spilling what looked like luscious blue Gatorade into the air in glorious sugary arcs. ‘WE JUST SAW A GATORADE FOUNTAIN!’ we shrieked excitedly at our new hosts, only to be told awkwardly that it had been temporarily dyed blue for Ovarian Cancer Week.
Dacre Stoker – real tennis semi-pro, owner-manager of the Aiken Tennis Ball Company, World Champion pentathlete, Seoul 1988 Olympic coach, ex-PE teacher, ex-fencing coach to Morgan Morgan (more on him later), keen horseman and dog-owner, international Dracula expert, keeper of the Bram Stoker legacy and father of the more famous Parker – gave us a characteristically warm Montreal-style welcome and took us on a driving tour of Aiken’s beautiful wooded trails and polo fields. Having spent our trip in hot pursuit of real tennis royalty (see, e.g., earlier posts on Steve Devoe, King of Jamestown and our hotel in Queens), we felt the hand of fate on our shoulders when we were unexpectedly forced to choose between staying with the kingly Stokers or David and Gail King. Sophie and Clare held back their sneezes for long enough to lie about their overwhelming cat allergies and grab a space at the Stokers’, whilst Izzy and Audrey were sufficiently star-struck by Gail’s close relationship to Clare Balding to plump for the King household.
After an iconic dinner of gumbo and peach cobbler, David King worried about Clare’s voracious attempts to scrape the ornamental fox off the plate with her spoon and forced a gigantic second helping upon her. Staggering under the weight of pudding and three of David’s lethal margaritas each, we were capably guided by Parker (Stoker Jr) to Aiken’s classiest hotspot, The Wilcox Hotel. Here we met three key movers and shakers of the Aiken court tennis scene: Morgan Morgan (née Morgan) dressed impeccably in a crisp white shirt and spotted bowtie; Rakesh Jasani, proud owner of the finest volley in Aiken and a large chain of not bad hotels; and Jason M. Mengel, modest stakeholder in Trio, Charleston’s most banging club (don’t bother going there, you won’t get in). M.M.n.M. kindly bought us drinks, and Izzy - with her unerring scholar-athlete’s nose for the worst cocktail in any establishment - opted for the “Naked Grape”, an appalling mixture of overripe chardonnay, vodka and tiny denuded cocktail grapes. It fell to a crumpled Rakesh to finish it manfully. Back at the Stokers’, Parker showed us what a southern midnight snack looked like. It looked like cold gumbo and a large glass of milk.
Day one of our not-so-friendly doubles tournament dawned with the big reveal of our mixed partners for the sojourn. Izzy and Clare were to be paired with local dynamos, polo players extraordinaires and BFFs Henry and Bill respectively, whilst Sophie had been paired with Sneaky Kiki and Audrey with the infamous Francois “Frank Glass” Verglas. First up, Team Kill took on Team Hizzy, with a fusillade of insults exchanged between Bill and Henry more than rival to Frank and Brian’s forcing battery. Choice examples include “Fuck Pig” and “Asshole”. On asking, in as earnest and cutglass an accent as she could achieve, whether there was anything in particular to watch out for when returning Henry’s serve, Clare was informed (to be read in a Southern drawl) “Nuthin. S’not very good.” Henry and Izzy’s partnership was marred by occasional Hizzy fits, with chemistry suitable for the most destructive of atomic bombs and body language to match (see below for choice photos), despite Izzy’s cheery protestations that she had had the best of times, honestly. The charismatic partnership of Kill ultimately proved too much for the despondent Hizzy, coming through to a two-set victory 6-3 6-1.
Team Sneaky then took on Team Fraudré, with Kiki returning a Gazzling display of shots with great gusto to land better than a yard. Audrey’s usually patchy serving was much improved with the additional pressure of curving railroads and twists around Francois and his obstructive leg brace, who ardently defended the galleries from the first minute of the warm up with volleys only second to Rakesh's. Her desperate cries of “yours!” as she threw herself from side to side were met with equally resolute refusals of “non” in return, but eventually they prevailed through Sophie’s Alan Oliver inspired dives and Kiki’s astonishing reflex volleys to a hard-fought win.
After of day of disappointment and at times even despair, Izzy of team Hizzy was delighted to discover that Morgan Morgan had suggested for dinner a fine restaurant by the name of “Takosushi”, famed for serving tacos, and sushi. Why had no-one thought of this beautiful and obvious combination before, thought Izzy, for this is surely heaven on earth!
Once the delightfully delicate plates of divine sushi had arrived, along with 3 obese enchiladas oozing cheese and smothered in red goo, straddled ominously by two giant fried eggs (for Clare, of course), we got stuck into the food and famously charming conversation. “My maid doesn’t do everything,” Rakesh announced smugly; “I do my own ironing!” “Really?!” choked Audrey in astonishment, pointing and laughing at Rakesh’s (admittedly) remarkably crumpled red shirt, which began to blend in with Rakesh’s increasingly crumpled red face. Karma exacted revenge on Audrey’s kindly comment, when a huge mouthful of pink salmon turned out to be a huge mouthful of pickled ginger, and a pink-faced Audrey ran squealing, mouth bulging, to vom.
The suspicious timing of a men’s only monthly bowling night for 30 odd just married 30-year-old men (plus Morgan Morgan and Rakesh), meant that the rest of the evening’s entertainment was sorted. Frank, Briiiian, Gaz and Tony did not feel out of place amongst Kut, Pat, Byrd, Kizz, Robs, Clayt, Morg, Kesh et al., despite being the only men to be drinking Budweiser as opposed to the Bud Light, the only beverage consumed by these non-scholar bowling athletes. Frankie shocked everyone with a strike on the first shot, Gaz was equally determined to win and huffily proclaimed that “I’m just not used to being bad at stuff!”. An equally huffy Tony grumbled that “Tony’s just a late starter”, whilst non-starter Briiian did not start at all. Swept up in the wave of aftershave, smoke and testosterone, a tiff between Frank and Gaz turned into a full blown fight, in which Gaz punched Frank and led to Kesh chasing his imaginary tail in excited circles and chanting “fight, fight, fight, fight!”. Delighted by this news, (and of course with deep, deep concern for the welfare of their friends), Briian and Tony legged it outside in their shiny bowling shoes, charging madly past the “Do not wear bowling shoes outside” sign. Following this, the ladettes were accepted into the men’s teams, and, having drunk enough buckets of Budweiser between them to be numb to the endless and relentless high-fives, fist pumps, high-pumps and fist-fives, we began to understand the strains of married life.
15th - 16th September - Washington DC
Plodding through a maze of unprepossessing concrete corridors and growing increasingly frustrated at every dead end and locked door, we stomped crossly into the sleepy hollow of Pro Ivan Ronaldson, son of the more famous Chris. Casually leaning against the solid glass main wall of the court was a man whose RTO forum internet presence almost matched his imposing physical stature: the man, the legend, Temple Grassi. Decked out in gleaming whites and goggles, he ran through our schedule for the day and gave us a quick and valuable lecture about on-court safety, accompanied by a potted history of the club and its luminaries. Visit the RTO forum for specifics.
“Grab your coat you’ve Temp-ulled!” he yelled enthusiastically at Sophie, whipping off his real tennis bow tie and beckoning her onto court for the first match of the day. “And Audrey, you’re next!” Izzy and Clare, though understandably disappointed to miss the chance of a lifetime to take on the Dauphin of Prince’s Court, muttered jealously that the Grassi was almost certainly greener on the other side. Sophie’s much-vaunted hand-eye coordination was temporarily thrown by the large yellow Furbies which passed for tennis balls under Ivan’s lax reign. (We hope the esteemed Aiken Tennis Ball Company, said to be on the verge of receiving a valuable new lease of life, sends a new batch soon.) Having stoically dealt with Sophie’s self-indulgent display of trick shots, Temple retired with dignity after a battering from Gaz and his penchant for mirthless dedans forces.Izzy romped through her match against Bob Forbes and was rewarded for her rapid improvement by a much-coveted Ronaldson handicap cut. Stealing the first points for Washington, Cecilia broke Clare’s heart and shook her confidence daily – though with the help of Taylor Swift, she sh-sh-sh-shook it off and proceeded to put in a frankly dazzling display in the doubles alongside Izzy, fizzing mis-hit volleys into the winning gallery off the tambour. Tony Henman’s fatal misreading of two Chase 2’s in Audrey and Sophie’s doubles led to him spending an uncomfortable night in the Princes Court bin.
Oxford 4 – 2 Washington
Sophie vs Temple Grassi: 10-1
Audrey vs Temple Grassi: 10-3
Izzy vs Bob Forbes: 10-1
Clare vs Cecilia Forbes: 5-10
Clare and Izzy vs Cecilia and Britt: 10-5
Audrey and Sophie vs Britt and Christine: 8-10
At the beautiful Grassi home, our eyes were drawn to a number of compelling objects: a large backgammon trophy, a Jesters Club almanac (from which we covertly noted down a few key email addresses) and a ludicrously friendly Corgi named Louie. After Temple had finished explaining that one of his backgammon players had pulled out of the tournament at the last minute (what a stab in the back-gammon, we thought!), he directed us to our lovely sleeping quarters, and Sophie was disgruntled to find herself shacked up with Clare yet again. A few short showers later, we descended to dinner with our by-now trademark Formal Wet Hair Look (‘Why are there never any hairdryers in America??’ Izzy screeched) and enjoyed a variety of drinks including premium vodka, rum, gin and red wine. Ellie Grassi (Cousin of American Etonian and International Man of Mystery Schuyler Wickes) prepared an incredibly delicious meal, which we interrupted periodically withboring anecdotes about our formative years in tennis. We were joined by Audrey’s friend, RT lass and rackets WAG Mary Livingston, who filled us in on which internationally ranked tennis players had “done kissing” with one another (hint: lots!).
Temple commemorated our visit with a wonderful gift of a Princes Court racquet, which will be hung in Merton St just above Craig’s jealous reach. He also provided us with individual Princes Court transfer tattoos to flaunt during our matches in Aiken. Finally, he regaled us with a lyrically imaginative and technically tight poem about the day’s events, in which he informed us that he had pre-emptively emailed Aiken to warn them about the ‘ladies from Hades’. By far his best gift, though, was some sage advice about the dangers of plagiarism and the importance of thinking for ourselves. So, here, for the first time, Temple, we have cautiously attempted to find our own voice:
There once was a Jester named Grassi
Who billeted Oxford en masse – ‘E
Safeguarded his poem
So we said this’ll show ‘im
We’ll write him a limerick that doesn’t scan or rhyme.