Wimbledon fortnight. I love it. The expectations of a nation lying heavy on the shoulders of a brooding, monosyllabic Scotsman, as thousands of men across this great land play their first and only game of tennis of the year.
It’s such a shame the only time many of us are inspired to play this great game is when it’s Wimbledon.
You won’t be able to get onto a court for love nor money for the next couple of weeks. The Tenth Hole at Southsea, alongside the tennis courts, will be doing a roaring trade.
My last game of tennis was in fact a year ago today. My friend Stuart and I booked a hard court on Stokes Bay seafront.
It’s the same with cycling, golf, running and football, I have all the gear and no idea.
Whopping great first serves were clearing the main fence and causing a driving hazard on the seafront.
My second serve? A limp-wristed affair Liberace would be proud of.
Rain didn’t stop play, but twisting my ankle did.
Like many men, I have the passion to try all sports but get frustrated at being rubbish at all of them. Apart from football (you might remember I played in goal for the Isle of Wight when I was 10).
But my desire has yet to wane and our pending move to Alverstoke and my research on the area has brought about the answer.
Alverstoke has its own tennis club.
I want to serve like the old Nadal, topspin and return like Federer used to and lose my temper like John McEnroe.
But will they welcome the novice?
After watching the movie Wimbledon again recently, I remember the tennis club portrayed in it.
The club very upstanding in its traditions, a resident pro who got to number 250 in the world once.
It was all very serious. Will my local be like that?
Well, there is only one way to find out. Who knows, this time next year I might be reporting how I won the over-40s men’s title in Alverstoke?
Or will it be another story of injury, despair and then resignation, until the next hare-brained idea comes along?