Ronaldson, the tennis pro, was just such a disappointment. This Ronaldson was different to your normal tennis jock in that he'd created an arcane trade coaching Royal Tennis - the indoors game Henry VIII played at Hampton Court with whichever Tudor courtiers kept their heads.
Peace must have broken out on too many fronts because a news organisation, desperate to fill its summer pages, commissioned me to write a series titled Weird Sports - and accordingly paid for me to take a Royal Tennis lesson.
With Ronaldson. There must be more dog food tasters than Royal Tennis coaches, so it's reasonable to think the man who chooses this occupation may have a mind of a peculiar bent.
I presumed Ronaldson would dress to purpose. I expected a jovial fellow wearing a feathered hat, silk hose, and pantaloons as vividly capacious as the ones Sir Frances Drake pulled on when he sailed out to unman the Spanish Armada.
But the man who welcomed me was a let-down. There was no dash, no Tudor fripperies. Ronaldson was dressed simply in a white Fred Perry polo shirt, freshly ironed white shorts, and white sand shoes.
Nonetheless, my testicles shrivelled. Ronaldson's spartan gear made him look disagreeably like Mr Mair, my old Phys Ed teacher. At any moment he'd demand I hurl them (the testicles) into another run at the school gym's wretched Box Vault. (Was there a nastier, more useless invention?)
Ronaldson said something memorable - perhaps its was ``Come in'' - and I entered his world.
He had been employed by the Nobs of the Royal Melbourne Tennis Club to teach them a game the insiders actually call ``Real Tennis''. (As opposed to the imposter game played by Federer and the Williams sisters). After a recruitment drive that presumably extended up the Outer Barcoo, to Birdsville, and on to Rumjungle, Ronaldson was discovered in a more obvious setting. At home - in the Old Dart.
I'm reminded of Ronaldson because recently, listening to Radio National, I bumped into a summer series on strange sports, and listened as its presenter waded into the quicksand of his topic. The game was Underwater Hockey, which at first glance we'd agree is at the madder end of Weird Sports.
One of the difficulties for Radio National when stepping outside politics, is its essential decency. Too often it is too kind.
Underwater Hockey was an occasion meriting low comedy - perhaps like interviewing Rowan Atkinson with his head still stuck inside the Christmas turkey. But RNZ delivered an earnest examination of the merits of Underwater Hockey. Is it environmentally friendly and about to become Olympic? How many umpires drown? Do spectators receive snorkels along with their programmes? (My apologies to RNZ - my recall of their questions may be less than 3% accurate. But I have the spirit).
All that said, the writer of any series on Weird Sports must eventually confront a truth that becomes apparent. Actually, all sports, without exception, are weird.
Every one of them.
Should the sixteen men who gravely squat and grab for a scrum, be seeking appointments with psychiatrists? How was golf even conceived of, let alone cricket?
The World Encyclopedia of Sport believes there are about eight thousand sports, in 96 categories. We go from Highland Shinty, to Red Rover, Yak Polo, Snowshoe Running, Cheerleading, and Hide and Seek. (Strangely, Lawnmower Racing is omitted. Mind you, it was recently banned from Arrowtown's Lake Hayes Show, after a brawl over lawn-mowing sportsmanship).
None of those sports will seem odd to their participants - because the things with which we become familiar can no longer cut it as weird.
Ronaldson spent ninety minutes dispelling the weirdness of Royal Tennis, showing me the intricacies of manipulating a skiddy cloth ball around a court with a centre net, and nifty ways of bouncing off walls, galleries and buttresses. Grudgingly, I enjoyed it.
This was, of course, some time ago and Ronaldson, it turned out, was not a man to be confined to the colonies. He returned to England where he won the Real Tennis World Championship seven years on the trot, and scored himself the ultimate coaching job, right inside the palace, at Hampton Court itself.
His clients included Prince Edward and Sophie, Countess of Wessex. At nights, the ``top people'' seen to, he went home to a Royal grace and favour house overlooking the Thames.
He lived happily ever after? Not quite. One of the teaching pro's hazards (actually this is universal), is blowing a cushy job by falling in love with the wrong client.
Which unfortunately happened to Ronaldson.
So, it was goodbye to Hampton Court and all that. Today, he coaches in Oxfordshire.
- John Lapsley is an Arrowtown writer.
