Playing the Moldovans At Tennis Read online

  As we changed ends after the first six points, with the game tantalisingly poised at 6-0 to me, I passed a perspiring lurie at the net and took good care not to allow him the opportunity to administer any poison. It would have been daft to have thrown victory away as a result of downright carelessness. I knew what he was capable of.

  Playing at a different end made little difference to Iurie's fortunes and in fact if it hadn't been for my serving a double fault and deliberately missing a forehand, it would have been a whitewash.

  '11-2. Match to Tony,' declared Iulian from the net, readying himself to film the handshake which would provide my evidence to Arthur.

  'One down, ten to go,' I mumbled to myself as I made my way to the net.

  Iurie was magnanimous in defeat, and showed no signs of disappointment as I thanked him and offered a beer which he gladly accepted. I would have joined him and wallowed in the unexpected joy of having a victory behind me, had it not been for the arrival of a plush BMW pulling into the car park. A rather elegant lithe figure emerged from the car in a green track suit.

  'Radu Rebeja!' announced an enthusiastic Sergei.

  At the same moment another man, clad in a black leather jacket and carrying a sports hold-all, walked off the street and into the car park.

  'Denis Romanenko!' said Sergei, who was starting to remind me of John Motson.

  As the two men walked towards us, I wondered if this could really be. So much of my experience in Moldova had been about blows and setbacks that it seemed hard to believe that these guys were really coming through for me. As I shook their hands, I couldn't stop myself from doing a kind of Japanese bow, such was my gratitude to them for having shown up.

  Both men greeted their team-mate Iurie, and while he let them know that the experience of losing to me was painless enough, I took a moment to study my opposition. Radu Rebeja, the team's left back, was slim and handsome, and Denis Romanenko, the goalkeeper, resembled a boxer losing a fight against baldness. He seemed the nicer of the two, smiling warmly and appearing to be up for having a bit of fun, while Rebeja looked a little fed up and keen to get his match out of the way. The most noteworthy observation however, was that neither player had their own tennis racket. Promising, I thought.

  Radu Rebeja wanted to play first, since he was already in his track suit and Romanenko needed to get changed. I handed him my spare racket and he ambled up to the far end of the court, occasionally swinging the racket in a manner which suggested that it was an unfamiliar item to him. After a ludicrously short warm-up Rebeja announced that he was ready.

  'Let play begin,' announced Iulian, in all the relevant languages.

  Miterev and his two chums, now getting well stuck into the beers, shouted encouragement to their fellow countryman. Had Rebeja not demonstrated an ineptitude for tennis to rival Miterev's, then the tie-break wouldn't have been over by the time their colleague Romanenko had emerged from the dressing rooms. Splendidly, however, this wasn't the case. Radu Rebeja was worse at tennis than Iurie Miterev. No mean feat, I tell you. For all his good looks and stylish appearance, put a tennis racket in his hand and, no doubt about it, he looked a bit of a prat. He scrabbled, grovelled, scooped, swished, slashed and swiped, but still did no better than Turkey in the Eurovision Song Contest. 'Nul points' was the best that he could manage.

  '11-0. Match to Tony,' proclaimed Iulian, to sniggers from the three strong crowd.

  Radu took it all a little ungraciously. Managing a smile was too much trouble, and he showed no interest in having a beer or sticking around for the big game with Romanenko. Instead he said his goodbyes and took off in his big black BMW. Let's be fair though, he probably had better things to do. I didn't care. Even if he wasn't Mr Sociable, he was still my hero. He'd turned up, and that was all it took to acquire that status.

  Denis Romanenko was altogether a different personality. Enthusiastic, effervescent, energetic, jovial and most pleasingly of all, crap at tennis. I had wrongly assumed that Radu Rebeja had provided a rock-bottom performance. Denis was able to plumb the depths of inadequacy still further. His problem was quite basic. He simply couldn't get the ball over the net. Iurie and his pals were consumed with laughter as whatever method Denis adopted produced the identical result of ball bouncing five times before reaching the net. Sergei was so distressed at his hero's performance that he felt the need to intervene, and stepped on to the court to give a short coaching lesson. Denis was a quick learner and was soon hitting the ball over the back fence.

  I beat Denis Romanenko 11-4. I gave him four points because I liked him so much. As we shook hands he declared that he wanted to play another tie-break, thus displaying a surprising appetite for a game which he had so convincingly failed to master. Immediately, Iurie Miterev jumped to his feet and demanded that he too be given the opportunity of a re-match, and so it was that the afternoon was whiled away amidst beer, footballers and an extraordinary melange of appalling stroke play.

  Denis and Iurie were great guys and I wanted so much to spend time talking with them, but the language barrier was such a hindrance. It was such a shame, because here were a couple of people who I would have loved to have got to know better. By the time we said goodbye, I had learned that the match they'd played at Wembley had been a great thrill for them, and that the English player who had most impressed them had been Paul Gascoigne, but regretfully I still knew little about their lifestyles, their aspirations or whether they were planning on joining a tennis club forthwith.

  Iurie and his chums said their goodbyes while I did some more needless bowing, but Denis hung on for another beer and said he would try and help me to contact the other players I needed. Iulian was to call him later when he might be able to provide some useful numbers.

  When he finally said goodbye I felt an enormous swell of affection for him. Unlike Rebeja, he left on foot, having no shiny black BMW to speed his exit. He was cool enough not to have to hurry because he was the sort of guy you wouldn't mind hanging round for. Nine times out of ten the geezer in the flashy sports car needs that speed so that he can get to where he's going before everyone pisses off without him. Not Denis Romanenko. Moving at his own pace meant that he had more time for other people. I reckon he knew that if you speed about the place then you miss out on the views.

  I took my time walking back to the Journalism Centre. No point in rushing – too much to savour. In one afternoon I had seen off more than a quarter of the opposition. Given the standard of the footballers thus far, there was no reason to suspect that I was going to lose this bet as a result of encountering a superior tennis player. It was just going to be a matter of getting the guys on to the court

  'I have just beaten no fewer than three of the Moldovan national football team at tennis!' I proclaimed proudly from the centre of the main office of the Journalism Centre.

  I'd been looking forward to this moment. A chance to show the sceptics that I was on my way. I'm not sure what response I was hoping to illicit – maybe a cheer or perhaps a spontaneous round of applause, but all I got were six raised eyebrows and one slightly begrudging 'Oh, this is good.' A moment of despair. Just what did I have to do to get this lot excited?

  'Hey! Way to go, Terry!' came the rescuing voice of Big Jim. 'I understand you've been giving these Moldovan soccer guys a hiding!'

  Boy, was it good to have this guy around. He knew how to enthuse. That's what he should be teaching over here, I thought, forget all that radio nonsense and teach these people how to enthuse.

  Three soccer players in one day?' he continued. Why you gotta be one helluva tennis player, Terry!'

  Not strictly true, but nevertheless it felt wonderful to be on the receiving end of some praise, even if it had to be accepted under a pseudonym.

  'I have some more news, Tony,' offered Iulian, hanging up the phone, his universally deadpan delivery making it almost impossible to predict whether what was coming was going to be good or bad. 'Testimitanu and Fistican have agreed to play you tomorrow and Sischin
and Culibaba have said they are available on Wednesday.'

  Wow.'

  'Hey, Terry,' added Jim, 'looks like you'll have this all wrapped up by the weekend.'

  Back at the house, Grigore couldn't believe it. He'd worked late the previous night and been off to work early in the morning and so he'd had no inkling that I'd been about to engage in some tennis matches at last. Elena jumping around and hugging me had been his cue to make enquiries. A good fifteen minutes elapsed before he fully understood what I had achieved, and then he shook his head in disbelief. When he passed on the news to his wife, Dina announced that she would cook a celebration meal in my honour, one at which I was to acquire yet another name.

  'My farver says,' said Adrian, on completing a tasty fruit salad, 'that after your three victories we have a new hero in Moldova as well as Stefan cel Mare. It is you – Tony cel Mare.'

  Tony cel Mare,' I repeated. Tony the Great. Yes I can live with that. I promise to try and live up to my name.'

  'I think that you will,' said Adrian.

  What had happened here? I'd made him laugh once in the concert hall and now he'd undergone a complete change in personality. After dinner, I sought to take advantage of it

  'Adrian, would you make a phone call for me?' I asked, handing him a phone number on a piece of paper. 'It's someone who hardly speaks any English.'

  'Of course,' he replied.

  When you get through, ask for Rodica.'

  Surprisingly she'd been on my mind in those moments of relaxation between playing Moldovan footballers. In my head I'd redesigned her teeth and I'd begun to see her real beauty. Her kindness deserved to be rewarded – with dinner for two – and surely I deserved a date with a beautiful woman as a reward for beating my first players?

  'OK,' agreed Adrian. 'But what do I say when I have Rodica?'

  I hesitated.

  'Ask her if she wants to come to dinner with me tomorrow night.'

  Adrian went quiet.

  At that moment we had switched lives. I'd become the nervy teenager and Adrian the experienced and responsible adult.

  Who is Rodica?' he asked, almost disapprovingly.

  'She's a girl I met in Orhei.'

  'Ah, so that day was not all a failure,' he teased, almost like a parent savouring a child's embarrassment.

  This is what I keep telling you – if you go for it, things happen,' I asserted, trying to re-establish my status as a grown-up.

  What do you want me to say to h—'

  Adrian's query was halted as the phone was answered at Rodica's end and he was suddenly required to switch to another language. A conversation began and I, a man well into his thirties, began to watch the endeavours of a 17-year-old boy who'd been instructed to ask a girl out for him. Not the proudest moment of my life. I made a mental note to try not to ask Well, what did she say?' when the phone call was over, and sat back in my chair, letting the foreign sounds wash over me like the piped music of a hotel lobby. Then, rather abruptly, Adrian hung up the phone. He looked at me with his old pre-laugh face, impassive and unpenetrable, and said nothing. I broke the silence.

  Well, what did she say?'

  Damn, I wasn't supposed to do that.

  'I did not speak with her. This was a drunken Russian man who was speaking rubbish. Are you sure that this is the right number?'

  'Well, it's the one she gave me.'

  'Oh. Well, maybe we will try again tomorrow night.'

  Yeah, and maybe not, I thought to myself as I undressed for bed. I wasn't going through that again. If Rodica was going to be asked out, then from now on it would be me doing the asking, language barrier or not. I'd been reminded what it felt like to be a teenager again and it hadn't been at all pleasant. No longer would I lament the loss of youth.

  'Being my age is alright,' I said to myself as I arranged myself under the blankets, in search of the position that would ease me into unconsciousness.

  I felt warm, mellow and respectably tired, but most of all, and for the first time since I'd arrived in Moldova, I felt content.

  It's amazing what beating a few footballers can do for your state of mind.

  The next morning I was woken by the front doorbell. I looked at my watch and saw that it was 5.45 am. Too early to be a social call, surely. I heard voices and wrested myself from the warmth of my bed to watch what was going on from the window. Grigore was in a dressing gown addressing two rather shady-looking figures in black leather jackets. I immediately felt concerned. Were these mafia figures? Was Grigore being threatened? An apparently clandestine dialogue continued for some time until one of the men walked slowly to the car and returned with a huge fish which he then handed over to a grateful-looking Grigore. I went back to bed a little confused by the whole thing. Why the secrecy? It was only a fish.

  'It was probably poached,' said Iulian, in answer to my question on the subject, as preparations at the Journalism Centre began for a second day's play. 'I have no doubt that these guys were saying thank you for some treatment which Grigore had done for their children. They know that the government does not pay him properly so this is what they do.'

  'I see, so you have a kind of secondary economy which bi-passes money.'

  'Yes. This is because money is more scarce than fish.'

  While I was trying to work out whether this remark was profound or merely a truism, my thought processes were disturbed by a familiar sound.

  'Ah Terry! How are you today? Ready to beat more of those soccer guys, I hope? How was your evening last night? Did you celebrate?'

  Yes.'

  I was struck by how easy it was to converse with Big Jim. He just asked consecutive questions to which one could answer yes or no, although it was nice to reward his enthusiasm with some of one's own.

  The family I'm staying with,' I added, 'paid tribute to my achievements by naming me after the great Moldovan hero Stefan cel Mare.'

  'Great idea. So they call you Terry cel Mare, eh? I like it, it's got a good ring to it.'

  As we arrived at the courts, I could see from Sergei's expression that he was eager to discover who I had lined up for today.

  'Ion Testimitanu and Oleg Fistican,' I declared.

  'Varry goot,' he said in a thick accent, thrusting both thumbs in the air. 'Testimitanu – varry goot. Fistican . . .' he paused, commencing an agonising and entirely unsuccessful search for more English words, 'Fistican . . . varry goot'

  We could have talked for hours had Iulian not interrupted our flow from the back of the court where he was setting up the camera equipment.

  'I think the tripod is broken,' he called out.

  A short examination indeed confirmed that one of the legs had been damaged and that the tripod was no longer stable when at its fully extended height

  'We'll just have to film from a lower angle,' I suggested.

  'OK,' said Iulian. When you get back to England you could probably get it fixed.'

  I studied the shoddily manufactured broken tripod which had never been the sturdiest piece of equipment.

  'It would probably be cheaper to buy a new one,' I thought aloud.

  'What do you mean?' asked an astonished Iulian.

  I tried to explain that the combined cost of parts and the labour would almost certainly mean that repair wasn't a viable option. In the course of this explanation I began to question the wisdom of an economic system which allowed a situation like this to prevail. It was plainly absurd. We didn't repair things, we threw them away and bought new ones, never mind that we were exhausting the world's resources in the process. It was just plain daft, and yet we in the West were urging these fledgling former communist states to follow our example, and they were happily doing so, assuming that we must know what we're doing because we drive more BMWs than they do.

  Camera in place, Iulian went off to make the necessary phone calls to ensure the presence the following day of Sischin and Culibaba, while I was left to await the arrival of today's footballers and make small talk with Sergei. It w
as not enlightening. All I managed to establish was that there were ten or so things which Sergei thought were 'varry goof before an athletic-looking fellow in a grey track suit entered the courts by the far gate. Sergei informed me that this was Oleg Fistican, reiterating just how 'varry goof he thought he was.

  Fistican was a number of things – good-looking, gregarious and fun being three of them – but in the realm of tennis he sank to new depths of ineptitude in the boggy field of Moldovan footballers' tennis. This man, let loose on court waving a racket around, made Miterev, Rebeja and Romanenko look like tennis professionals. His initial response on being handed a racket was to swing it with such violence that it looked like he was attempting to ward off attack by a swarm of bees. His lack of co-ordination during this unconventional warm-up was such that he dropped the racket twice, a sight which hardly filled his English opponent with trepidation for the forthcoming contest.

  Several players in the past have adopted a two-handed stroke on both forehand and backhand sides, Monica Seles probably being the most well-known. Fistican turned out to be another, although he didn't appear to have based his game on Monica's, the only similarity being the grunt which he emitted after having swung and missed the ball completely. This he did with impressive regularity. Oleg was king of the air swing. It is said that Pete Sampras once broke fourteen sets of strings during forty minutes of practice, something it would have taken Fistican a lifetime to achieve given the infrequency of contact between ball and strings.

  Just as the tie-break was about to begin, something telling happened. A football dropped into Fistican's end of the court, having been kicked over the wall from a practice match on one of the adjoining training grounds. It bounced once before Fistican controlled it on his chest, flicked it up in the air with his knee and then volleyed it back over the wall with exceptional skill. Up until this moment, anyone watching Fistican's tennis performance would have assumed him to be a man devoid of any ball sense or hand-eye co-ordination, but the simple truth was that he had technique in one sport but not in another. Technique mattered, and it was beginning to look like this had been something Arthur had underestimated when he'd made our wager.