From: The Racketeer 37, June 2000
Lethal Spin [1]
by Frank Raistrick
Treasure
ANDY HAS KINDLY invited me to write an article for his much-admired organ, and I have accepted with pleasure. I retain much affection for the old club, and follow its progress with great interest. My ten years as a member, from 1976 to 1986, provided some of my most enjoyable times in tennis.
Mapperley Park is one of the most progressive clubs in the county, and unrecognisable from the club I joined, with its old-fashioned clubhouse, two uneven hard courts, and despite Shirley's loving care, two of the most evil-bouncing courts it has ever been my pleasure to play on - I had this lethal spin service! No floodlights, no modern surfaces, and teams well down the leagues.
I hope you all appreciate the hours of work your committee have put in. Treasure in particular, Cynthia - I know she sometimes feels frustrated by the fact that not everybody is as keen as her - for goodness sake support her before the last straw appears. Andy too - what a unique publication the Racketeer is - I can't pretend to understand some of his more surrealistic ramblings, but they show a wonderful vocabulary, and dark imagination. Christine too - she is Mapperley Park through and through and has proved to be a brilliant working Chairman.
I am thrilled to see John playing again - I hope his health problems are over.
Snookered
What to write about? My mind teems with subjects - stories about famous players, daft things that happened in my tenure at Mapperley Park, candid pen-pictures of members old and new. I'll start with one of my favourites - from Pancho Gonzales' autobiography - you can tell how old I am!
In 1947, Pancho was the best singles player in the world, a hot favourite for Wimbledon, but he shocked the tennis fraternity by turning professional. It's hard to realise now, but this put him beyond the pale, and he was banned from all amateur tournaments.
The only professional competition of any standing in England was the one at Scarborough, and he duly booked in at a small hotel - there was little money around in tennis then.
The first day was washed out by torrential rain - surprise, surprise! - and Pancho roamed the three floors of the hotel, bored stiff until he heard the click of snooker balls. He went in and found a small, portly man idly knocking the balls about. He looked up eagerly and asked Pancho if he played.
Pancho did, and typically was very good, slaughtering the man in three frames. His opponent was growing visibly angry, and he pointed at the rain beating on the window. 'Pity it's raining,' he muttered, 'I could have given you a thrashing at my real game - tennis'.