Volley for Serve

One of the first ways I wanted to settle into living in Hyderabad was to find a tennis court to continue the heated Andrew-Jeremy tennis rivalry. It’s not as easy as walking three blocks toward Rock Creek park, though. You can’t take privileged public amenities like parks and tennis courts for granted in these parts, so we set out to find a suitable privately-owned place to play.

And here’s where I confess that I expected my diplomatic standing and, frankly, skin color, was going to open doors. “Of course, sir!” I expected to hear as gates were bring swung wide open for us. “Come play tennis on our court. We’d be honored to have a ghora come join us!”

I started the research on the phone. Cold called the most prestigious country club in town.

“Hello, my name is Jeremy. I’m an American diplomat and will live in Hyderabad for two years. Is it possible to arrange for a tour of your facilities?”

A grainy voice back. “No, sir. We are for members only.”

“Yes, of course. I understand. But I would like to see your facility to see if I would like to become a member.”

Adament. “No, sir. Members only.”

After getting the same answer at the second most prestigious club in the city, we decided to take our search to the streets. A scribbled pad of internet suggestions on places to play tennis in the city and a driver with a good sense of directions.

The first place, four courts scratched into clay/dirt, was closed. We learned from a local that it always is on Saturdays. Vaguely promising on another day.

Second, across the street, the Jubilee Hills International Club. We marched up to the reception desk, trying to look as international as possible. “Can we tour the facilities?” Same schpiel, members only. Membership costs? Ten-times what the website quoted. Ouch. Fine, we’ll just take our international selves elsewhere.

Stop three? The Tollywood Screen Actor’s Guild’s recreation center. Couldn’t talk our way into the membership rolls, actors and actresses by invitation only.

Fourth? I kid you not, a residential enclave called “Income Tax Colony.” The signs did not seem to welcome us.

Fifth, two courts scratched behind a local college’s recreation hall. Again, closed. Somewhat less than promising.

Sixth? Finally, our new tennis home. Six beautiful hard surface practice courts next to the 4,000 seat centre court at Lal Bahadur Stadium, formerly home to the Hyderabad Open.

Established by the Andhra Pradesh Sports Authority many years ago, formerly a hostel to train India’s promising young talent. A bit dilapidated in its stately ambition, not unlike much of the sporting infrastructure I remember from Hungary.

After a few minutes of wandering, we found someone. Not just anyone, but assistant coach “Johnny.” Friendly, even if he didn’t look the role of a tennis affectionado. We worked out the rental fee with him: 140 rupees an hour, three dollars. If we wanted to come back and play at night, though, he warned us, it’s an extra 17 rupees.

Per lightbulb...

(For the record, first match ended a tie. Andrew won the first set 6-0 as I warmed up – apparently -- to India and a borrowed racket. I got my act together to win the second set 7-5.)