Chapter 158 : Newtown Catholic Tennis club

I love the Catholic Church because of the good it has done. It has helped the community of Hobart. It has helped them emotionally, socially and physically.

      

The Catholic Church owns some tennis courts hidden away amongst some houses in Newtown.  They have created a fantastic, supportive, healthy, community of tennis players.  They have created a community of tennis players which proves they know how to create loving, caring communities.

Every person playing has a story involving how playing tennis helped them medically, socially, emotionally, physically or spiritually. Every player has a story where playing tennis at Newtown Catholic Tennis club on courts owned by the Catholic Church helped them.

Newtown Catholic Tennis club is not a club that is difficult to join. The club accepts anybody from anywhere without discrimination.  Everybody who joins sees tennis as helping them to be fit and healthy.

I am reluctant to say that the Newtown Catholic Tennis club accepts any and everybody. Because that implies perceptions about our current members. At present all members are respected because they are all different and unique.

I do not want to tell you the back story behind any of my fellow tennis players. A story where playing tennis helped them. Because they will not hesitate to tell me I have got the story wrong.  

Instead I will tell you my story.

It begins with Donald Bradman and finishes with my grandkids. Being a Melbournian my father loved watching sport.

He used to talk about watching Bradman bat; the day Kuts demolish the field in the Melbourne Olympics; Grand final day 1970; the day Kim Hughes made a century in a Boxing Day test match.

And the highlight of his sporting stories was a story involving the local church tennis courts. He played with one of his daughters in a team and won a grand final. The pleasure this gave him lasted long after he’d stopped playing. So did his stories of the famous day.

His years of playing tennis began on a church tennis court. He met and courted my mother on church tennis courts. He coached his children and played with them on church tennis courts. He always told me not to hit the ball as hard as possible. He always said, “Hit the ball where they aren’t.”

In those days most churches had an adjacent tennis court. There were competitions confined to church tennis.  

The local church tennis courts were an integral part of my life and the life of the church community.  They were as much a part of church life as communion. Church tennis has now virtually gone though the asphalt often still remains.

My story then moves to Newtown and the Newtown Catholic Tennis club. Which plays on tennis courts owned by the Catholic Church.

One day I chanced upon the hidden courts. I couldn’t resist becoming a player. In 2015 I spent seven weeks in the Royal lying in a hospital bed. Not much cheered me up. One thing did. A card from the tennis club.

When I became an out-patient I headed straight back to the tennis courts. I was weak and clumsy with poor muscle control and didn’t play that well. The tennis players didn’t see my weaknesses as an opportunity to defeat me. They supported and helped me get better.  Their attitude was better than jars full of tablets and official hospital support groups.

My grandkids then enter the story. I have been going to the hidden courts with them and their friends.   One of them has good timing, good footwork and looks like she could become a good player. One of them loves to hit the ball as hard as possible.  I must tell him to hit the ball where they aren’t.

These unseen, secretive courts are owned by the Catholic Church. They are doing the local community good. Socially, emotionally and physically. I am proud to thank the Catholic Church for the good they are doing. They are doing good in Hobart, a long way from Rome or the holy lands. The tennis club takes the best of Christianity. I thank the Catholic Church for the way they have helped my local community. Thank you.

Chapter 157: homeless people

My daughter Catherine: Why don’t you write about something important? Like the homeless people?

Grandfather Alan: I don’t know any homeless people.

Catherine: There’s a lot. They are everywhere. You just can’t see them.

 Alan: Who are these people?                       

Catherine: All sorts. Either their families don’t want them or they don’t want their family.

Alan: I still can’t see how I can write about the homeless. I am not homeless. I don’t know any homeless.  I don’t own any vacant property.  I don’t know why “they” are not providing accommodation for “them.”

When my grandkids grow up I want them to live in a compassionate society. A society which includes everybody. Irrespective of sexuality, race, ability, age, opportunities or health.  A society which looks after the people falling through the cracks. A society which houses the ones who can’t house themselves.

Well my grandkids are being sensitive and caring this morning. My grandkids are dancing around the loungeroom. They are playing together. They are laughing and chirping to each other. They are kicking their legs in time to music.  They are seeing who can kick the highest.  They are proud the music is a new song I have never heard of.

They then eat a healthy breakfast. They eat everything except the sultanas. They are wearing clean, neat school uniforms. When they grow up I want them to live in a society where everybody is fit and healthy. Physically, socially and emotionally. Today they will go to an aftercare activity. An activity where they learn how to get on with others. A physical activity where they learn how to be physically fit and healthy.

Bruce is the first one to eat his breakfast. He looks around and says: “Hands up if you’ve finished your breakfast?”

When they grow up I also want them to live in a society which has the knowledge, skills and procedures for housing the unhoused.

They can learn some management or political skills at school or home or pick them up osmotically. They have an aunt on council so maybe they will learn something from her.  Not specific lessons but waiting in her office and eaves dropping on her meetings will help or listening to their aunt say, “I am not allowed to talk about that.”

I want my grandkids to live in a society which helps the ones falling through the cracks. But I don’t want them to fall. I want them to flourish.

I want them to get productive, constructive, enjoyable jobs. Jobs that follow from good reading, writing skills, good interpersonal skills, good social skills and from being mentally fit and healthy.

Today I can help them achieve all that. I talk about what is happening at school. About what is coming up. And this afternoon I will ask them about what they did at school. I will then get out some pencils, crayons and scrape paper. I love their drawings. I prove it by sticking their pictures on the fridge.

I want my grandkids to live in a society where everybody communicates well with everybody else. Where the technology helps people communicate with real live people. The people they can see, smell, and touch or hear.

Dr Goggle is hindering communication.  Dr Goggle has arrived and communities communicate less.  Before Dr Google came it was more common for people to offer a spare bed for a few nights to temporary homeless families, friends or workmates. Virtually everybody I know spent some time sleeping in a strange bed or waiting in the corridor outside the bathroom for the passing visitors to finish their business.  Those days have gone.

Perhaps if I speak to them. Make rules about when they can or can’t go on-line. Prod them to connect with the people around them. As my mind wanders they become over active and I immediately break my own rule and give them the little plastic I-pod babysitter. It keeps them quiet and occupied.

As the kids go off to school I realise I haven’t written about the housing crisis. Not the current one. As for the one in twenty years. I don’t know. All I know is my grandkids love grapes and hate sultanas.