27 One More Game

There was always an unmistakable magic to a summer campsite by the sea. The retro caravan, its sun-bleached orange-and-cream paintwork, nestled beneath the trees like a faithful companion, its aluminium trim glinting in the late-afternoon sunlight. The awning stretched out confidently, as though it might shield against any unpredictable weather brewing on the horizon. Beyond the ribbon of golden sand, the sea shifted from turquoise to deep blue, while further still, dark clouds gathered in dramatic formation. They always threatened to sweep in, but more often than not, they simply drifted away.

At the heart of this fleeting summer kingdom stood the swing ball set, or pole tennis. A simple metal pole, anchored in the grass, held a tennis ball tethered by a spiral of string. It needed no batteries or screens, just two players, side by side, ready for the challenge.

The rules were simple: hit the ball so it would travel up or down the pole in your favour. But mastering the game was another matter. Perfect timing and just the right flick of the wrist could send the ball flying over your opponent’s head, forcing a scramble. One well-placed shot could change everything.

And rhythm was everything.

The hollow thwack of the ball and the cicadas’ droning mixed with the distant hush of waves. Bare feet danced across warm grass, and the caravan’s long shadows turned the familiar into something abstract. Faded green-and-white lawn chairs waited beneath the awning, silent witnesses to countless games.

Dangers existed; stand too close to the pole, and a solid hit from your opponent could send the ball snapping back into your cheek or forehead. The game called for respect. Several players did retreat and rubbed their faces, laughing off the pain. That was just part of the game.

Then came the biggest risk of all: the string.

Eventually, after one determined swing too many, the cord would snap. The tennis ball would break free and roll across the grass, ending the contest and leaving a hush heavier than any loss. Without the tether, the game was over.

Now, in the golden late-afternoon light, the ball is caught mid-spin. The sky above the caravan is a vast, brilliant blue. A bank of clouds lingers at the horizon, and the scent of barbecue drifts on the breeze. Someone calls that dinner is almost ready.

And yet, as the day stretches thin and the light softens towards evening, there is always that inevitable plea:

“One more game.”

It isn’t because the score has to be settled, but because summer itself seems as if it might come loose like that worn string. Just as childhood, like the long day, can’t be wound back up the pole once it has reached the end.

Then go on and play, one more rally, one more laugh, and one more perfectly struck shot arching high beyond your opponent’s reach.