Daisy Dunn

Match made in heaven | 6 July 2017

<p class="p1"><span class="s1">Nabokov wrote of the ‘indescribable itch of rapture’ that can come of watching a woman play tennis. The romance – and rapture – of the sport has not been not lost on artists</span></p>

issue 08 July 2017

Tennis is best played with a wooden racket on a shady lawn somewhere close to Dorking. There is no need for trainers, an umpire, or a scoreboard. No need for rules at all. After Wimbledon, the tea-and-jam, grass-stained, Sunday-afternoon scenario from A Room with a View is the only one to emulate.

In 1908, when E.M. Forster published his novel, lawn tennis was not yet 50 years old. Although the origins of the game reach back to the 12th century, the version played by Miss Honeychurch and Reverend Beebe and most of us today was said to have been pioneered on a croquet lawn in Edgbaston in 1859. It was patented 15 years later by Major Walter Clopton Wingfield, a Welshman, originally under the not-so-catchy name of ‘sphairistike’ (from the ancient Greek for a skilled ball-player).

Distinct from the handball of medieval times and the ‘real tennis’ enjoyed by Henry VIII, the modern game appealed to both men and women.

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