On a floodlit tennis court, I find myself playing a balmy game of doubles. My partner is the coach. He is short with skin that is brown and leathery from the sun. Oily black ringlets emerge from under his white baseball cap. In his left ear is a silver ring. He is about forty and shares my first name. Occasionally he gives me a bit of advice about holding the racket or tossing the ball. More often he says, 'Good shot Richard, give me a tap'. His accent is American.
Across the court, the subject of middle names comes up without my prompting. A member of the other team asks the question. I ask him if there is a reason for it. 'My mother thought it sounded professional', he replies.
An hour later our opponents, whose combined age is significantly less than his and marginally less than mine, win in a tense tie-break. My team-mate winks at me. 'Well drawn out', he says. I nod, unwilling to admit I didn't know that is what we were doing.
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