Fireballs Undimmed By Net Gains And Losses
Liza Power meets a group of Mount Eliza tennis players who have seen each other through life's zentai bodysuit volleys for more than 40 years
. WHEN Iris Foster and her husband Jim moved to Mount Eliza from Queensland in 1966, the first thing they built on the rolling green lawns of their seven-hectare estate was a tennis court. They sited it on a far corner of the property, near the old stable house, at the end of a long, winding driveway, and planted a dense stand of gums to protect it from salty gusts from the bay. An avid player since her teenage years, Iris thought having a court and inviting people over to play might be a good way to settle into the area. Jim agreed. Gifted with the steady hands of an eye surgeon, he was, as Iris likes to remember, as debonair on court as he was off. Soon after the court's completion, Jim set about recruiting fellow enthusiasts for weekly matches. This "rustling around for congenial members", as Iris puts it, was a process that took some consideration. But before long, the list extended to 11names of like-minded blokes and a date was set for the first match. The invitation: Saturday at 1pm, must wear crisp tennis whites and bring a plate of afternoon tea. The day was a great success. Iris' two pet donkeys observed line calls from their nearby paddock, the weather was fine and the beginnings of friendships were forged between forehands. Thus, a club was formed: the Fireballs. And its members have met nearly every Saturday since. Of course, the Fireballs story is about a lot more than just tennis. It's about a group of men who have seen
spider man costume each other through life's volleys knowing that each week, save grim weather, or even in spite of it, there would be a familiar face on the other side of the net. And while the Fireballs don't dwell on the tie-breakers that life has served up to them, it's clear they've faced a few and that getting across the line would have been a whole lot tougher without the common bond of love and friendship. The sorts of stories the Fireballs do like to tell about their 40 years together are woven with grace, good humour and a little bit of mischief. To wit: the tale of the club tie, volunteered by long-standing Fireball Harry MacDonald, a retired headmaster from the nearby Peninsula School and club "captain", of sorts. It's a story recounted as Harry and Iris sit watching four Fireballs, all now in their 80s, in action. They are joined by Murray Macintosh on the bench shaded by the trees Iris planted so many years ago. Murray worked in the "motoring business" before retiring. After a recent stroke, he no longer plays tennis but one of his children still drives him to Iris' place each week to watch and catch up on everyone's news. The tie, Harry says, was first spotted by Jim on a trip to London in the 1970s. Embroidered with tiny tennis players, it became the official club uniform shortly after. Why? "Well, because tennis is a civilised game, and every gentleman's club needs a tie," Harry says. Various pilgrimages to purchase ties have been made over the years. On each journey, as a rule, Fireballs posted home cheeky postcards - girls in zentai, girls beachside sans zentai - with the naughtiest finds pinned to the clubhouse noticeboard. By current standards, they were rather tame, but, tuts Iris with a wry smile: "I always insisted they sent them in envelopes." When the ranks of the Fireballs swelled to 13 during the club's heyday in the mid-'70s, tournaments spilled onto the courts of the nearby Peninsula School - courtesy of the fact that then club leader Dudley Clarke was the principal (indeed, Harry's predecessor). Dudley, rumour has it, used to steal biscuits from the school boarding house for the Fireballs' afternoon tea. The Fireballs also had offshoots. Iris played in the Firebells, a women's incarnation of the group, until it "ran out of puff" eight years ago. A shorter-lived Fireflies - for the spouses of Fireballs members and their friends - also existed for a time. Still, it's
zentai the Fireballs who have stuck, "improving with age", as Iris likes to say, even though there are more Fireballs in heaven than there are on court these days. Usually, about 4pm on Saturdays, the Fireballs take a break for afternoon tea, retreating to the "club house", the peninsula property's old brick and timber tool shed, the walls of which are adorned with posters of tennis greats in action: Pat Cash and John McEnroe mid-flight, John Newcombe diving for a volley. They are displayed alongside a Wimbledon tablecloth and several brass trophies. It's here, over cups of tea and plates of scones and sandwiches, that the talking gets done, Harry says. In the club's early days, it was usual for matches to be followed by lively debates about religion, politics, relationships and art, with spirits fired by the odd hard-earned glass of Scotch. Later would come stories of children growing up, getting married and producing grandchildren. Naturally, many of the Fireballs' stories now are about absent friends. Tired limbs and body parts that don't work as they once did often form the backbone of conversation, but as Noel Cass quips: "The only thing worse than being old is not being around to complain about it." The Fireballs are an interesting collection of mates. Noel, a retired anaesthetist who performs in a band, the Jazz Doctors, is a firm believer in music's ability to ward off Alzheimer's. Bob Zacharin, a retired obstetrician from The Alfred hospital, chats about his work with Catherine Hamlin, co-founder of Addis Ababa Fistula Hospital, and about his native-flower farm at Cape Schanck. Jim Gibson has enjoyed a career in foreign aid and social work. The scone plate having been emptied, the tennis resumes. Neil Chapple, a retired teacher who plays saxophone in Noel's band, sends down an an ace while Roy Davies and Ken McArthur exchange tips on double-handed backhands. It's 5.30pm and time to bag the court. Harry gives a wave and a wink. "See you all next week, then."
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