Playing the Moldovans At Tennis (18 page)

I probably will too.

For someone who doesn't like goodbyes much, this wasn't a great day for me. The maxi taxi stop on Boulevard Stefan Cel Mare formed the backdrop for the next valediction. Lucky old Iulian was to be rid of me at last. As he stood before me, I felt strangely numb – unable to fathom which emotion I ought to be feeling. We'd worked closely together and shared many laughs as well as disappointments, but nevertheless not much warmth had developed between us. We respected each other, and that was about as far as it went. I liked to think that Iulian would remember this time with the mad English guy with fondness, and that some of my positive thinking might have rubbed off on him, but somehow I doubted it. Iulian enjoyed being pissed off. He didn't need anyone to come along and mess that up.

'Good luck,' he said, as we shook hands.

'Good luck,' I offered, by return.

We'd both need it, but one of us had already been blessed with a healthy dose of it simply by virtue of where he'd been born. I wouldn't take that for granted any more.

It was all rather touching. The family had thrown a dinner party specially in my honour, the culinary main attraction being the huge fish which I assumed some patients had poached especially, and the surprise guests being Corina and her husband Aurel, who'd just returned from Romania that day.

'So my prediction was out by one,' said Corina, having been brought up to speed with recent events. 'I said that you would play six players and I hear that you have now played seven. And won!'

'But of course I won,' I responded modestly. 'How could you ever have doubted me?'

'I am sorry,' she laughed. 'But seven is not enough – don't you still lose the bet?'

I explained about the planned trips to Belfast and Israel.

'You really want to win this thing don't you,' she remarked, almost in disbelief.

'I think I do, yes.'

I was in little doubt about this, and who could blame me? After having gone to as much trouble as I had, I didn't really want the further inconvenience of having to get my tackle out on Balham High Road.

It was a fine meal, and if the wine flowed more fluently than the conversation then it was for no reason other than the language barrier. Presents were exchanged; I gave flowers to Dina, and Wimbledon T-shirts and key rings to everyone else. I was on the receiving end of an abundance of Moldovan chocolates and wine. Grigore thanked me for the influence I'd had on his children and I thanked him for his family's kindness and support.

'I think that we have been good for each other,' I said via Adrian.

Dina and Grigore nodded. Just as I did, they knew that relationships don't get any better than that.

At midnight, merry in every sense of the word, I climbed the stairs to my room only to hear Adrian's voice calling up behind me.

Tony, I fink that our house will be empty without you,' he said quietly and sincerely.

I found myself quite choked, and struggling for words.

Thanks Adrian,' I managed.

It wasn't enough but it would have to do.

Despite my taxi arriving at five o'clock in the morning, all the family were up to see me off. I hugged them in turn, discovering a genuine affection in each embrace. Win or lose the bet, these doorstep squeezes would be enough to have made it all worthwhile.

As the taxi reversed away from the house, its headlights illuminated a family waving goodbye. They were lit beautifully. This could have been the final shot of an Oscar winning movie.

Except that it wasn't time to roll the credits just yet.

Leaving Moldova wasn't as easy as it might have been. My bag was weighed at check-in and I was given the astonishing news that it was 23 kg overweight and that I would have to pay $225 in excess baggage charges.

Two hundred and twenty-five dollars?' I whined to the guy from Air Moldova who had been summoned especially. 'My bags and their entire contents aren't worth that much.'

This was probably the truth, given that I was carrying my video camera as hand luggage.

These are the rules,' explained the deadpan official, a young guy in his late twenties. This is what you have to pay.'

'I'm not paying two hundred and twenty-five dollars. It's absurd,' I complained. 'Besides, I've only got 50 dollars left.'

Three weeks in the country had emboldened me and I wasn't going to be taken for this amount of money. Not without creating quite a fuss anyway.

You must pay,' he insisted.

'Not if I make my luggage lighter,' I announced, much to the puzzlement of the official.

I proceeded to empty my bags of all the bottles of wine and brandy which I had bought in the last few days, or been given on my last night. I looked up at the official and smiled.

There. Now you can have a party,' I proclaimed.

What do you mean?'

Well, I'm not going to pay 225 dollars for the privilege of taking these bottles home with me when they're probably only worth around 50 dollars. You keep them. You and your friends here can have a party.'

I looked up at some of the official's co-workers and signalled to them that this alcohol was soon to be all theirs. It was news which did not seem to displease them. However the official remained solemn.

We have enough wine in this country already,' he said.

Well, now you have a bit more because I'm not paying two hundred and twenty five dollars to take it with me.'

My attitude was somewhat disarming to my adversary. He recognised that I was an awkward customer but he had clearly never come across one before whose awkwardness manifested itself in a desire to give alcohol to him and his colleagues. There was nothing in the book on how to deal with guys like me. Confused, he went off to seek advice, taking my now much lighter bag with him.

Ten minutes later he returned looking a mite relieved.

Tour bag is now only five kilograms over,' he said. 'I will do you a deal. You can take your wine and your brandy and I will only charge you for the five-kilo excess.'

It sounded like a good deal. Especially since agreeing to it meant that I could go home. And I wanted to go home.

'OK, we're in business. Charge away,' I said a little cheekily.

The official then filled a page of his notepad with calculations before turning to me and announcing;

'You have fifty dollars to pay.'

Fifty dollars? What a coincidence. His extensive calculations had produced the exact figure which I'd earlier revealed as being what I had left in my wallet. Why didn't they just forget about all this excess baggage palaver and just introduce a rule where they confiscate any money you have left over?

'OK,' I conceded, 'here's your money.'

So far as I was concerned it was a scam, but at least my rather brazen actions had got the price down to an acceptable level. Now when I got home, I could make use of one of the bottles in my luggage to drink two toasts to Moldova – one to some of the beautiful people I had met, and one to the relief of finally being out of the place.

'So have you done it then Hawks?' asked Arthur, as we met for a drink in the same pub which had seen the birth of the whole preposterous wager.

'Not exactly. I have to go to Northern Ireland next,' I replied.

What for?'

To get some more of the footballers.'

'Christ I suppose you'll have to go to Timbuktu after that.'

'No, Israel.'

He looked at me, totally unable to fathom whether I was joking or not.

'So how many have you beaten so far?' he enquired.

'Just be patient, Arthur. I'll tell you the whole story when I've completed it. Until then, you just work on that tan. And make sure it's an all over one.'

Two weeks later, following my first game of tennis back on English soil against my friend Tim (who always provides considerably more opposition than your average Moldovan footballer), a pot of tea was being shared back at my place when a fax arrived from lulian in Moldova.

Bad news Tony. I just spoke again with Andrei from the Moldovan Football Federation and he says that the national trainer does not think that their schedule in Belfast will allow them time to play you at tennis.

I am sorry. I guess this means you have lost after all.

Regards lulian

I hung my head. I was staring defeat in the face again. When I had left Moldova, things couldn't have looked rosier, but now my hopes had been dashed by a simple fax. Tim, who knew that I was already a bit pissed off after having just lost to him in a close tie-break, could now see that I was doubly gutted.

'Will you still go to Belfast?' he asked.

'I don't know,' I sighed. 'I mean there doesn't seem much point.'

The point is to win the bet.'

'But the trainer has said no.'

'What was the exact bet with Arthur?' asked Tim, adopting a new upbeat tone of voice.

'What do you mean?'

'How was it worded?'

Well, I have to beat the entire Moldovan national football team at tennis.'

'At tennis?'

'Yes at tennis. Tim, what's your point here?'

Well, why don't you go out and buy yourself a Play Station and beat them at tennis on that? Their manager surely couldn't object to them sitting in front of a TV and twiddling a knob.'

'Are you serious?'

'Of course I am. The game's called
tennis
and if you beat them at
tennis,
then you're fulfilling the terms of the bet.'

That's the most ridiculous idea I've heard in ages.'

'Yes, but that's no reason not to act on it.'

I hesitated. It was undoubtedly a straw, but it felt good to clutch at something. I was a desperate man. Having come this far and survived Moldova with seven scalps under my belt, it just seemed madness to concede defeat just yet. Besides, I'd bought my ticket to Belfast – I'd might as well turn up there. OK, without question Arthur would not count the defeat of a Moldovan footballer at a computer game as a legitimate victory, but it might just be that I could persuade him to allow some kind of independent jury to make a judgement on the matter, and who knows – they might just rule in my favour, especially given the time, effort and money I'd put into the project.

'All right then,' I replied finally. 'Let's go shopping.'

The man in Dixons, Oxford Street, had said that the Sony Play Station was so easy to operate even a two-year-old could do it. This did not make me feel any better when, after 45 minutes, I was still on my hands and knees in front of the TV, shouting at the instruction manual. I was badly in need of a two-year-old to explain a few basics, but all the toddlers I knew were busy at nursery lecturing their teachers on the relative merits of the 475MHz and K6-2 3D processor. I just had to figure it out myself.

I finally acquired toddler status when I read the instructions at a sensible pace instead of trying to rush through them so that I could begin playing the video game immediately. As with so many things, the trick was to be patient My first match was against Pete Sampras. It might have been better to have started with a weaker opponent, but I'd checked thoroughly the list of available opposition and I hadn't seen the names Luciano Pavarotti or Roseanne Barr anywhere. No, you had to take on pros, and frankly they don't get any tougher than Sampras. Even when he's only a drawing.

I lost 6-0, 60, in one of the more one-sided confrontations since US forces took on Grenada. What made the defeat all the more unpalatable were some of the hurtful remarks made by TV commentator Barry Davies. He had evidently been hired by the makers of the game to come into a studio one afternoon and record thousands of different comments which could then be slotted in at relevant moments in the match. I felt he was unfairly critical of my service, and I resented the impersonal way he referred to me as Player One. 'Oh dear,' he'd say. 'And what was Player One thinking of there?' or 'Player One really has to look closely at his service action. It's simply not good enough.'

After my 6-0, 6-0 loss to Cedric Pioline, Barry went too far.

'Oh dear, oh dear,' he pronounced, 'Player One simply doesn't have what it takes to compete at this level.'

'Look Commentator A,' I shouted at the TV screen, 'just give me a sodding break – I've only been playing for twenty minutes! Pioline's been playing the pro circuit for ten years!'

But Barry was right, of course. I was playing at the wrong level. Unwittingly, I had the machine switched to
VERY DIFFICULT.
Once I flicked the button over to
EASY,
I pissed all over Agassi 6-2, 6-2. (If only real life was this simple.)

After playing for two hours solidly, I felt I'd earned a cup of tea, especially since I'd just drawn level at one set all with Greg Rusedski at
MEDIUM
level. Barry was not impressed that I'd stopped. From the kitchen I could hear his continuing commentary.

'Well is this nerves we're seeing here?'

'I'm making a cup of tea, Barry, I'll be back in a minute,' I called from the kitchen.

'Well, I don't like to call this gamesmanship from Player One, but there really can be no other reason for this delay.'

'Give me a break man, I'm trying to—'

'Oh I must say that this is bad sportsmanship.'

'Look Barry, just fuck off!'

I could never live with Barry Davies. The man is too impatient, too judgmental. Two days holed up in a bedroom with him while I attempted to acquire a level of competence at a computer game, was enough to confirm this. As soon as this whole business was over he would have to move out. No two ways about it.

Painful process though it may have been, this brief foray into the tragic world of the maladjusted spotty teenager had provided me with a valuable new life skill, and as I left the house for Belfast on Monday morning I was fully in possession of the technique required to defeat any footballer in the world at Play Station tennis.

Not to mention two quite sore thumbs.

'Have you been to Belfast before?' said the taxi driver in a pleasingly strong Ulster brogue, as he delivered me from airport to city centre.

'Yes, I've been a few times,' I replied. The first was about five years ago when I did a show at the Arts Theatre during the Belfast Comedy Festival.'

It was on that visit that I'd discovered how the people in Northern Ireland have developed a unique sense of humour, presumably to deflect the pain of the horrors which all too regularly afflict them. I learned this the hardest way of all – in front of an audience of four hundred. Being in Belfast, I had wanted to perform at least some material which made reference to where I was, but I was only too aware that to do so was to walk into a comedy minefield, given the sectarian complexities of the place and the explosive political situation. Nevertheless, I'd come up with an idea which I ran past several locals who all assured me that it would go down 'just fine'.

On the night, twenty minutes into my performance I decided that I was being received well enough to risk it, and I took a deep breath and leapt from the metaphoric high board, not entirely sure whether the pool below me contained any water.

'I've had a lot of bad luck with my left shoe recently,' I began. The sole came loose and I kept tripping up over the bit that was flapping about at the front. Well, I was recommended a glue by a friend who assured me that it would hold the leather firm at the front of the shoe, but it had little effect. Then I tried a rubber under-sole but that too came loose . . .'

I won't bore you with the full extent of my ramblings on this extraordinarily trivial subject, but suffice it to say that I continued for as long as I felt I could still hold the audience's attention, before I delivered the line for which the whole preamble had been constructed.

'. . . and finally after trying my fifth different glue, I gave up and threw the shoes away . . . and you think you've had troubles up here.'

Silence from the audience. Oh God no! I'd been given the wrong advice and I'd gone too far. There'd be no way back from this. But then a chortle, followed by a guffaw, and sure enough, just like the cliche scene in a movie, the theatre was soon filled with laughter.

My most daring moment on stage had been a success, but it had been touch and go. That moment sums up the resilience of the people of Northern Ireland – that they could laugh at someone making light of the suffering which they had endured for a generation – and take it from an Englishman at that. I guess they could do it because their humour is black. It has to be. For many, laughter has been the only defence.

'How do you like Belfast?' asked the driver as we approached the disordered sprawl of grey buildings which are the city centre.

'I always find the people here so friendly.'

That's our problem,' he said. We're friendly to outsiders but we hate each other.'

He dropped me at Ulster TV on the Ormeau Road, but not before we'd both endured heavy city centre traffic.

'I don't know why they call it the rush hour when everyone's at a standstill,' he remarked wryly.

I was back in a country where the sense of humour prevailed. Well, almost.

'Ah come in Tony, it's great to see you again,' said Shonagh, holding open the door to the offices of
The Kelly Show,
on which I'd appeared once before. 'Look everyone – it's the eejit with the fridge!'

'Ah Jaysus!' said Mary, 'And what's he up to this time?'

'He's playing Moldovan footballers at tennis,' piped up Helena from the rear of the room.

'Somebody needs to help that man. He's mad,' observed Patricia.

What was Moldova like?' asked Alice.

Well, let me put it this way,' I responded. 'It's a country where you'd be unlikely to see any adverts for soft toilet paper.'