Scotty Stevenson: Time with the rallies at Caroline Bay courts

The tennis match was the annual Mango Chicken Cup. Photo / Thinkstock

He was 30-love up in the final game. The winner was taking all. The court was of the public variety, and the net sagged in the middle, blown about through spring by the winds that whipped off the grey waters of Caroline Bay. Summer had officially begun, yet the clouds hung low that afternoon in Timaru, and the temperature had dropped in sympathy.

Two local boys were playing a half-hearted game of one-on-one on the adjacent basketball court as a man in dark green overalls repainted the sideline over a patch of freshly rolled bitumen. They would not have known that barely 40m from them the Most Important Tennis Match of The Year was reaching its chaotic climax. How could they have known?

The tennis match in question was the annual Mango Chicken Cup, a tournament named after a sordid and sickening story of financial opportunism, of the blurred lines between friendship and enmity, of mistrust and missing wallets, and of a half-eaten poppadom. The real story is so long and protracted that it cannot possibly be retold in the limited space available here. Make no mistake, though, its plotline is as rich as a korma, as complex as a saag, as incendiary as a fiery vindaloo.

The combatants that day numbered three, which you will note is an irregular number for a tennis match of any magnitude, let alone the Mango Chicken Cup. This fact was not lost on the trio, and they had enlisted, for the purposes of achieving a result, "Timaru Tim", who had been spending the afternoon battling it out with his rather competitive mother on court one. If he had only foreseen the capitulation that was to come, he may well have decided to pack his racquet and head back to the old lady's place for tea.

On the other side, deep in the court, was a man of vintage pedigree. As a tennis player, he relied on his not inconsiderable guile in lieu of any genuine pace or desire to cover more court than was absolutely necessary - which for him was about two lineal metres of the baseline. In this way he was able to apportion blame to his partner at least 80 per cent of the time. On all other occasions, when it was clear the buck stopped with him, he would swiftly and most sincerely compliment his opponent, carefully conveying a sense that not even the greats of the game would have had the capacity to stop the point being conceded.

Standing next to him was the female of the group, an athlete of some distinction and, though her time on rugby's playing fields had long since passed, her competitive desire had never abated. Her ruthless pursuit of victory made her zap and zing, the electrical charge of the contest buzzed about her like a tennis Tesla coil. She took up her spot at the net and waited for the next serve.

It pays to note, the rules of the Mango Chicken Cup were as fluid as a lassi, if any rules actually existed. Player fatigue dictated when the final, all-important title game was contested. And so it was that our protagonist found himself 30-love up, in the last game of the afternoon, as the daily freight train rattled by on the track above, headed south.

The first serve, intended as a sinker that would make the old man move, hit the net and rolled harmlessly off the court. The second was a repeat of the first. Hubris: the great precursor of the double fault. A cold gust swept across the court as the final carriage - empty - passed by. The score was 30-15.

Still, our man knew the advantage was his - Tim had enough talent and co-ordination to be considered formidable in this kind of company. All he had to do was hit his serve, Tim would take care of the rest. The serve was good, the return was better. The woman whooped like a banshee. 30-all.

He cursed at Caroline Bay. He spat on the faded hardcourt. The old man smirked under his grey moustache. Tim winced. Tim's mother winced with him.

Consequences filled every bead of perspiration "bring it back to deuce" he thought, "just win the point ..."

He saw Tim the next day, stocking shelves in a supermarket. Tim could see the dejection in his eyes. Tim would have offered a handshake were it not for the fact he was holding two cans of Sprite Zero in each hand.

"I thought at 30-nil up we had that," Tim said. His words hung in the air, filling the party food aisle with the empty calories of despair.

"I thought we had that too, mate. I really thought we did."