Badminton

I used to play Badminton with "The Over Fifties". Most were over sixty, some over seventy, a few over eighty and one over ninety. He had been a good sportsman all his life: cricket, tennis, squash and now badminton.
The last game I played we (we only played doubles) won 15 - Love. My partner was a very good player; I was OK. One of our opponents was a very good player, the other was about standard. It was nice to think that the last game I ever played I won 15 to zero. But something happened in the game that sealed my fate as a player: when we reached 14 I realised I couldn't lift my foot - I had somehow got "drop-foot" or "foot-drop". But my partner was able to finish the game successfully while I staggered about on one foot, sort of thing.
Some of the games were more like battles than games. These old men - and some women - quarrelled over every little thing. "It was in." "It was out". "I said it was was in." "And I said it was way out here" - indicating with his racket a spot well outside the border line. By this time they were confronting each at the net, nose to nose over it from each side. "You are the biggest cheat I have ever known". A sour laugh from the other side of the net: "who's a cheat? Not me. By the way, I thought you were a Christian." What being a Christian had to do with it I don't know.
One day someone from a magazine or newspaper or whatever came to photograph us ("You too can become healthy and fit if only you try. Look at this lot of crocks...."). He took photos from the side, from behind us and then he decided to take an elaborate kind of photo of a group (who were always argueing) from the floor. He placed himself on the floor at the edge of the netpole, angled his camera with great exactitude at a player or two, took ages to get it all right and was about to take the first shot when he found that there was no one on court - an argument had taken place in which someone had called someone something, probably a cheat, and one walked off followed by the rest. The photographer lay there awhile hoping perhaps they'd return. But no, they were still "at it" on the sidelines. I read a word on his lips which summed up his feelings I think. It began with an F and had four letters.
The ninety-year old told me a joke just before I left: four old men used to play tennis regularly but they were always argueing over whether the ball was in or out of court. Then one of them died so they had to seek another tennis player. They found an old bloke who could play so asked him to play to which he replied yes he would. Came the first game and someone said "It was out". An opponent said "it was in". They decided to consult the newcomer. "Did you see it?" "Yes," he replied. "Well was it in or out?" "I can't remember," he said.
In case you are wondering what happed to my foot - it got better. But no more badminton thanks.