Oxygen. The facts.

A sneaky two-setter at Clissold. Rain held off and, overlooked by increasingly bizarre bird-life – cackling crows blown in the breeze like ragged binliners, screeching parakeets, and a grey heron, big as a sofa passing overhead on matchpoint – I battled my way to a 6-2, 6-3 win against Alvin.

The gloop of info. All the little fragments of instruction, sharp-edged and separate shards laid out carefully on the worktop of my brain, have begun to meld into each other. Distance from ball, time to bring racquet back, position of head, racquet-head speed, racquet-head angle, centre of gravity, footwork, knees, back leg, weight shift… the corners are rounding, and threads of impulse have started to connect between these little pieces of tennis in my mind.

In the warm-up, the forehand felt pretty good. One might almost say instinctive. Even a bit of, er, power, I think. Hard hitting into the corners, deep and true.

The first set, it’s 5-0, then 5-1. 5-2. 6-2. Felt good. Genuine control, not skill exactly, but control. I took a breather, a few deep lungfulls. Set two.

The first sign, and I’ve learnt to pick it up, is the mental score-board. I make a ritual of calling out the score, point-by-point, as it happens. I’ve played a couple of people with creative forgetfulness when it comes to keeping track of the exact score. I’ve always figured if I was sure of the score, there could be no argument. Especially when the other guy realises I’m reliable. And anyway, it helps me to focus. Odd numbers, the serve is from the right. Even, left. But I need to have the mental capacity, and when the oxygen demand outstrips supply – which it always does at about this time – it’s no longer automatic. Gradually, I struggle to recall the points. Then the games. And by the time I need to ask my opponent to confirm the score, I’m playing a whole new game. The info-gloop is desiccating, rendered once again into its constituent parts, and my game starts to falter. First to go is feet, and if I’m not in the right place the swing goes, and with it the control. At 3-2 up, I was patting the ball, and had a cunning new strategy – not to let on that I was knackered, finished, running on fumes. Don’t know, maybe Alvin was struggling too, maybe he had his own little battles.

Turns out, there’s a part of the brain that doesn’t need any oxygen. Must be the bit that keeps you alive for a few moments when you’ve already drowned. Under-used, under-appreciated. And, short of a fitness regime with stamina training, my best chance for seeing myself over the line. Not an advanced area of the brain, for sure, but it sent out signals at critical moments, in some sort of binary code: stay back; wait; that thing is the net; this thing is the ball; now hit it… Worked a treat. I should experiment with invoking this facility in other areas of my life. That’s enough whisky; this film isn’t going to get any better; go to sleep…