My mother has asked me to read something before I get started:

“Thank you so much for coming to this celebration of Keith’s life. He had a long life, 91 years 360 days. He came just one year short of playing tennis when he was 90. He was dressed today in his tennis whites including his wooden tennis racquet, a Preston, and a tennis ball ready for his next game. It really is the end of an era. This year, as members will know, he could not attend the AGM. This was the first time he had missed a meeting since joining the club 60 years ago. I made a very poor substitute, but at least a Lipscomb was there. Please enjoy this afternoon, and drink to his life.” (Shuffling a very thick wad of papers that have a sheet at the back with points 495 to 502 listed I begin to speak)

I have made a few notes to cover my father’s life, 91 years and 360 days is a very long time. (Knowing members of the committee laugh as they remember my father’s copious notes) OK so not quite that many notes. (I put down all but one sheet and continue)

It started all that time ago at 133 Fryant Barnet Road, in fact my father showed me the actual room in which he was born just last year. During our research for today we found a number of photos that we have placed around the room (shown above). I think you will agree he was devilishly handsome in his youth. (pause for laughter) Which is good, as many think I look just like him.

My dad was tennis through and through, if you had cut him in half he would be like a stick of rock with the word tennis right through the middle. In his early days he pursued both forms of the game, with the little bat in winter and the big racquet in summer. In later life he focussed on the outdoor version.

Before the war my dad’s family moved to Gladstone Park Gardens and dad joined Dollis Hill Tennis club where he went on to win many titles. It is also where mum and dad first met and is the badge I am wearing on my blazer. He volunteered and was sent to West Africa, where among others, he trained a bunch of cannibals. The purpose remains a military secret that so far has not come to light. He was the best marksman I have ever seen, undoubtedly why he was enlisted to the Kings Royal Rifles and posted to Burma. The discipline of military life  really suited dad and he rose to the rank of Regimental Sargent Major. Like his father before him in the First World War he was wounded in action, in the good arm. Clearly his opposition marksman was not as good as he was, which was lucky for both Nigel and me.

Post war he continued to win at Dollis Hill which eventually closed in 1951, in the last year dad won all three events, the men’s singles, men’s double and mixed doubles with Sheila Bennett who was at the funeral earlier. A press report of the event is among the pictures, the significance of which we will come back to later. When Dollis Hill closed dad moved to South Hampstead, and the die was cast. Everything revolved around “The Club”, but more the club was everything to him. Mum and dad were engaged here on Coronation night on their way back from central London. Of course not in this modern building but in the rickety old pavilion that preceded it, with the front door key on the joist over the veranda.  We grew up here spending every summer weekend with our extended family of Uncles and Aunties. Many of whom are here today with their children that were like brothers and sisters. Dad was intensely proud of his entries on the honours board and even rescued the original one that was burned when the old pavilion went up. As we were searching for the photos we came across the charred remains hidden away upstairs. I think if you count you can see 31 entries and that does not include the Veterans as their board does not go back far enough. Many of you today will consider my dad a friend or a foe, depending on which side of the net he was. A few that partnered him would say it mattered not which side you were on.

Winning was everything to my dad, and appropriately the last line of Nessun Dorma, played earlier, translates literally to “I Will Win”. Now I need to give a little warning, mainly because the other party is in the room. This anecdote is an illustration of how my dad was, and may have drifted a little from the truth as the years have dimmed our memory. Picture the scene, it’s late one Sunday evening and play was dwindling however as you know singles were not allowed on a Sunday afternoon. As the light faded my dad and Uncle Edward, you don’t mind me calling you Uncle Edward do you?

Edward:    You can call me sir!

OK, my dad and Sir Uncle Edward decided to have a “friendly” knock. You’re right, no such thing existed, so we all made our way out onto the veranda to watch as they headed off to court 5. Soon the light became so poor that we could not see them so we piled back into the club house for a cup of tea. After some time we realised they had not returned. Heading out once more into the dark we saw a pair of shadowy figures, arm in arm, hobbling towards. Someone called out, “what was the score”, “six all” came the reply. My dad had a bruise from ankle to buttock on his left leg and I am sure Uncle Edward fared no better. Enough said about the “friendly” rivalry.

My father was old fashioned, regimented, well documented, slow to change. He always wore tennis whites as he was today along with his racquet, an old Preston, and a tennis ball ready for his next game.  He never did grasp the introduction of the sponge bat to table tennis which led to his eventually demise from the game. My dad had a simple world where things were black and white. As far as he was concerned there were two ways of doing things, the wrong way and his way. He was an avid football supporter, following Arsenal, QPR and Hendon. He had me read the QPR results to him in hospital, fortunately they are doing pretty well. He used to go and see Hendon for almost all their home games. He was an avid reader of the Willesden and Brent Chronicle where he often appeared due to his tennis and table tennis exploits. Though I think it had a lot to do with him writing the stories and knowing the editor personally.

Working for Bramber Engineering, rising to Factory Manager but this was just a means to fund his tennis obsession. He was always prepared as we can testify following our initial research where we found these. (I show a box of 6, unused, white Spalding tennis balls dated 1949). One wonders just when these were to be used. We found many other similar boxes spanning the decades.

He was a fighter to the end but eventually succumbed to overwhelming odds. In a final request he asked for a trophy to be presented to the club for the Veterans. He was given the Dollis Hill Cup having won the trophy on 6 consecutive occasions from 1939 through 1951, excluding the war years.  He then went on to South Hampstead where he won the first 6 years of the singles, effectively winning his club singles for 12 consecutive years. How fitting  that run was finally broken by Uncle Edward.

We have had the trophy polished up and engraved appropriately however I can tell you that had he known how much it is worth he probably would not have given it away!! I now call on my mum to present to Garry Hughes the Dollis Hill Trophy in memory of my father for the Veteran’s Men’s Singles. Please help yourselves to refreshments and the open bar, possibly the first and last time my dad will buy you a drink.