When my wife Cath was a girl she was good friends with my younger sister Liz and my two cousins, Bern and Cis. (Boys, be nice to your little sister because they might come in handy one day.) They all played tennis, and between the ages of 10 and 12 all four were ballgirls at the big women's tournament in town - the National Panasonic at Milton. They’d get a free outfit, shoes, and a five dollar lunch voucher – worth a lot in those days - as they fetched balls for players like Martina Navratilova, Pam Shriver and Wendy Turnbull.
Now in any group of friends there’s always one who’s a rebel - in this case it was my cousin Bern.
She discovered that if she bought something with the $5 lunch voucher she’d get the change in cash. So the girls started bringing in vegemite sandwiches for lunch, buy an icy-pole for 50 cents and pocket the change. Not bad.
Most 11 year olds would be happy with that. Not Bern. If you asked nicely, the lady in charge of ballgirls would give you a free pass each day for your mum or dad to watch the tennis. Bern would get all her friends to pick up their free pass, but of course they wouldn’t give them to their parents. When they were dropped off in the morning Bern would wave goodbye, but instead of walking into the tennis centre she’d walk 100 metres up Milton road. At the box office it would cost someone 17 bucks for a ticket. Bern would sell them for 10.
Now the goal of every ballgirl, apart from getting autographs, is to make it on centre court. You’ve got the TV cameras, crowd, the best players. It’s ballgirl heaven. Even though she was a rebel, Bern was a top ballgirl – fast across the court, good hands, able to bend down quickly - so she’d often make it to the big stadium. There was a huge fridge with all sorts of drinks for the players, which the ballgirls at the net would serve at the change of ends. Bern was a net specialist. The players would ask for Staminade or water, but Bern noticed that the fridge was packed with soft drinks that the players would never drink. So Bern decided to try her riskiest move yet. After match point when everyone was clapping as the players walked to the net to shake hands, Bern quickly opened the fridge and snuck out two cans of soft drink. The ballgirl hat had a long tail that covered the neck. Perfect for hiding drinks.
‘Bernadette, how could you?’ Cath said.
Bern replied, ‘Well the players aren’t going to drink them so we might as well!’
And four girls sat on the front lawn, eating their vegemite sandwiches, and sharing a few cans of soft drink.
Twenty-five years later Aunty Maureen rang me up. 'Pat,' she said, 'why don’t you write a book about ballgirls? The girls used to have so much fun doing it. It was one time I never had to worry about Bern. She liked it so much she wouldn’t dare get up to mischief.'
'Aunty Maur,' I said, 'that’s a great idea!'
And so I wrote a book called The Best Ballgirl and called one of the character’s Bern. I just hope Aunty Maureen never reads it.
