Naked Hero - The Journey Away

commentator! Well, well! Still, it’s a bit keen, wouldn’t you say - retired from the game and out on the court at this time in the morning.”
    “He obviously wants to keep in shape. And he’s doing just that by the looks of things.”
    Lewis nodded. “Makes it seem easy, doesn’t he?”
    “Not easy for his opponent!” answered Mike with a chuckle. “The poor guy’s all over the place. Did you ever play him?”
    “Sadly not,” replied Lewis, the regret obvious in his voice. “He retired before I got the chance. Shame, because I really wanted to play him, just to say that I’d done it. To have been on court with Scott Taylor - God, that would have been something. He would have ripped me apart, but I wouldn’t have cared... He was so good... He still is. Look at those ground strokes. Just murders the ball. I did see him in action though, at Wimbledon when I was in the juniors. It’s a crying shame that he didn’t win it.”
    “Do you want to go over and watch him again?” suggested Mike. “We’ve got some time to kill before Jim gets here.”
    “Do you not think he’d mind?” asked Lewis, assertion evaporating in the morning heat.
    “He can only tell us to bugger off. I’m sure he wouldn’t, though. Remember the nickname?”
    “Gentleman Scott Taylor... and he deserved it – the best role model the game ever had... But what about the Svetlanas with the long blonde hair and even longer legs?”
    “They can wait. Come on. You might have seen the great man play, but I haven’t - and he’s less likely to tell me to bugger off if you’re around.”
    Lewis gave him an ironical laugh. “Don’t be too sure about that.”
    “Well, let’s find out.”
    They walked over to the court where Scott Taylor was playing and stood watching him through the fencing surrounding it. It was a haunting experience for Lewis, his mind returning once again to Wimbledon, where as an eager sixteen year old, Jim Murdoch had taken him to watch the world’s top player practice. Then they’d stood like he and Mike did now, watching discreetly, never making a sound, Lewis in awe, transfixed by the man who was, and still remained, his sporting idol.
    As they watched, Lewis wondered who the opponent was. He didn’t recognise him. At first he thought it must be someone in the draw that Scott was helping out, but watching the play it seemed unlikely. The guy just wasn’t good enough. But then perhaps that’s what Scott Taylor did: made other people look ordinary.
    He had certainly made every other man on the tour look ordinary to Lewis during his competitive playing days - and it wasn’t just those incredible ground strokes that did the job. In addition to his undeniable tennis skills, there was a manner about him that drew the eye to his side of the net: quiet nobility. Gentleman Scott Taylor appeared like a man sure of his place in the grand scheme of things. No gamesmanship or underhand tactics would ever be required or even considered for Scott to win the day. He believed in himself and his own ability and wore that belief like some mystical aura - a true king dominating his court.
    And then there was his face! That was something that drew Lewis’s eyes as well: that freckly face which somehow cut him to the core, not brutally handsome, but rugged and vibrant and sexy as hell under the light ginger hair that shone proud in the sun - a crowning glory for tennis’s king.
    And as if that wasn’t enough to make all the rest disappear - those poor rascals that attempted to compete with this god of a man who at one time reigned supreme - he had those gorgeous legs with their amazing thighs... and of course he wore those outrageous shorts! Scott Taylor, God bless his little towelling socks, was a devotee of old school: a throwback to the eighties when players were still gentlemen and their shorts were still short and deliciously tight. Even without all the tennis talent he possessed, Scott was the player Lewis would have watched – if only for those outrageous unfashionably short shorts and the teenage fantasies they inspired.
    Sadly, unlike the hair, the shorts were now longer and nowhere near as tight, but Lewis would still have been happy to stand there all day and pick up a few tips about ground strokes whilst he revisited teenage dreams. All thoughts of Lee Porter temporarily disappeared as the old muse in Lewis’s private life took centre stage again. He might not be physically perfect, but he was pretty