If you don’t mind, I’d like to start with a story about my mother. If for no other reason than sons and mothers have a unique bond and as a second-generation Indian lad with no extended family near me, she, my dad and brother were all the world a little me had.

I was quite a good tennis player in my youth. Had trials for my county and had quite the serve. I could beat my brother, my dad (much more of a cricketer) but never my mum. At anything really.

As my teens approached, I started to fancy my chances a little more. She was starting to slow down. My serve was getting faster and my drop shot was beginning to land with great effect. I felt the score lines were still not reflecting my growing skill. But my younger brother would tell me I wasn’t far away.

At the age of 14, I was ready. I’d been practising with players who were better than anyone I’d ever faced. I took my new skills to the one opponent who had always spooked me. This time, I played my game. Making my mother run around the court. Forcing the errors. This time, it was her praying for the rain.

During previous matches, which she’d won, there may have been tears. This time, there was a triumphant yelp, followed by the raising of my arms. I came to the net to speak to my vanquished opponent, expecting the warmest of embraces.

“I am never going to play you again.”

The apple never falls far from the tree. I’m a terrible loser as well.