The court belongs to the club, the club belongs to somebody's grandfather, and you are on it because a friend of a friend signed you in and then went to lunch. Nobody has kept score since the second game. The ball goes over the fence, somebody's dog brings it back, play continues. This is the sport in its purest form.
The print
The engraving on the back is a classical athlete, marble from the waist up, holding a racket he very clearly never had to earn. COURT HOURS in tall serif, and under it the club policy, in small print: no practice on Mondays.
Because the point was never the tennis. The point is white shorts at eleven, a wooden racket that has not been restrung since the seventies, and a lunch that starts at one and ends when the light changes. The score is optional. The lunch is not.
How to wear it
With the shorts, obviously, and the corduroy cap if the sun is honest. In white on the court, in black for the drinks after, when someone insists they won.