Stuck in between a forgotten Indian cemetery and a secret hiding spot of an abandoned childhood is a crooked sign that points up the hill and reads Neverneverland. Except maybe the strange twisted letters, there is nothing special you’ll notice about it during the rush of your day. But at night the slope transforms into a magical place inhibited by spirits; the short tough grass lives its own life; in the dead of the night the trees are able to rustle without a whisper from the wind. The moon breathes primeval life into every being and gives new inexplicable meaning to the word. Neverneverland. The land of impossibilities. The place where things that will never never happen come to pass.
The sound of the ball being cracked like a whip resonates off the walls of the court. Sound follows sound as tennis shoes run one after another, always catching up and then falling behind again. Empty benches live on one side and walls, a more attentive audience, surround the rest. Voices shouting from one house to another - I can’t hear you! Where did you say? - bounce off the tennis court and fly scattered all around. At times only the horrid clash of orange and green is there to witness the lover’s quick kiss or a child’s tears that pass just as fast. The court takes it all in with the heat from the sun and the sound of the balls. As the memories build up the cracks get bigger and bigger until no one comes to play anymore and workers in gray clothes have to fill them up with cement. Then new lovers and new tears appear and new memories are born, one after another.