Jun
22
Love tennis, hate Wimbledon
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I love tennis but hate Wimbledon. That’s not quite fair on Wimbledon. If it wasn’t for that tournament, I wouldn’t like tennis. Huddled over Radio 5 (before it was also ‘live’) in 1991 with a supplement from a Sunday newspaper, I followed the tournament avidly (though could not complete the whole draw without teletext or the internet to help). And it’s the only tennis tournament that I’ve been to. And I even got to watch Roger Federer at close quarters as he warmed up before the final.
I love tennis because the best players in the world are engaged in a titanic battle that, I suspect, will eventually be won by the durability of their bodies rather than their skill. Roger Federer and Rafael Nadal are the Blair and Brown of the tennis court; the Bingham and Darcey of their day. The nice, cultured, immaculately turned out Federer against the bull fighting, brooding strength of Nadal.
I love tennis because it combines strength, speed and endurance with grace, balance and precision. It has all the physical demands (and satisfaction) of a game of football with all the need for containment and discipline of a game of snooker or darts.
I love tennis because it can change so quickly: one point won, and the game shifts. One point saved, and you’re back in it. Just three points better off than your opponent and you win the match.
I love tennis because of its inate playability. You can play it against a wall, on your own. You can practice serving on a court, on your own. After a couple of attempts, you can have a satisfying game against an opponent. There are even people I can regularly beat at tennis, and I can’t say that for many other sports.
Yet there’s something about Wimbledon that I really dislike. Or, to be more precise.
I hate Wimbledon because of all the JCLs – Johnny Come Lately in the Guardian’s OBO parlance. Those that turn up to play tennis at the local courts every day for a fortnight, only to not pick up a racquet again for another 50 weeks. The same people who complain that the facilities aren’t better, probably. And probably also wonder why we don’t have many more good players.
I hate Wimbledon for the shrieks of ‘C’Mon Tim’ or latterly ‘C’Mon Andy’. For the naff facepaint. For the fond memories of Cliff Richard singing in the rain. Because Sue Barker and Andrew Castle.
I hate Wimbledon for its adherence to daft traditions. I don’t mind that the flower beds look nice or that the ballboys are well-trained. But if the Church of England is the Tory Party at prayer then Wimbledon is the Tory Party playing sport. The white clothes, the manual scoreboards, the absurd process to get a ticket (unless you are in a corporate box), the remarkable lack of diversity amongst the crowds (surely more so than football or cricket). The sense of entitlement to a tennis tournament which, some years, is very good but in many years is not as good as it thinks it is.
And so I will enjoy this week for the tennis. But I look forward to another club bidding against Wimbledon for the rights to hold the tournament in the future. Because if tennis is to really survive, it needs to reach beyond its (mainly privileged) roots and spread its big tournaments across the globe. But at least there’s some more sport on the tele to fill that gaping pre-Ashes holes in my life.
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