In no way what whatsoever do I advocate any kind of sporting competition taking place under the present circumstances. The world of tennis is still dealing with the fallout from the unofficial charity tournament organised by Novak Djokovic last month (see here), and it is clear that public health and safety must come first.
Yet it is Wimbledon time, and I miss it. If I still lived in London, I might consider queuing for tickets one day, as I did all those years ago. In those olden golden days, there was a standing area on Centre Court just behind the press photographers, and if I could get to the front there, I would take a few pictures, stay up all night developing the film and printing some b&w shots, and then flog them to people in the queue the next day. It would just about cover the cost of the materials. The rest of the time it was lazy afternoons in front of the tv, and just about the only sporting occasion for which my mother willingly joined us.
In those days we loved Billie Jean King and Chris Evert and Evonne Goolagong. We didn't like Martina Navratilova (she won us over in the end. Mostly.) or Ilie Nastase. Jimmy Connors was a good player, but too brash for the Brits. Virginia Wade won in the Silver Jubilee year, and the Fred Perry shirts we had to wear for games lessons at school were the nearest we got to a British man winning the singles.
Once I was old enough to cast off the influence of my parents' likes and dislikes, I enjoyed the tantrums of John McEnroe (and the Not the 9 O'Clock News parody), he was much more exciting than Bjorn Borg. I loved Gigi Fernandez, and didn't dislike Martina so much any more. I cried when Hana Mandlikova lost to Chris Evert, and was sad when Chris lost to Martina. Above all, I loved Steffi Graf. So calm. So powerful. That forehand.
My memory skips a few generations, and ends up with the giants of today. The excitement of Andy Murray, a Brit, actually winning. The Federer-Nadal-Djokovic axis (my mother was Federer all the way. Elegance in person and playing style. If only Nadal could keep his hands away from his nether regions, he would be my outright favourite) and the Williams sisters. Hope is fading, but I would love for Serena to get the all-time Grand Slam record. Where are the new personalities and heroes? The real ones, not the media darlings. I don't know. Hopefully they will emerge at the next Wimbledon tournament. Meanwhile, I close my eyes and remember past loves.
No comments:
Post a Comment