Back to Wimbledon
Date: 1996/08/20
Newsgroups: rec.sport.tennis
Just when you thought it was safe to go back in the water ....
Thought I should try to wind up this report before the US Open begins!
Anyway, in my last opus to r.s.t. about my trip to Wimbledon, I described
mine and Adam's grueling 5-hour wait to get a ticket (boy, was that
sidewalk hard!) to the first Tuesday's matches, and how sweet-natured
r.s.t. lurker Kris miraculously found us in the mile-long queue just 45
minutes or so before the gates opened.
And so, with tickets firmly clutched in hand, we strolled, two of us for
the first time ever, through the front gates of the hallowed All-England
Club ... scampering at Kris' sensible heels. Kris has been to the Big W
many, many times and immediately began to point out sights of interest:
i.e., the best places to stand to catch glimpses of the players, to get
their autographs, etc. She already knew of our disappointment in not
getting Centre Court tickets (well, Adam's especially; his poor heart was
split open and sprinkled with vinegar like a cheap pack of fish-n-chips
left on the pier for the pelicans to pick at), because that's where the
lovely and talented Steffi Graf was opening her title defense that day. So
imagine our pleasure (and Adam's trembling knees) when Kris stopped short
upon rounding a corner to Court 5 and said, "Boys, get ready ..." and we
took the corner to find Das Graf herself hitting with Coach Heinz
Gunthardt.
As we were among the very first people admitted to the grounds that day,
and among the first 10 people or so to discover Steffi, we were lucky
enough to get one of the few seats at courtside, maybe 4 or 5 yards from
the court, to watch her practice, in t-shirt and shorts, for about the
next half hour. This was my first time ever seeing Steffi live, and I was
much impressed by her physical presence ... as well, of course, by the
pace and intensity of her strokes. Even in a practice session, she was
pounding the hell out of the ball, to such an extent that Gunthardt was
having trouble keeping up with her. (Several posters here have posited
that a good college player could straight-set Graf or Seles, but FWIW, one
middle-aged former pro had his hands full just returning her serves and
staying in a rally ... at practice pace). Gunthardt wasn't able to do much
at all with her services, and when he was serving to her (so she could
work on returns) he even had problems getting *his* serves in. I had an
immediate feeling upon watching this practice that Steffi was going to be
*really* *really* hard to beat this fortnight unless something weird
happenend, but felt equally sure that her anticipated mixed pairing with
her coach would amount to little more than a little more on-court volley
practice. (Of course, hindsight, as Shun would say, *is* 20/20 :-)
After the practice, Steffi quickly but graciously signed some autographs
then moved on before the rest of the hordes descended on her practice
space. One excited woman showed us her white warm-up jacket that Steffi
had signed. Kris pointed out that *she* had gotten Steffi's signature
several times in the past, and that it is interesting how it has changed
over the years. As a young girl of 14, K. said, Steffi had very carefully
and clearly wrote out each letter in her name. Now, the signature had
become stylized to the point of illegibility, just a big swooping 'S' and
some squiggles. Of course, it has now evolved into an endorsement, so at
future tournaments look for Steffi to just slap a big 'S' patch on your
autograph book :-)
Around 11:30 we took our seats for the first match of the day, between
Anke Huber and Maria Leon-Garcia. In the time before this match began, I
had rented a pair of the binoculars that were being let out for 5 pounds a
day, but was surprised to find that I really didn't need them ... maybe on
Centre Court they would come in handy, and to some extent on Court No. 1,
but all the other courts turn out to be much more intimate ... and closer
together ... than I had ever imagined. The grass, on just this second day
of play, was spectacularly green ... but I've watched enough tennis on TV
to know that by the second week brown will the predominant color.
Leon-Garcia's strategy in dealing with the pace of shot from Huber was to
hit her a lot of off-pace slice. Which might not have been a bad idea if
the balls ever landed past the T. Unfortunately for the pouty-looking (in
a sexy, bee-stung-lips sort of way) Spaniard, her shots were uniformly
short and ruthlessly pummeled into the corners by the vocalizing German.
At 6-1, 5-0 for Huber, the only thing that continues to hold my interest
is Anke's pretty red-checked panties ... which look like an Italian
tablecloth, or a picnic cloth when contrasted with the green lawns of
Wimbledon, which reminds me that it *is* lunchtime after all so I dig in
my backpack to see if I can't find a little bratwurst or *something* to
tide me over until the match is over ... There are a few random whistles
and claps when Anke serves and her skirt flies up. Huber seems to be
positioning herself to be the latter-day Gussie Moran as she has taken to
displaying a different colorful pair of bloomers for each day ... as the
tournnament wore on, she wore on court little happy face panties, panties
that looked like the German flag ... half the men in the stands saluted
that choice. I wonder about the decisions she must face before every big
match ... are some panties luckier than others? Like Courier and his
socks, does she forego washing them throughout a tournament? And what
about ...
But then the unthinkable happens to snap me out of my panty ponderings:
Leon-Garcia holds serve! There is much jubilation and waving of Spanish
banners. And then Huber serves it out and we herd for the exit with a
grateful "Anke Schoen" on our lips (I'm working on Bud Collins-speak here,
whaddya think?).
The three of us wander to another side court (play doesn't start on the
show courts until 2:00) and watch some of Thomas Enqvist's match with
Canadian Albert Chang. Chang cuts a striking image on court ... tall,
athletic, quick of foot ... but hopelessly outclassed by the Swede, whose
returns of serve are especially lethal today. Kris wanders off
momentarily, muttering something about having to check on something or the
other [insert foreshadowing], leaving Adam and me there to watch Enqvist
steamroll to a straight-set victory.
On the next court over, Indian No. 1 Leander Paes is playing Brit Mark
Petchey in what turns out to be a spectacularly entertaining match-up. You
just never know, these matches between players ranked in the hundreds can
shape up to be just as well-played and hard-fought as match between the
No. 1 and 2. Both players in this game are really busting their ass for a
win, with the crowd, of course, being vocally behind the Brit, but being
grudgingly forced to cheer for Paes, as well, whose athletic, pirouetting,
go-for-broke serve-and-volley style is a real crowd-pleaser. The match
eventually goes to 13-11 in the 4th-set tiebreaker before Petchey finally
clinches it. (It is Petchey, if I recall correctly, who thought so little
of his chances to win anything, that he had actually made plans to be
married during the fortnight, and his wife who confided regularly to the
papers how nervous she was that he might actually *win* the damn thing and
call the whole affair off. These Brits have to invent *some* sort of drama
for the media to report during the tournament ;-)
Well before this match ends, though, Kris returns with the news of the
day. It seems her father is a friend of the father of a pro doubles
player; the two dads had run into each other at an airport awhile back and
the player's dad ending up off-handedly promising Kris' dad a pass or two
for his little girl at Wimbledon. She hadn't held out much real hope that
the passes would in fact be there, but guess what ... the old man had come
through after all and Kris returned to Court 8 smugly waving two passes
into the players' lounge.
Needless to say, her ass was gratefully kissed.
Of course, the passes didn't do us any good in terms of getting into
Centre Court or anything outrageous like that, but they *did* allow the
passholder to gain admission to the players' lounge and cafeteria, as well
as access to the balcony off the cafeteria ... which afforded great views
of about half a dozen outlying courts. It was from here that I eventually
saw then end of the Paes-Petchey match, which was being avidly followed by
a noisy contingent of players hanging over the balcony, as well as the end
of the match between 19-year-old Brit nobody (isn't there one of these
every year?) Luke Milligan and Swede veteran Jonas Bjorkman, which
Milligan won in 5 close sets. It was a banner day all around for the
Brits, with something like 6 or 7 British men making it to the second
round (including, of course, Tim Henman with his amazing 5-set upset of
Kafelnikov ...*that* match was on Centre Court, so I couldn't watch it
live, but I did follow the score on the big digital billboards and heard
the periodic huge eruption of cheers from Centre Court whenever Henman won
vital points .. well, OK, whenever he won *any* point). The luck of the
draw had even seen fit to place two British gals against each other in the
first round, guaranteeing for the first time since the glaciers melted
that a British chick would make it to the second round. (Sorry, Jo Durie,
you're not *that* old.) All in all, though, a bloody good showing for the
home team.
Henman and Milligan ended up meeting each other in the third round, a
match which Henman, after many rain delays, won in straight sets. The
contrast between these two players ... regarded following their strong
play at Wimbledon as the two hottest prospects in the UK ... couldn't have
been stronger. Henman, the British No. 1 (ATP 62), was highly favored over
Milligan, the British No. 8 (ATP 265 or so) played their third round on
Centre Court, the first meeting on that court between two British men in
58 years (since Bunny Austin bested Eric Filby in 1938)!
Henman had been groomed to play on Centre Court ... he began playing at
age 3, encouraged by his mom, who had played in Wimbledon as a junior. By
age 11 he was training with prominent British coach David Lloyd. Henman's
grandfather had played Davis Cup and Wimbledon in the 1940s ... his
great-grandmother wowed polite society when she became the first woman to
serve overarm at Wimbledon; one of *her* daughters was the last woman at
Wimbledon to serve *underarm*. Henman's dad played collegiate tennis, as
well as many other sports. The wealthy Henmans (the father is an Oxford
soliciter) have a court in their backyard.
Milligan, on the other hand, only took up tennis at age 15 when he failed
to win a place on the Tottenham football club and took up the sport as a
consolation. His dad drives one of the ubiquitous black London cabs ... 10
hours a day, 7 days a week ... and, in fact, drove his entire family to
the All England Club in his cab to watch his son's match against Henman.
Even their appearances are a contrast: Henman, at certain angles, takes on
the well-scrubbed, toothy look of one of the soul-possessed demon-children
from _Village of the Damned_ while the scraggly Milligan likes to bang out
rock tunes on the drums and would look more at home quaffing pints in the
local public house than he does in tennis whites on Centre Court.
But I digress ...
With two passes and 3 people, Adam and I have to take turns visiting the
players' lounge, and since I have to leave at 6:30 (theatre tickets at
8:00 for _Sunset Blvd_ with Petula-freaking-Clarke, of all people, playing
Norma Desmond, so I have to leave in time to get downnnn-townnnnn) I get
to go first. Adam heads off to court-hop in search of a good match ...
Let me say first off that the facilities are nothing posh or even that
interesting ... basically we're talking a cafeteria with a balcony off it.
Food was basic ... some pre-made cucumber, tuna, ham sandwiches, a salad
bar, a pasta bar, etc. ... and lot of ordinary table-chair combos and just
a few highly-sought-after booths lining the window to the balcony. Of
course the clientele was a bit special :-). Here's the laundry list:
* Karim Alami. As some of you know, and others might guess, it was a
*very* special moment for me when I took my juice and cumcumber sandwich
to the register and found myself eye-poppingly behind the behind of the
one player I thigh for, the Moroccan-and-rollin' Karim Alami himself.
(Which leads me to ask all of r.s.t. to join me in the heart-felt prayer
that the world's Spanish and North African players never fall prey to the
Nike and Adidas conspiracy to have all men outiftted for the tennis courts
in knee-length pirate pantaloons. All together now ...) Anyway, with the
ball in my court, as it were, I introduced myself to Karim (I can call him
Karim now that we're such pals) and congratulated him on his Atlanta win
of just a few weeks earlier. He smiled and seemed genuinely pleased that
someone had been paying attention during that tournament and reassured me
that yes, indeed, he was planning to return to Atlanta next year to defend
his title. He said he really liked the city and its charming, hospitable
people [insert blush here]. At this point, he accepted his change from the
freakishly quick cashier and said, "See you around" ... then went to join
a friend (his brother, perhaps?) at a table completely across the room
from the one Kris had already settled at. [Thanks a lot, girlfriend!]
* Doug Flach (eating with brother Ken). *These* were the guys Kris sat
next to! Actually, it was pretty cool because Doug (in his only claim to
fame) had *just* beaten Agassi the day before and Kris said while I was in
line he and Ken were sitting there with a draw sheet and a scratch pad and
trying to figure out how many ranking points he was going to go up after
his big win.
* Brenda Schultz_McCarthy. Big Brenda bounded by on her way back from the
salad bar. She *is* ... I guess everyone knows this but I'll confirm the
reports ... a *big* *big* woman. *Very* imposing. Thighs like pink
sequoias.
* Ion Tiriac. And, I don't know, his *grandchildren* maybe? He was talking
loudly on his cell phone right *at* my ear, damn it, and something like 4,
but it could have been 6, little Romanian rugrats kept orbiting around
him. And the clothes and jewelry. I dunno ... what *do* pimps in Bucharest
wear?
* Marisa Sanchez (in one of the coveted booths, naturally) ... and her
little dog, too! (Roland, I guess?) ... *with* a big hat on inside,
*with* some scary-looking leather-like substance passing for skin (the
hat's a nice idea but about 40 years too late), *holding* court.
Contentious daughter Arantxa didn't put in an appearance while I was there
but, happily, her eye-candy siblings Emilio and Javier *did* pop in to pay
respects to Mama.
* Paul Haarhuis (in cut-off jeans); the one and only Mercedes Paz; Jose
Higueras (recognized him from the back of his head), eating alone :-( ;
Nathalie Tauziat; Ann Grossman; Gigi Fernandez (she no eata with
Conchita); that Swedish player (Maria?) Strandlund; Daniel Nestor (I
stifled a scream of horror); Thomas Enqvist, fresh from his victory over
Chang, and someone I'm betting is his little brother; lots and lots of
junior players with apparently nothing better to do on the second day of
play than hang out in the cafeteria and listen to their Walkmans (Walkmen?
Walkpeople?); and all sorts of other folks who were undoubtedly things
like agents, media representatives, hitting partners/coaches, family
members, and grifters like me and Kris.
After sloooowwwly working our way through lunch, we hung out for a while
on the balcony, where I spoke with up-and-coming American player Corrine
Moriariu (sp. is way off, I'm sure) and told her rather self-importantly,
I'm afraid, that I considered her to be a real contender for future
greatness and wished her luck in her upcoming match against Medvedeva
(which she lost). I felt kind of creepy doing this, since in all honesty I
had never seen her play and only knew her name from the occasional wire
score, but, still, she seemed to really like hearing me say it. She seemed
totally surprised that anyone even knew who she was (I wouldn't have if
not for her player badge) and appeared, in our brief chat, to be quite
intelligent for a, what, 15-year-old? She and her coach were, I think,
scoping out Mary Joe Fernandez' match, which was thrashing someone on the
court belowe us, losing maybe 1 or 2 games in the entire match. I made a
point of stopping by and watching Moriariu's match later on ... it was
actually my last match of the day, for I had to leave not even halfway
through it ... and can happily report that I am, sincerely this time,
impressed with her strokes. Something like every third or fourth one them
was spectacular; unfortunately, she still has to work on those other 2 or
3 in between ... :-)
Somewhere in between, Kris and I hook back up with Adam and watch a bit of
the anticpated but not very exciting match-up between Greg Rusedski and, I
think, Daniel Nestor (eeek!). Ex-Canadian vs. Ex-traterrestrial and former
Davis Cup cohort ... and wander aimlessly from court to court soaking up
the ambience of Wimbledon. At one point I was caught by the gravitational
pull of the vendor's tents and sucked helplessly into a shopping
maelstrom, emerging half an hour later with a T-shirt, a stadium cushion,
and a pair of official Wimbledon toenail clippers/keychain for my buddy
Eric. None of those cheap knock-off nail clippers for *my* friends ...
this one was top drawer all the way, with the Big W logo and everything.
Slowly but inexorably, though, it all came to an end. Petula was waiting
for me at Andrew Lloyd Webber's house, after all, and there was this
frightening beast called the tube that had to be tamed in between here and
there. Courtside, as little Corrine futilely slogged away against Natalia,
Adam and Kris posed for one last photograph and hugged me goodbye. I
didn't turn around as I left, but in my mind I saw them, moist-eyed and
solemn, clutching at each other sadly as I receded into the distance. In
reality, I suspect, Adam was moist-eyed and clutching my player pass as he
raced up to the lounge, Kris in tow!
The good news is that, this being England and all that, my Wimbledon
experience didn't end after I left the stadium. Rather, almost every pub I
walked into and stumbled out of had televised coverage during the entire
fortnight. All of the papers, even the naughty titty tabloids, had several
pages of coverage each day -- and not just scores and not just articles
about the British players, but considerable in-depth stories about many
aspects of the game and the tournament. I clipped many of these stories
and faithfully lugged them back to Atlanta with the intention of typing in
excerpts to share with r.s.t. I have done *some* of this, but admit to
being a little unmotivated, lo these 7 weeks later, to do much more
typing. But, in closing, I *will* list the headlines and do a haiku-like
summary (if anyone wants more details from a particular article, just
email me privately).
Thanks for sharing my trip with me; I hope you all have a chance to visit
Wimbledon soon ... and if you do, look for me in the queue.
dar
PRESS LOG:
Graf's supremacy casts dark shodow over women's game: Ponders the question
of how good it is for the women's game that an ailing Graf could so easily
dispatch of her closest rival.
Perfect partnerships not always made in heaven: Looks at the deals that
are cut when players pair up for doubles and mixed doubles.
Break point approaches for Fernandez: Mary Joe, says this writer, is
caught forever between Prufrock and Hamlet, neither celebrity nor
nonentity, never getting any better or any worse. How can she break free
of her static career?
I'm afraid that it rather runs in the family: The mother of Wimbledon
streaker Melissa Johnson confesses that a naughty streak runs through her
family's history.
Have coach, will travel up the rankings. The article examines the impact
coaches have on the performance of some players (Edberg-Pickard,
Agassi-Gilbert, Muster-Leitgeb, Ivanisevic-Martic, Sampras-Gullikson,
Kafelnikov-Lepeschin, Becker-and pretty much anybody).
Come in No. 1: Game, set and matchless: a fond look back on some of the
great matches played on Court No. 1 (which is being dismantled after this
year's tournament).
Best doubles act in town top bill: The Woodies took another step toward
tennis greatness in winning their fourth successive Wimbledon.
Henman is here to stay: David Lloyd and Andrew Castel asses Tim Henman's
future chances at winning Wimbledon.
Unknowns compete for starring role: As seeded men disappear from Wimbledon
the tournament shapes up to be not a Who's Who of Tennis, but a Who's He?
Traditional fare spurned by Ivanisevic: Croatian takes eccentric path in
pursuit of glory. Ivo's first time on Centre Court came when he was 18, in
a semifinal with Boris Becker. his coach's adivce? "Don't spit and don't
throw your racquet."
Agassi a busted flush: No 3 seed goes out to no-hoper Flach. "Andre Agassi
once said that image is everything. On the evidence of his most
humiliating defeat, that is all he has left."
Stich in defiant mood: Michael Stich secured his place in the last 16, but
then lashed out at a seeding policy that has devastated the bottom half of
the draw.
Rafter raising his game in bid for acclaim: Writer Richard Evans tracks
the Queenslander's return to form after wrist surgery and finds him eager
to play and full of star quality to match.
Parental pressure almost drove champion to quit: Comments made by Andre
Agassi helped spur Richard Krajicek to overcome his fear of losing.
Advantage Lee: An interview with 18-year-old Martin Lee, Britain's No. 1 junior.
and finally ...
Sanchez a matriarch in the making: Writer Frank Keating sees
Sancez-Vicario maturing as a player and as a force in the women's game.
--
Will play tennis for food.
back to Tennis.