Wimbledon- but no strawberries and cream.

Wimbledon- but no strawberries and cream.

Wimbledon, that great summer extravaganza, has been postponed until next year. Back in March that news statement had to be announced because we knew it would. Sport of course has taken the biggest hit of all in the light of the coronavirus pandemic but yesterday it could have happened. The slings and arrows of outrageous misfortune, to misquote the great Bard William Shakespeare have meant that this year tennis is a no go area and you can forget those heavenly strawberries and cream. It's time to close those hallowed gates at SW19, keep those covers on and then ensure that the retractable roof is firmly shut.

Owing to obvious circumstances Wimbledon will not be gracing our digital radio sets or TV channels until sometime next June at the very least. Those admirably patient crowds who queue up outside both Centre Court, Court One, Two and all surrounding courts will have to put everything on hold, picnic hampers on Henman hill hidden away in the larder, bottles of champagne well and truly chilled until hopefully next year and Pimms similarly on tap until the government tell us that it's safe to drink.

Wimbledon always meant middle-class gentility to some and to others a democratic feast of summer sport where everybody could join in with the fun and games. Wimbledon always made us laugh, cry, bellow and shout, yelling out encouragement to the top seeds, idolising the matinee heart-throbs, those sexy men with hairy legs and striking bandanas on their foreheads. The women, of course should never be overlooked, always feminine and demure, flicking back wispy long hair, twiddling rackets and then touching their skirts for good luck perhaps.

Wimbledon provided us with tennis of the most exquisite quality, of the finest lustre and sheen, the highest order and rank. It always seemed to start at the end of June and took us right through to American Independence Day which was a coincidence because the likes of John Mcenroe and Jimmy Connors invariably reached the Final and, in most cases, ended up squabbling with each other. For most of us it represents sport at its most accomplished, sport at its most calming and sport with a significant meaning until well into the following year.

Across the parks and recreation grounds of Britain, people of all ages, classes, belief systems, cultures, genders and demographics will fling open the gates of their local tennis court, adjust the drooping net, tighten their tennis rackets, toss a coin and then send a whole barrage of booming serves and forehands to opposite corners of the court. The public will be allowed to act out their Wimbledon fantasies in their local parks but for the likes of Rafa Nadal and Novak Djokovic, those towering giants and geniuses of the yellow ball game, this is not your year because the adoring audience you might have been expecting have been told to stay at home in their living rooms.

Of course we will miss the immensely gifted likes of Nadal and Djokovic because they elevated tennis to the highest plateau, that starry eyed pantheon of greatness. They were the ones who always conducted themselves with a grace and graciousness that only they were capable of showing. They rarely argued with umpires, rarely questioned debatable calls or foot faults and always judged the mood of a big Centre Court match perfectly.

It is at times like this, when tennis misses out on our yearly diet of summer sport, that we go back in time to the way it used to be. These were the days of wooden rackets, no chairs in between sets and games, those unforgettable five set thrillers that seemed to go on forever. You can still see those late evening encounters, those roaming in the gloaming games when those numbered slats scoreboards were the only things you could see in the fading light of a summer evening.

You remember those bright emerald grass courts, green grass courts that looked as smooth and well manicured as the traditional bowling green. Then you'd notice that those well trodden baselines would suddenly degenerate into a dust bowl, brown sandy patches scuffed beyond recognition. But we loved tennis because we didn't mind about the deteriorating condition of Wimbledon base lines since this was part of its inherent charm.

The greats of course have accompanied us on our journey into adolescence and the TV commentators could always be relied upon to give us lyrical chapter and verse on the latest fashions, the easy and natural swings of the rackets, the service deliveries, the record breaking speeds of that vital first serve and then the explosive ace that could never be returned in any lifetime.

During the 1970s tennis held us spellbound, mesmerised, hypnotised and dumbfounded at the sheer perfection of it all, those extraordinary returns of serve from the back of Centre Court, the miracles of movement. We were treated to the dashing, the rushing, the scampering, the lunging, the frustrated screams and those moments of self reproach when rackets were thrown into the air, fiercely slapped on legs and when it just didn't seem fair. There was always ample room for self improvement and the ones who were top seeded always launched a quest for the impossible, the constant search for the utterly improbable. 

We were ridiculously spoilt during the 1970s because in those good, old days we had fully qualified mischief-makers, roguish rebels, rousing renegades, hilarious rascals, intolerable tears and tantrums from the so-called bad boys perhaps but a conveyor belt of well rounded characters with even more outrageous temperaments.

We could hardly believe what we were watching because it always seemed to be too good to be true. There were those lazy summer afternoons when the crack of tennis ball on racket was like a classical music symphony, a richly fulfilling concert of sounds that echoed across the whole of London and the suburbs as if magically wafted through the air. It must have been a privilege to be there and, above all an experience to be treasured, a sporting festival that unfailingly entertained every British summer.

There were the three musketeers, John Mcenroe, Jimmy Connors and Bjorn Borg, players of sumptuous talent, majestic athletes, well proportioned, remarkable exponents of their sport and gloriously talented. Mcenroe was the wild, naughty, rebellious one, bad tempered, impetuous, spiky, arrogant, ferociously argumentative, never satisfied, always on the warpath and consumed with contempt with umpires, the ball boys and,, quite often, the net.

You always had the impression that Mcenroe had the needle with everybody and everything because there may have been a part of him that struggled to find complete happiness with not only himself but the whole world. The foul-mouthed expletives, the vicious eye balling confrontations with the umpires, the crazy explosions and the chalk that had to be on the line were never less than a minute away. But those vile and vitriolic outburts somehow came to define Mcenroe and that's why he was so widely admired wherever he went.

 For all the bluster and the pomposity though, his tennis was always instinctive, the returns of serve almost delicately picturesque, the backhands equally as astonishing and the winners down the line delivered with an almost reliable precision. He may have tested our patience but he knew how to tick all the right boxes when the occasion warranted it.

Then there was Bjorn Borg, the Swedish maestro who won five consecutive Wimbledon singles titles without ever seemingly breaking sweat at all. Borg was a handsome player, abundantly equipped with every shot in the book, cool as a cucumber, nervelessly imperturbable, always in command of Centre Court and only occasionally flicking away a bead of sweat from that rigidly placed bandana on his forehead. Borg was the complete player, at home with every surface throughout the world and never ruffled by any potential crisis. The Borg- Connors- Mcenroe era will never ever be forgotten.

Further back in time we witnessed the masterful brilliance of Lew Hoad, the wonderfully balanced and poised Rod Laver, an Australian with every trick in the book, athleticism personified, stylish and versatile, charming and courageous. There was Ken Rosewall, who some of us believed always behaved like the perfect gentleman, a man of manners and courteous at all times. From memory at least Rosewall always had time for everybody and would never break a tennis racket.

The women of course won the palpitating hearts of many a male. During the  1960s and 70s there was Billy Jean King, fast, quick witted, skilful, nimble footed, fleet of foot, returning with almost military timing and then engineering some of the most delightful ground strokes tennis had ever seen. King was a feminist, strong willed, decisive on court, controversial off it but proud of that one match when her male opponent Bobby Riggs was beaten hands down convincingly.

Then your personal tennis heroines came into view, ladies of grace, elegance, power and style. There was Chris Evert, always polite, eternally articulate and never less than fluent and fluid on court. You can still see Evert, eyes deep in concentration, fair hair blowing gently in the wind, spinning her racket with a gentle consideration in case somebody had been offended by something Evert's opponent might have been doing on the other side of the court.

There was the Australian Evonne Goolagong then Cawley, spring heeled, energetic, feisty, tenacious, committed to victory and never less than ladylike. Cawley threw herself into both services and returns, forehand and backhand permanently in tune with her natural game. Cawley was one of  tennis's greatest of expressionists, a wristy player with cunning wiles and guiles.

Further back in time there was once Little Mo Connolly, Maria Bueno and then in more modern times Martina Navratilova. a Czech who became an American, a powerhouse of a player, winner of so many Wimbledon titles that it is hard to remember a time when she wasn't a dominant force at SW19. Navratilova had some of the most muscular shoulders in the history of women's tennis, powers of endurance and stamina that frequently left us speechless and a rampant ambition that could never be quelled. She was driven, obsessed with winning over and over again. Quite clearly she wanted to rule the world of tennis for as long as she could and she did.

In more recent years both Martina Hingis and Steffi Graff have both left their artistic legacy on the game and Graff had an unbreakable monopoly over the game. We must believe that one day Johanna Konta will once again raise the profile of British tennis 43 years after the lady in the mauve cardigan Virginia Wade curtsied before the Queen in Silver Jubilee year and lifted the women's tennis singles trophy. Oh what a year that was for British tennis and how the crowds responded.

But we shall miss this year's Wimbledon's cut and thrust, its loud grunts, its noisy, high pitched yells, its twiddling rackets, its force of nature, its players constantly adjusting their clothes, tugging their shirts, squinting into the setting sun of another gorgeous Wimbledon evening. We shall miss those quirky mannerisms, the moody prowls along the baselines, the hidden torment of losing narrowly in five sets.

Above all we'll miss the permanently boisterous crowds, the barking voices of support and idolatry, the magnificent Mexican waves when they get fed up with cheering. We'll know just how long those crowds have been waiting to get onto the main courts because they may have been hanging around the outside the ivy clad walls of Wimbledon since the turn of the 19th century.

We all know about Wimbledon's illustrious past, its heroes and heroines, the court jesters, the musical hall acts, Ilie Nastase wearing a policeman's hat and then sitting next to the front row of the crowd. It will never its lose its jokers, its harlequinades and the crowd pleasers but when next June does arrive we'll be hoping that sport has not its endless capacity to laugh at itself. Let's hear it for game, set and match. We can hardly wait.