How we miss tennis.

How we miss tennis?

Those summertime sporting festivals are just a distant memory. It is hard to believe now but the tennis at Wimbledon- or not- is now merely a vague dot on the horizon. When the lockdown stopped all of us in our tracks in March, the yearly tennis jamboree was the first to fall victim to the coronavirus disease. Tennis, rather like a vast majority of spectator sports if not all, found itself with no alternative but to cancel since the mass crowds who would normally flood into Centre Court, Court Number One and the surrounding courts wouldn't be allowed to take their place in the current climate.

So what do you do when your hands are tied and you know that one of Britain's favourite sporting tournaments has to pack away its tightly strung rackets, dispense with the ball boys and girls, tell the umpires that they won't be needed this year and the line judges should straighten their backs because that awkward posture never really looked comfortable? Those bent over backs in readiness for players rocket serves from the baseline may have been studies in concentration but you always wondered why.

Sadly though Wimbledon will not resound to that evocative thwack and crack of the yellow ball game as it fizzed across the net with mesmerising frequency. How we loved to listen to those painfully plaintive cries, yells and grunts that would punctuate the silence of a glorious summer evening at tennis headquarters.

Year after year we would descend on those delightful, ivy-clad walls at SW19 where a packed throng would shuffle and wander thoughtfully along that busy concourse and then flock to Henman Hill, a pilgrimage for all of those shrewd tennis observers who once pleaded with Tim Henman to clinch the men's singles trophy. Then we discovered that they were fighting a losing battle because Henman always seemed to fall short and agonisingly missed out on the big trophy.

Yesterday at Roehampton in London we re-connected with tennis if not quite in the way we thought we would. It was the Battle of the Brits, a distinctly non-competitive friendly tournament between the very best in British tennis. There were the traditional men and women singles on show followed closely by the men and women's doubles and last but not least the mixed doubles. This was not tennis as the players might have chosen it to be but the latest generation of British tennis players were finally on court doing the thing they've always loved doing which can be no bad thing.

There was Andy Murray, twice winner of Wimbledon, looking fitter than ever before but inwardly terrified that any kind of injury would leave him crocked and out of action for ages. Murray is one of the most exceptional of tennis players, brave-hearted, courageous, persistent, adamant that his way is the best way, aggressive, driven, never satisfied with himself, always demanding more and pumping his fists almost incessantly when the big points are thrown away.

In his epic collisions with Novak Djokovic and Rafael Nadal Murray would work himself up into a lather just wearing down his opponent with a merciless barrage of gloriously whipped returns of serve which would develop into memorable winners. The Murray forehand and backhand were like some deadly execution, punching his shots with perfectly weighted accuracy. Lengthy injuries have obviously hampered and cramped Murray for some time but the hallmark of quality is still there.

Both Dan Evans and Kyle Edmund are beginning to emerge from Murray's shadow but yesterday you felt even when Murray does decide to retire and call it a day we may have to wait for the new kids on the block. Dan Evans looks as though he could challenge for a Wimbledon title at some point in the future and Kyle Edmund likewise. Now of course they'll have to wait until next year before somebody gives the thumbs up for meaningful tennis. The names of Liam Broady and Maima Lumsen maybe unrecognisable but you feel sure that come summer 2021 the Wimbledon faithful will be taking their places.

For the women of course the years of striving for equality with the men may well gather pace for as long as tennis is played. In recent years Johanna Konta has been battling purposefully on the court for national attention and the right to compete on the same terms as the men. In a now-controversial Press interview Konta attacked her inquisitor with an angry outburst about some of the patronising remarks that were lobbed at her from the back of the court. How dare they question Konta's commitment and she'd had enough? She then stormed indignantly back to her dressing room no doubt, nostrils flaring, eyes bulging with fury and then tucking into a punnet of strawberries and cream with a sigh of relief.

So there you have it folks. Tennis has still carved a niche in our lives although the crowds and fans are still waiting confirmation of a possible return in the not too distant future. The National Tennis Centre in Roehampton seemed as good a place as anywhere to launch a tentative comeback.  This is not the way tennis would have planned it but how good it'll be to hear those excited and hysterical yelps of encouragement that could almost be heard in Manchester.

Never mind. Patience will have to be a virtue because time is a great healer indeed when you know that things can hardly get any worse than they already are. So sit back until next June and we can only hope that the patrons of Wimbledon, our summertime sporting cheerleaders will holler out with good-humoured conviction the names of the great, good and the sublime. Even now we can hardly wait.