Wimbledon and summertime tennis.
Now that summer is here and the current heatwave seems to be the precursor to so many hot, balmy and gorgeous days in both London and the rest of the world, it would be foolish to dismiss the tennis at Wimbledon as just another rehearsal for the inevitable. We know where we are when it comes to that richly rewarding fortnight at London SW19. The retractable roofs are opened, the ivy on the outside of all the main courts gets a lovely coat of warm sunshine and there are murmurings of excitement in the air.
Sadly, all of the British players have now departed Wimbledon and are no longer part of the traditional festivities of this yearly carnival of high quality tennis. For most of us course, Wimbledon evokes all of the celebrated themes, narratives and tropes. It is sport that is regularly accompanied by expensive punnets of strawberries and cream, huge jugs of Pimms to be drunk at your leisurely pace and, last but not least, the players themselves, those rounded characters with their own distinctive mannerisms and idiosyncrasies. We may or not approve of some of their antics at times but we always behave with perfect restraint and civility.
For decades and decades Wimbledon has been the permanent home of tennis's finest practitioners, those lovable eccentrics, the outrageous extroverts, those with witty one liners and light hearted badinage. It is the one tournament that can guarantee both laughter and hilarity, sighs of astonishment, blissful rallies that seem to go on forever and an audience who are always appreciative. But Wimbledon never lets us down because if it did, we'd probably be watching the Test cricket, the start of the women's Euro football tournament or perhaps a hearty game of crown green bowls.
Some of us will never forget the peerless genius of Swedish maestro Bjorn Borg who seemed to have taken out a mortgage on Wimbledon so long was he a men's singles winner. Borg was the model of professionalism, an admirable role model to children and those who aspired to play like him but never quite made it. His groundstrokes were like exhibits in an art gallery, he had poise and panache in every shot while always remaining the epitome of cool, composure and smooth imperturbability.
Almost 50 years ago Borg was in a class of his own, every limb and muscle finely tuned, a nerveless and stylish performer who just happened to win Wimbledon for five consecutive years. Nothing ever bothered or fazed the Swedish maestro and there was a sense that he was completely detached from his immediate surroundings. He would gently blow on his racket as if testing its stability, twiddling his racket for what seemed an age and then launched into his explosive all round game that sent all of Mcenroe's opponents into the giddiest of trances.
Years before your childhood heroes were the graceful Ken Rosewall and Rod Laver, before the 1970s dawned and we discovered genius and greatness on either Centre Court and Courts One and Two. There was the gloriously humorous and capricious Ilie Nastase, a Romanian who brought comedy and cabaret to Wimbledon. Nastase was forever joking with the Wimbledon watchers, grabbing policemen's hats and wearing them unashamedly. But Nastase was the perfect exhibitionist, a man possessed of immense talent and versatility. He had the miraculous forehand and backhand returns, the delicious drop shot and all round, cross court shots from improbable angles.
And then there was both John Mcenroe and Jimmy Connors, two of America's greatest of showmen. Mcenroe succeeded emphatically in winding up both umpires, and line judges, antagonising everybody with some of the most bizarre reactions to controversial calls and despairing of the whole world. Mcenroe was permanently at war with both himself, cursing himself, shouting at himself, slamming his racket into the ground before threatening a Third World War. Mcenroe always believed that there was an evil conspiracy against him and nobody liked him.
Similarly rude, offensive, foul mouthed and, for the purist, utterly vulgar was Jimmy Connors. Connors, rather like his fellow countrymen Mcenroe, always looked on the verge of a major conflict or skirmish with those in the umpire's chair. Hair fringe trailing from his forehead like a straw from a haystack, and always obscuring his view, Connors became known as the Wild West gunslinger but he played some of the most breathtaking tennis most of us had ever seen.
Roll forward to the present day and Wimbledon still has that timeless fascination about it, tennis at its grandest and purest, tennis that leaves us speechless and spellbound and tennis that goes beyond the call of duty at times. The old days may have left us with wooden tennis rackets and matches that seems to last a lifetime and performances that may never be matched. We can still remember epic five setters that were played in fading light, a backdrop of darkness dropping down over Centre Court like a blanket poised to fall off a washing line.
Sadly our heroic Brits Jack Draper and Dan Evans were knocked out of this year's Wimbledon who forgot perhaps they were among the most elevated company. Draper was yesterday beaten fair and square by number four seed Marin Cilic. There can be no shame in Draper's dismissal from one of the most celebrated Grand Slam tournaments in the world since Cilic was undoubtedly the superior of the two, technically skilled and almost unstoppable. There was a moment when Draper was definitely back in the match when he pinched a set from Cilic but despite some valiant resistance and gallant returns to the Cilic booming, thudding racket, this was never likely to be Draper's day.
For Cilic this was the perfect opportunity to present his full repertoire of slices, heavy with top spin chip and charges to the net and a wide variety of cross court angled backhands and foreheads. The Croatian may be an outside bet for the Wimbledon men's singles trophy and there were several reasons for believing this to be a real possibility. Serbian Novak Djokovic, for so many years, a dominant force at Wimbledon, must have been acutely aware that he now has a genuine contender for the crown Djokovic wore with such distinction.
And so it was that Marian Cilic who overwhelmed Jack Draper with both the ruthless power and clinical ferocity of the Cilic all round game. There was something very cruel and almost barbaric about Cilic, punishing and punitive from both sides of the court. Cilic mixed up the cocktail with endless variations, deceptive angles and savage aces that sped past his British opponent like a greyhound in full flight. Draper had no answer to the Cilic first serve that rocketed down the centre of the court like a bullet from a gun.
We are now at the end of the first week and the current Wimbledon champion Carlos Alcaraz, a bundle of dynamite and seemingly a champion for the future, is waiting in the wings again. Of course Alacaraz will invite obvious comparisons with Rafael Nadal, his swarthy Spanish fellow countryman. Like Nadal, Alcaraz punches his whipped forehand returns with a merciless authority. He then variously flicks and rolls his wrists with a cunning sleight of hand that does remind you of a card sharp in a gambling casino. Alcaraz has much of the air of a Spanish toreador, thumping the ball forcefully and brutally and never taking any prisoners.
Wimbledon now approaches its decisive second week and for the women Emma Raducanu, Britain's only genuine hope to challenge the top seeds, is limbering up and gearing herself up for everything that may be thrown at her. It is almost 50 years since Virginia Wade, complete in a mauve cardigan, curtsied politely for royalty, becoming Britain's last women's singles champion. The women's game has always been appropriately recognised at Wimbledon and it only feels like yesterday since Billy Jean King sent reactionary waves through the ladies locker rooms at SW19.
But Wimbledon is here to stick around for another week and come next Sunday the fanatical and patient crowds will gather at Centre Court. They will stroll delightedly around the baskets of flowers hanging decoratively from the tops of roofs and souvenir shops. They will wipe the sweat away from their forehead, the direct result of a heatwave which many of us will be enormously grateful for. Then of course the heat may be too much for some but tennis at Wimbledon is so essentially British and typically English. And that must never be forgotten.
