The Fortnight Commences

Strawberries and cream forever

By Peter Aspden



In 1971, I was lucky enough to be chosen to be a ball-boy for a grass court tennis tournament at the Hurlingham Club, which then acted as the principal ladies’ warm-up event for the All-England championships at Wimbledon. My first match featured a 19-year-old sensation in-the-making, Evonne Goolagong, a graceful, technically gifted player of Aboriginal origin from Australia who had just won the French Open and was charming spectators with her smiles, good manners and a quaint way with concentration that reminded us that human frailty was one of sport’s most telling themes.

That day I fell in love with tennis – and Evonne Goolagong – willing every ball that I gave her to clip the right side of the lines. She won her match. And then she went to Wimbledon and won all her matches there too. And that summer, with her dashing compatriot John Newcombe winning the men’s event, everything seemed perfect in the tennis world and its premier tournament.

Wimbledon was basking in the afterglow of a successful transition to a new era, having thrown itself open to professionals in 1968, yet also having managed to retain the air of quiet glamour and easy dignity that identified it as a quintessentially English event. Its heroes were decent, stoic figures – Newcombe, Rod Laver, Tony Roche, Ken Rosewall on the men’s side; Margaret Court and the slightly brassy Billie-Jean King on the women’s – with only the odd rotten strawberry in the punnet (the long-haired Romanian, Ilie “Call me Mister” Nastase) providing some welcome light relief.

But tennis was about to change. The game that I fell in love with – the gentle clip-clop of wooden racquets hitting the ball with studied precision, the gracious acceptance of a linesman’s wayward call, the star players who looked as if they had cycled to work that morning – was slowly dying. We were entering a new age. My quality hour-and-a-half on court with Evonne Goolagong assumes in my mind now an elegiac air.

John Barrett’s highlights: animal athleticism to the Becker boogie
Remember the Becker boogie, that foot-stamping, fist-pumping dance of delight performed by the 17-year-old Boris after winning a particularly exciting point? When Becker won that first Wimbledon championship in 1985 he was the first unseeded winner, the first German and the youngest ever men’s champion.

I have witnessed every Wimbledon since 1946 but this performance still ranks as one of my most indelible memories. Another was Steffi Graf’s success in 1988 (the first of seven), a come-from-behind victory over the eight-time champion Martina Navratilova that sparkled with breathtaking rallies and sheer animal athleticism. We knew then that we were witnessing something very special from two great champions.

People always ask, “Who was the greatest of all?” It is a meaningless question and has no satisfactory answer. It is like comparing Robin Hood with Darth Vader. The game played with wooden racquets by the great champions of the postwar era, men such as Jack Kramer, Pancho Gonzales, Frank Sedgman, Tony Trabert, Rod Laver and Ken Rosewall, cannot be compared with that played by the modern gladiators such as Pete Sampras, Roger Federer and the still improving Rafael Nadal, all wielding lightweight space-age sabres. Furthermore, the former group all turned professional and were lost to the still amateur game, so we’ll never know how many more major titles double Grand Slam winner Laver and the rest might have won.

Equally, the wonderful American women of the postwar era, from Louise Brough to Maureen Connolly, cannot be compared with Venus and Serena Williams, Maria Sharapova or Justine Henin for the same reason. Racquet technology has even altered the way the ball is struck. Gone are the flat, graceful, flowing strokes of yesteryear. Now it is all brute strength and violent topspin from western forehands and often double-handed backhands. Consequently the out-and-out volleyer is dead. Subtlety has disappeared.

The arrival of open tennis in 1968, for which the All England Club can take much of the credit, changed everything. During the past 40 years, we have witnessed an explosion of activity in all areas. More players from more countries are competing for ever-rising prize money on a highly organised circuit of fiercely competitive tournaments where only the toughest, mentally and physically, can survive. Commercial competition, fanned by the demands of television, has made multimillionaires of all the modern champions.

Other highlights have been the passion of Jimmy Connors, Bjorn Borg’s ice-cool temperament, the split-second timing and gentle touch of John McEnroe, the sheer genius of Andre Agassi and the second serve of Pete Sampras.

Among the women I remember the elegant consistency of Chris Evert, the attacking flair of the fearless Navratilova, Graf’s mighty forehand, the uncanny tactical awareness of the 16-year-old Martina Hingis and the feline grace, speed and strength of Venus Williams.

Great champions all, but they could yet be eclipsed by Roger Federer, the most naturally talented player I have ever seen. What a man, what a champion!

John Barrett commentated on Wimbledon for the BBC from 1971 to 2006
As if to prove that sporting trends really did provide the perfect mirror to broader societal changes, tennis became faster, richer, more technologically sophisticated – and more troublesome. In the women’s game, a string of stiff-backed, no-more-than-children started hitting the ball artlessly with two hands, and never made mistakes. In the men’s, racquets got bigger, services harder, points briefer. Graciousness, in both sexes, was abruptly replaced by obnoxiousness.

In the early 1980s, John McEnroe’s “You cannot be serious” became the clarion call of the new generation. And to be honest, there was something a little lacking in seriousness about Wimbledon, its strawberries-and-cream gentility appearing increasingly at odds with the newly-configured game. McEnroe and Jimmy Connors, bringing a new brand of brattishness to the tournament under the guise of hard-nosed professionalism, played superb tennis but the spectators suddenly became interested in something else: the players’ personalities. Centre court matches were instantly transformed into little soap operas.

And Wimbledon found itself in something of a paradoxical position: as the sporting values it had represented and espoused over its 100-year-history came under increasing threat, the tournament itself grew more and more compelling. The guests of corporate sponsors flocked to watch the latest centre court bunfight. Television turned the catchphrases of McEnroe into the currency of all who professed to have issues with authority.

Along with its manners, the game gradually became more brutal too. McEnroe’s deft ways with a racquet provided a fascinating and complex counterpoint both to the playing trends of the time and to his own explosive personality. But, to a large extent, he or she who hit hardest, won. The “personalities” who had brought rebellion to SW19 were slowly replaced by colourless, highly efficient players who were admired by tennis aficionados but treated with indifference by the wider public.

Who remembers anything at all about the guileless encounter between Ivan Lendl and Boris Becker in 1986? Or Pete Sampras’s chilly dismantling of Cedric Pioline in 1997? Now there was no charm, and no soap opera. The traditional values of Wimbledon suddenly seemed out of step with the way tennis was going. It was surely time for it to wither away, and finally come to terms with its own irrelevance.

But it didn’t quite happen like that. The tournament, which starts anew on Monday week, is in stronger shape than ever. And, amazingly, it is unchanged. The strawberries-and-cream are still being served (for the record: 27,000kg of fruit, 7,000 litres of cream at each championship) to a spectator base that is wider and more fanatical than ever.

Few places better understand the workings, and global appeal, of British tradition than Wimbledon. The all-white rule, the curtseying to the Royal Box, the finely-honed drills that minimise disruption caused by rain – all are part of a delicate theatrical ritual that continues to charm audiences, and players, alike. They might have been brusquely dispensed with during the brattish years, when the air of revolt circulated freely around the streets of Europe. But they weren’t. Wimbledon held its nerve. Today, players talk openly of loving the traditions that they used to rally against. And the British public goes gaga for two weeks, enraptured by a game in which it shows little interest for the rest of the year.

How so? It is, partly, the achievement of tennis itself. Or rather, its good fortune. When Roger Federer upset Sampras in the 2001 championship, it marked a turning point for tennis as well as for the prodigiously gifted Swiss teenager. Federer attracts a devoted following among tennis lovers whose soubriquet for him – TMF, or “The Mighty Federer” – reflects a widely-held belief that he is the greatest player of all time.

Although that particular point is always arguable, there is plenty of evidence to back up the belief: not only statistics, which reveal that he is just two tournaments away from Sampras’s world record of 14 Grand Slam wins, but also some astonishing performances that combine sporting prowess and aesthetic excellence to an unprecedented degree.

Enter “Best ever tennis shot” into the search engine on the YouTube website and you will see Federer playing a rally with Andy Roddick that defies belief: Roddick hits a “gimme” smash hard and fast into Federer’s forehand corner; Federer sprints back several metres beyond the baseline, leaps into the air, and counter-smashes down the line, past an incredulous Roddick. “Incredibile, ma vero,” says a startled Italian commentator as Roddick drops his racquet, walks across to the other side of the net and shakes Federer’s hand.

It is hard to overstate the effect a competitor like this can have on a sport. Federer has introduced a transcendent element to tennis. Spectators watch in hope that they will see unimaginable angles, ridiculous rallies, inconceivable winners.

At Wimbledon, these come in greater supply than on any other surface. Grass suits Federer’s game: it is fast, demanding brilliant technique and an intuitive grasp of the game. One of the most remarkable shots in the Swiss’s repertoire, the half-volleyed backhand flick-drive from the back of the court, just doesn’t look the same on clay or on a hard court. It is a thing of ineffable beauty.

The procession of Federer’s past five Wimbledon wins might, if he had not been so good to watch, have been deemed boring in its one-sidedness. But the tennis gods have also given us the 22-year-old Majorcan Rafael Nadal.

Nadal, in his hammering of Federer at the French Open last Sunday, emphasised his superiority on clay to such a degree that it was almost embarrassing to watch. Federer’s self-deprecating wit was the only part of him that was up to the occasion: “Oui, c’est moi,” he told the disbelieving Parisian public during the award ceremony. Yes, it really was him getting stuffed out there.

But the grass of Wimbledon is a different matter. Last year Federer and Nadal played a classic five-set final that tested Federer’s supposed dominance on the surface to the very last rally. There were only seven points between the players over the whole match.

Their rivalry at Wimbledon has the potential to be the most fiercely-fought ever. It is more than a simple contrast in tennis styles. We had that with Sampras and Andre Agassi, serve-volleyer and counter-puncher, and it was fine as far as it went. But with Federer and Nadal there is an extra dimension.

The Swiss’s serene elegance, in contrast with the Spaniard’s near-bestial intensity, is like a clash between high classicism and turbulent romanticism. It puts one in mind of the greatest Mozart symphonies, in which that tension between rationality and emotion speaks so eloquently of the human condition. Sport can, on rare occasion, take on the same themes as the subtlest of art forms.

This year’s championship will be sold out, as always, with 460,000 people attending over 13 days, and will turn us all, TV viewers included, into instant experts. It is not entirely true to say the tournament is unchanged. There have been subtle adjustments – in 1995 there was a “minimal alteration in the compression” of the balls and, in 2001, a different blend of grass was introduced. Most observers assume it was to combat the monotonously fast pace of the modern game, although the All England Club has always denied that that was its intention. Next year, the retractable roof over the centre court – to keep out the traditional Wimbledon rain – will be used.

Cleverer still has been the marketing that has seen the worldwide spread of the Wimbledon brand. Since 2002, 34 Wimbledon shops have opened in China alone. There are business partnerships with appropriately traditional companies such as the jewellers Links of London and Waterford crystal. Polo Ralph Lauren recently opened a Wimbledon shop-within-a-shop in New York’s Saks Fifth Avenue.

This is the real skill in the Wimbledon operation: not only its scarcely perceptible ability to adapt to the changes in tennis, but in its selling of an idea – the old-fashioned idea, clip-clop of wooden racquets, strawberries and all – to a world that is desperate in its nostalgic longings to resist many elements of modernity. Wimbledon is in many ways a metaphor for what Britain has become, a fast, hard, rich society that likes to dress itself up in vague notions of fair play and nobility of spirit that belong to a bygone age.

Tennis today is a brash and fiercely-contested game, with extraordinary rewards (total prize money at Wimbledon is £11.8m this year, compared with the £37,790 on offer when Goolagong triumphed in 1971) and attitudes to match. The professionalisation of the game, which started so tentatively 40 years ago, is complete. But somewhere in the world, as someone buys a towel adorned with the unmistakable green-and-purple logo, they are buying into the game that John Newcombe and Evonne Goolagong played with such calm and dignity all those years ago. It’s a priceless commodity.

Wimbledon starts on June 23