High life
Young men's games
Taki
Tennis was great fun back then. I trav- elled with Nico Kalogeropoulos, who won Junior Wimbledon as well as the French in 1963. In Greece we lost only one doubles match in some 20 odd years. It all started in Dublin, 33 years ago. Nico, two other players and I arrived at the Fitzwilliam ten- nis club on a cold April day entering the Davis Cup competition for the first time. At the Shelbourne Hotel we watched in wonderment as the Irish team prepared for the tie by downing large amounts of whiskey. After the second day the banner headlines read: 'Ireland leads Greece 2-1; victory is expected today'. The Irish cele- brations continued even after the last two matches had gone our way. I believe it was their number two, Hickey, who suddenly proclaimed, 'Fuckin' hell, we lost.' A fight between the Irish players ensued, followed by a tearful reconciliation. Finally, they all got together and beat up the Davis Cup captain, or so rumour had it.
Last week, after an interlude of 37 years, I was again in an international veterans tennis tournament final, but in a losing effort. My only excuse was a very long semi-final against a Swiss who may or may not have hoarded Nazi gold. The Austrian who beat me in the final is an experienced tournament player who swore to me that he was never a Hitler youth. Nico and I won the doubles, but for the first time play- ing tournament tennis is wearing a bit thin. The only time I enjoyed myself was imme- diately following a win. During a match one has to concentrate so much it's no longer fun. And competitive tennis is agony at my age. Back in the good old days one could pick up young women who followed the circuit, or concentrate on local talent. In veteran tennis the local talent resembles Miss Havisham and there are no groupies. Who wants to follow a bunch of limping geriatrics who complain non-stop about aches and pains?
Tennis is wonderful only when played during the cool hours of the day under per- fect conditions. Like in Windsor, Florida, at the Palace courts in Gstaad and near a lake in Austria. Greece, Italy, Spain and Portugal are too hot, too noisy and too pol- luted for tennis. In America, except in a few exclusive clubs, ethnic minorities have turned the gentle game into gang warfare, with people cheating, spitting, swearing and throwing tantrums. England is too cold and gloomy, the South of France too overbuilt. I'm in Beaulieu this week, playing the last competition of the year. The last time I played it I had taken a pretty young thing with me and had stayed at the Royal Riv- iera, a wonderful hotel still run the old- fashioned way. No sooner had I settled in and gone to the courts for a knock-up, than the sweet young thing came running and all teary-eyed. One of the smart-ass waiters had asked her if she wanted the same breakfast as 'your father'. I complained to the management but was told that the wait- er could have, but did not, use the word grandfather.
Tennis and women are a young man's game, but for some strange reason I will keep at them until I drop dead on court or you know where.
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