High life
Playing the game
Taki
I'd forgotten how pleasant England can be in summer. Especially after a muggy New York and an overnight flight which I can safely call the worst since the ill-fated KAL 007. (I had a large bill on me and the stewardess wouldn't change it. 'We've been getting a lot of these and some have been counterfeit,' she said in a very rude manner. When I enquired whether she had learned her manners in a brothel she answered, 'No, I learned my manners at home.') As soon as I stepped off the aeroplane, however, things began to look up. I had flown over with a friend, and he and I headed for the nearest pub while the taxi driver waited outside. Then it was straight to bed for a couple of hours' sleep and then to , the grass courts of Queen's Club for John Aspinall's pro-am doubles tourna- ment. Aspers pays 20 Wimbledon players
to play with 20 amateurs and some of the money raised goes — where else — straight down a lion's or a tiger's gullet. Ten of the pros are matched with mugs (i.e. people who think a tennis racket is for serving spaghetti) the other ten with people who once used to hit the ball but now play the game from memory, i.e. has-beens like me.
As everyone who is familiar with the Aspinall style knows, the budget for his shindigs resembles that of the one the Soviets have allocated to the Peace Move- ment in Europe. The last time I saw so much champagne, lobster, and good frog red was at his ball back in 1981. This time I couldn't get as drunk as I wanted as I had already lost one match qualifying in the morning, and one more loss would have put me out of the running. My partner, Ray Moore, does not compete any more, but he can still hit the ball on the strings. We beat Brian Teacher and his French partner — the winners of last year's tourna- ment — very badly, and then proceeded to annihilate Onny Parrun of New Zealand and his Dutch semi-pro Louis De Yonk. We tied Rosewall, who was playing with an Iranian defector (the man was actually tennis instructor to the Shah but defected when Khomeini decreed that tennis bred paedophilia and all tennis instructors were to be shot on the spot).
In the final we once again met Rosewall and the Persian defector (the round-robin tournament made that poisible). In the deciding set we led 3-1 and love -40 on Ken Rosewall's serve. I hit a good return very close to the baseline for a winner and the umpire called it good. Rosewall, who is one of the greatest players ever to have played the silly game and who has been an impeccably behaved champion, told me the ball was out. After having called the Psycho (McEnroe) all those names last week I was not about to argue. The ball was out. Typically, it was the turning point. The little master held serve and we even- tually lost 6-4 in the final But I was happy once again to prove to myself that despite my self-destructive habits the will to win (well, almost win) is still there.
Ironically, while I was getting complete- ly plastered on the aeroplane, I told my friend that I had a feeling I would win the tournament. He thought I was hallucinat- ing from drink and the altitude. That night I celebrated with Aspers and some of the players. And the next day — all this week, in fact — I've been going to Wimbledon. And I have finally realised what it is I have against the modern players. Nothing. With the exception of McEnroe and Connors, most of the boys are all right. The trouble is that their entourage is too horrid to describe in a publication as elegant as the Spectator.
The players' lounge, needless to say, has been full of the support teams of the various players. People with gold watches, cold eyes, fat bellies, blow-dried hair and capped teeth. Worse, most of them are American hustlers, with the manners one
learns when brought up in houses of ill repute. Still, the tennis has been good, despite all the juniors grunting away as if their limbs were being removed without anaesthetic. That's Connors's legacy to the young; and when I heard 'F___!' being screamed at the top of his lungs by a 16-year-old, I knew that the Psycho had left a legacy too.
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