High life
A thumping bore
Taki
Ihad a funny feeling during the first two days at Wimbledon that the party was over. Maybe it was the sparse crowd, or the fact that I walked around in comfort, unjostled, and even found an empty bench seat next to a field court. Mind you, on court num- ber one the crowds still fell for the old con man's tricks, laughing uproariously at Jimmy Connors' antics, which — now that he's over the hill — were good-natured. In the past they were designed to upset and discomfort his opponent.
Nothing much had changed on the cen- tre court either. The spectators sat enrap- tured while Lendl and his German opponent thumped the ball once, perhaps twice, and if we were very lucky, for the third time. I found it almost as boring as the Americas Cup, but more expensive to watch. If I hadn't been invited by professor Yohannes Goulandris — who is somehow related to Lendl through marriage — I would have protested. But to whom? Wim- bledon is in trouble, but those old fogies running it are the kind of people who maintain that Fergie and John Bryan went to Euro-Disney to talk to bankers.
Tennis will draw crowds as long as it entertains, and entertainment derives from rallies that include drop shots, lobs, volleys, forehand and backhand drives and so on.
Today's equipment make rallies on grass as rare as Kuwaiti war heroes. Therefore, in the immortal words of Edward VIII, some- thing must be done. But what? A change of rules for grass only would help. Like keep- ing both feet on the ground while serving, or permitting only one serve. The trouble with this is that all top pros will skip Wim-
bledon. Then there is going back to the wooden racket. That is a no-no, however, because the money generated by ever newer technology is more important than the game itself.
So — and I never thought I'd live to see the day I said such a thing — Wimbledon must change its surface: from green grass to green hard courts, like the ones they have in America, which are quicker than the Continental red ones, but much slower than grass. It is an awful thing to say, but even a diehard like myself has finally seen the light. The company men and All Eng- land club types don't care about the cham- pionships as much as they care for their annual fun and games. But let's face it: watching one man thump the serve and his opponent miss more often than not is not tennis. It's like watching public park tennis played by ten-year-olds. Change now, I say, and live another 100 years as the world's top tourney.
Otherwise my first day was a nostalgic one. I saw old friends like Lew Hoad, Fred Stolle, John Newcombe, Ken Fletcher and Abe Segal, and reminisced about — what else? — the good old days when players played for glory and a little amount of under-the-table expenses. Neale Frazer was there too, my old buddy and the only
man to win Wimbledon without a back- hand. What a nice bunch of guys, as differ- ent from the McEnroes of this world as The Spectator is from the National Inquirer.
Fred Stolle watched his son win the first two sets and then his opponent Novacek defaulted, something which, however unfair it may sound, I cannot see Stolle father or son ever doing. (Novacek had pulled a muscle.) Then there was a French- man, Piolene, playing an Italian, Pistolesi, both Continentals hitting with gusto from the back, as enjoyable a match as one can nowadays imagine. But the best is yet to come. Next week the veterans go into action, and that's the only grass court ten- nis worth seeing.
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