High life
Grunt and groan
Taki
Once upon a time, back in the good old days when mercenaries were not allow- ed to mix with decent folk, I used to enjoy watching Wimbledon. I knew and had com- peted against most of the players, and had favourites I used to root for. These days I only watch the women. However unsmiling and sullen they are, they're nevertheless better than those male graphite grunters who have sheer greed and opportunism written all over them. And there's something else. I have for a long time doubted the perceived legitimacy of men's tennis because I have known that ap- pearance money means that players are paid to show up, rather than win. Three years ago, a former French Davis Cup player told me that he knew of cases where players had been bribed by sponsors to throw matches to their (the sponsors') favourites. Naturally I didn't believe him. Now I'm not so sure. And on Sunday I dined with the chairman of one of the world's major tournaments, and he confirmed my worst fears.
The modern world of tennis is now run by promoters like Mark McCormack and Donald Dell, two entrepreneurs who make even the Duke of Westminster seem generous. I have known Donald Dell most of my life, as we met while we were juniors on the tennis circuit. He used to be a jolly fellow, but then he got involved with Ken- nedy politics, and I guess that changed him. He now thinks like the Greek government: everything I have is mine, and everything you have is negotiable. Dell is a leading critic of Wimbledon and no wonder. His pampered and over-protected players don't like Wimbledon, which prides itself on treating all players the same. Wimbledon's prestige means it has no need to pay ap- pearance money, and I can hardly envisage the chairman of the All England Club scor- ing cocaine and getting hookers for the mercenaries, as is the case with many other less scrupulous clubs.
Well, I suppose it was bound to happen. Too many tournaments chasing too few super stars spells bribery to me. But why wasn't it so in my day? Why weren't Hoad and Emerson and Fraser offered under-the- table money on top of the under-the-table $400 a week they were getting? I guess even 20 years ago the world was a better place.
What really annoys me, however, is that I don't think the tennis today is any more spectacular, or the players any more colour- ful. In fact the contrary is true. Lendi's strokes are magnificent but he looks as if he is suffering from abulia and catatonia, and acts like those grave diggers in horror films. The rest are not much better. Where are the Budge Pattys, the Lew Hoads, the Yaroslav Drobnys, the Nicola Pietrangelis, the Manolo Santanas? Or even Nastase? At least the Romanian had touch and a sense of humour. McEnroe and Connors are both beady eyed and unable to look one in the eye. They tap the ball too many times before serving, stare across the net for too long, concentrate too much to make watch- ing the game fun. If I want to see ugly, beady-eyed men acting crazy and depressed I can always go to to a psychopathic hospital. And pay those poor souls the money instead of these primadonnas.
And it's not sour grapes either. Last Sun- day I played in a pro-am tennis tournament and was paired off with my old buddy Neale Fraser, Wimbledon champion in 1960. He can't hit the ball well any more, and he can't move fast around the court, but neither can 1. We felt like two old men and perhaps we were, but at least we didn't try to bribe one of the amateurs to drop a game as one of the contestants tried to do. A modern-day grunter I might add. Oh well, Diogenes had problems finding an honest man too.
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