The Seventies – Tennis in Transition

While my first memories of watching tennis date back to the late Sixties, it was the following decade which cemented tennis – or Wimbledon, as it’s known in the UK – as an integral part of my summer.

Professional players had only just been allowed back into the fold, so I was fortunate that all the world’s best exponents were represented on our little telly during Wimbledon fortnight. That is, provided there were no disputes over rival tours or tennis union boycotts, which had a serious impact on Wimbledon in 1972 and 1973.

In those days, Americans and Australians were totally dominant. Stan Smith, Arthur Ashe, Marty Riessen, the Richey siblings, Billie-Jean-King and Rosie Casals flew the Stars and Stripes while the formidable Aussie contingent included Rod Laver, John Newcombe, Tony Roche, Roy Emerson, Ken Rosewall, Margaret Court, Evonne Goolagong and Kerry Melville.

Tennis also seemed such a simpler game to play. There were no fancy serves or other extravagancies, but nevertheless plenty of skill. This was exemplified by Rod Laver. He wasn’t tall, but his swinging leftie serves could be lethal on grass, and of course he was one of the most successful players of all time. Heaven knows how many more Grand Slam titles he would have amassed had he renounced his professional status between 1964 and 1967. I remember admiring the size of his left forearm although it wasn’t until we had colour TV in 1974 that I realised he was a redhead like me. In ’71, like many others, I was struck by the grace of young Evonne Goolagong who upset fellow countrywoman Court in the Ladies Singles Final at Wimbledon. John Newcombe’s blend of groundstrokes and effortless volleying also endeared him to me en route to the Men’s title.

Perhaps the first final I can recall seeing in anything approaching its entirety was the classic encounter between Stan Smith and Ilie Nastase soon after my eleventh birthday in 1972. I really wanted the Romanian clay-courter to win but the big blond American took it 7-5 in the fifth. Looking at recordings it seems weird that they battled it out for well over three hours on a hot afternoon without even sitting down. Ah, modern stars don’t know they are born, right?!

The following year, 81 of the leading men stuck by their principles and boycotted SW19 in protest at the expulsion of ATP union member Nicci Pilic and left gaping holes in the seedings. Suddenly a whole raft of little known European players left their mark on me. Nastase and Britain’s Roger Taylor controversially defied the action but eventually it was the Czech Jan Kodes who defeated the USSR’s Alex Metreveli in the final. I watched as usual but the men’s tournament felt like a second-class event,

There were other Europeans around in the Seventies. Spain boasted Manuel Orantes and Andres Gimeno, Holland’s Tom Okker was always watchable, and the Italian Adriano Panatta did his best on the fast grass courts. In the women’s game, Francoise Durr was a consistent seed despite possessing surely the weakest serve I’ve ever witnessed outside my own back garden! The continent even provided both finalists in 1977 when our own Virginia Wade defeated Dutchwoman Betty Stove in front of the Queen in the centenary championships.

But tennis was a-changing. When I first followed tennis, three of the four Grand Slam tournaments took place on grass, so it was inevitable that the most successful players were strong servers and superb volleyers. Unlike today, when singles and doubles are almost completely segregated by the need to specialise, the rankings in each format looked remarkably similar. Newcombe and Roche, Lutz and Smith, King and Casals, Metreveli and Morozova were familiar pairings. As grass lost its stranglehold on the circuit, so did the serve-volleyers. A new breed of tennis star began to emerge.

I confess I never liked watching Chris Evert. She never strayed far from the baseline nor seemed to hit the ball particularly hard and yet her ability to create rally-winning angles was hugely successful. In 1974, the 21 year-old Jimmy Connors kick-started the shift towards double-handed backhand strokes (anathema to me, although Dad said that was how he was taught as a child), back-of-court power-hitting and, worst of all, grunting with every shot. It did him no harm; nobody, not even Roger Federer, has surpassed his record of professional tour victories and titles. When the inscrutable Swede Bjorn Borg upset the applecart in ’76, and John McEnroe’s brattish behaviour but sublime tennis appeared the following summer, Wimbledon would never be the same again.

Gene Mayer also made a telling contribution. In the mid-‘70s, the American top-ten player was a pioneer of a new weapon of choice. When I first saw his large-headed ‘graphite’ racket, I felt he was cheating. It appeared to dwarf the traditional wooden equipment and, with a sweet-spot the size of Wales, it quickly became evident that it gave its users a distinct advantage. McEnroe was one of the last to switch but not even he could hold back technological progress.

The decade ended with me at university and tennis revolutionised. The old US-Australia duopoly had been broken, balls were being struck with greater ferocity, Britain was back in the tennis doldrums, a sturdy teenager from Prague called Martina Navratilova gave the Eastern Bloc its first global sporting superstar and Borg was inspiring a new generation of earnest boys from Sweden to pick up a racket; a racket that was no longer made from timber. I was nineteen and already way behind the times….

Tennis: Wood and Catgut

It's June. The fleeces have been replaced in my wardrobe by T-shirts and the air is filled with the drone of lawnmowers. It's time for tennis! Like most of Britain’s most popular sports and pastimes, tennis was introduced to me at a very early age.

Unfortunately there were no public courts near our first family home so, this being a memoir of yours truly and not Andy Murray, it was never going to be the birth of a future grand slam champion. Apart from a few gentle pat-ball sessions with Dad in the back garden, much of my practice was performed solo against a wall in our shared driveway (see left on my ninth birthday). Whether on our side or that of the neighbours, it must have driven the residents crazy. Great for honing my volleying skills, though!

Of course tennis is a summer game in these parts, which is why my older self tended to focus on badminton or table-tennis, indoor pursuits more amenable to the British climate. However, as a child, I would love to get out and about playing sport, whether wielding club, bat or racket. One school holiday, Catherine and I attended organised tennis lessons for junior beginners, and in 1976 we would cycle to Stock Tennis Club on Saturday mornings, mixing it with mostly posh kids but generally enjoying ourselves, even it was often hot and thirsty work during that notoriously long, hot summer. 

By this time, I was no longer borrowing the ancient equipment once used by Mum or Dad, the rackets still encased in their anti-warp guards. I had my own racket, albeit still with wooden frame, but at least it was lighter than the fifties-style weapon of choice. Around that time, the new large-headed carbon-fibre rackets were being adopted by the pros but, although I would occasionally trade groundstrokes with friends across the nets at our local Lake Meadows public courts in the Eighties and Nineties, I never bothered to upgrade to the superior, ultra-light, giant sweet-spotted Wilsons or Heads. I was an anachronism but didn’t care. Persistent ‘Tennis elbow’ was to end even my intermittent playing days and it must be more than twenty-five years since I last struck a luminous yellow-green Dunlop in earnest.

Of course, this being England, there was no greater inspiration to play tennis than the annual Wimbledon championships. While the professional tennis calendar straddles the entire year, from the red-dusted clay courts of Europe to the oases of Abu Dhabi, via just about any world city you can think of, most of us Brits think it begins and ends in a single fortnight in June and July, where the surface is a dazzling green, the over-priced strawberries polished red and the spectators insufferably blue-blooded.

In the Sixties, even Wimbledon was broadcast in black-and-white, so the colour of the hallowed stripy lawns was only in our imagination. At least to those of us watching at home, the obligatory white kit worn by the players was genuine and the ‘predominantly white’ rule is one tradition which remains unchanged. In other ways, tennis has inevitably evolved, just as football, golf and cricket have adapted to the demands of sponsors, broadcasters and audiences as well as the technological advances we now take for granted.

Matches seem to drag on interminably, and it’s hardly surprising. The obligatory towel wipe every point and the nonsensical server's taking of three balls and patting one back waste so much time. Then there are all the Hawkeye challenges which might add a soupcon of drama but very little to the sporting spectacle. Players’ chairs are in, along with a myriad of energy drinks, bananas, etc to compete with good old Robinson’s Cordial. However, net-cord judges are out, as redundant as petrol pump attendants and milkmen.

The near-abolition of serve-and-volley tennis has reduced the number of aces and extended the rallies, which isn’t necessarily a Bad Thing. However, it has changed the look of Wimbledon for the modern viewer. I remember when, by the second week, all the courts would feature worn patches down the centre line. These days, that smudge of dusty brown is restricted to the baseline and behind.

On the other hand, tie-breaks were introduced in the Seventies to prevent repeats of memorable marathons such as one of the first matches I can remember watching: the legendary 1969 first-round tie between the cantankerous old warhorse Pancho Gonzales and 25 year-old Charlie Pasarell. The first set alone comprised 46 games. When play was resumed on the second day, I cheered when the big-serving Pasarell had seven match-points but presumably sulked when the 41 year-old saved them all and claimed victory 11-9 in the fifth. Almost exactly fifty years later I distinctly remember watching that evening when the participants trudged off court. Until his retirement I would always seek out Pasarell’s name in the results pages.

Of course, five-hour epics are par for the course on clay in the French Open and even at Wimbledon, we’ve been treated to even more protracted clashes. None will ever surpass the astonishing 70-68 final set involving the seeded American giant John Isner and the courageous Nicolas Mahut, to which I shall return. But for my next chapter I shall look back at the players who initially fuelled my interest in tennis during the Seventies.

Golf: Memorable Moments

For all my scattergun accusations of all USA citizens being xenophobic megalomaniacs, I do sincerely believe that one or two are thoroughly decent folk, including members of the professional golf fraternity. Tom Watson always seemed genuinely humble and generous after devouring each Scottish links, and I’d have loved him to succeed at Turnberry in 2009 where he led after three rounds at the age of 59! A par on the final hole would have done it.

‘Gentle’ Ben Crenshaw was another American I supported for a while. In the Seventies he was always there or thereabouts in The Open and other majors and I recall being chuffed when he clinched the US Masters in 1984 and again eleven years later. I fostered similar proud thoughts in 2004, staying up late on a Sunday night to cheer perennial runner-up Phil Mickelson to his maiden Major triumph at Augusta. Although he sometimes wore his heart on his sleeve, the big left-hander endeared himself to me with his lop-sided smile and ursine lope, and thoroughly deserved his place in the history books.

On the subject of bear-like golfers, the maiden Major for John Daly also springs to mind. Dad and I didn’t often pay much attention to the US PGA tournament but for some reason we found ourselves viewing the Beeb’s live coverage one August Sunday evening. The big blonde Californian really stood out, in part because he bore a vague resemblance to my brother-in-law Phil. On the Crooked Stick course, however, he played like nobody else. His ‘grip it and rip it’ style won him many fans and his powerful drives were truly ‘ossome’. Such apparent recklessness off the tee ought to have landed him in constant trouble but somehow, while rivals such as Faldo, Stadler and Couples faded, ‘Long John’ played superbly to win by three strokes. The amazing thing is that he only played because several others dropped out before the start but through the Nineties he became a top draw and also won The Open in ’95. 

As Daly turned to his addictions, Americans soon found a new star to ‘whoop’ for: Tiger Woods. After turning pro in 1997, records tumbled at his feet, notably his astonishing 12-stroke margin of victory at that year’s Masters. At first, I was swept along in global admiration for the sport’s young superstar. His mixed-race heritage upset the applecart at the traditionally racist Augusta club, where black faces were only allowed as caddies or servants, for which golf should be forever grateful. Between August 1999 and September 2010, only Vijay Singh interrupted Tiger’s lengthy reign as world number one. However, by this time the golden glow had tarnished. Not because of his marital infidelities and other personal problems – they would emerge later – but simply because he was too good. His dominance on the PGA tour and in Majors had long since become boring. Am I an awful person for revelling in seeing Tiger’s scary scowl and final round signature red shirt shrouded in rain-sodden sand or chest-high Scottish grass rather than him lifting another piece of silverware? Golf had always been interesting because a high ranking was no guarantee of winning the biggest tournaments. Tiger's brilliance removed the thrilling uncertainty out of the sport, robbing the also-rans of the success their talent deserved. Just ask the perennial European Tour winner Colin Montgomerie who, like British former world leaders Luke Donald and Lee Westwood, enjoyed a very healthy bank balance but surely regretted missing out on a Major.

Before the Tiger first showed his teeth, there was The Shark, Greg Norman. Like Woods, the Aussie was extremely successful around the world but, unlike the American, that didn’t translate into an armful of Major titles. While he often had storming final rounds he is best remembered for his collapses, such as the 1996 Masters against Faldo. That simply endeared him to me even more and I took particular delight in his 1993 Open triumph.

Sunday evenings in late April glued to the stunning flora and evil greens of Georgia listening to birdsong and Peter Alliss are all very well, but most of my favourite moments are associated with our own Open Championship. Not all are triggered by golfing magic. I have little recollection of Ian Baker-Finch’s strokeplay in ’91 but will never forget his interview in which his young daughter, sensing a giant ice lolly being held before her face, attempted to lick the microphone.

Then of course there were the harrowing scenes at Carnoustie eight years later when the clear leader Jean Van der Velde self-destructed on the seventy-second hole. Having already sliced into railings, a wall and thick rough, his made the catastrophic decision to play his third into the Barry Burn. As the Frenchman rolled up his trousers and removed his shoes to play from the water, I yelled at the telly urging him to abandon such folly. Van der Velde must have heard me because he eventually settled for a drop. How must he have felt when, with the flag taunting him just yards ahead, his chance was blown by a triple-bogey. He entered a three-way playoff but his confidence was shot and the little-known Scot Paul Lawrie was victorious. Heartbreaking stuff.

Carnoustie also introduced me to a young golfer who was to fill Tiger’s considerable shoes when the American took his tumble out of form and out of favour. In 2007, the curly-haired 18 year-old Rory McIlroy was hailed the leading amateur at The Open. Unlike so many others, this Silver Medal winner was to fulfil his teenage potential and more. His first few years as a pro featured steady progress in Europe, the Middle East and US, blazing a trail into the top 10. In 2011, he endured a horror round at Augusta but had the mental strength and natural talent to shrug it off and produce a phenomenal performance at the US Open, winning by eight strokes and breaking the tournament record score. He’d out-Tigered Tiger. However, while he was harvesting titles like some collect stamps, for me the one that mattered was The Open.  The stars aligned perfectly in 2014 when McIlroy duly delivered at Hoylake and I was chuffed for him.

Those early days of the decade were incredible for Northern Ireland. Graeme McDowell also claimed Majors across the pond but possibly the most popular winner of all was Darren Clarke. With a tragic back story that would make even X Factor producers green with envy, the 42 year-old former tour and Ryder Cup stalwart emerged from the depths of despair to lift the Claret Jug at Royal St George’s in 2011. Tears gushed all round, although personally I felt more emotion over McIlroy’s subsequent triumph.

But for all the holes in one, outrageous putts at Augusta, tear-jerking finales and head-in-hands disasters, the most memorable moment must be reserved for a man I’ve mentioned before: Severiano Ballesteros. I will simply never tire of seeing his celebrations following his winning birdie putt at the 1984 Open. The man himself may have passed away eight years ago aged just 54 but that triumphant smile at his peak is eternal.

Golf: Cheering for Europe

The roots of the European invasion were at Royal Birkdale in 1976. On those drought-browned links a 19 year-old Severiano Ballesteros announced himself with a second place in The Open. It wasn’t simply his youth or the element of surprise; he brought a Latin joie de vivre (or whatever it is en Espanol) to his game, and even his charming Spanish accent was endearing. Three years later, he became the first man from continental Europe to win a major since 1907, triumphing at Royal Lytham St Annes. While most top pros played ‘percentage golf’, Sevvy, like his contemporaries and my other sporting idols John McEnroe and Viv Richards, would produce shots nobody else would dare attempt. If they went astray he would simply seek a ruling and then pull off astounding recoveries. I vividly recall the agony of watching his drive at the sixteenth flying off into a car park, then the amazement as his next shot landed on the green. 

He proceeded to win the Masters in 1980 and 1983 but my abiding memory of Sevvy was his boyish delight after sinking the winning putt at St Andrews in ’84. The whole nation punched the air with him. By the time his 65 defeated Nick Price at Lytham again four years later Sevvy must have been one of the most popular sportsmen on the planet, as well as one of the most successful. The majors were important, of course, but he was also one of the most brilliant matchplay golfers of his or any other generation.

This came in particularly handy in the Ryder Cup. The GB & NI team had been serial losers in the venerable biennial contest with the USA so in ’79 other Europeans were allowed to compete in the hope of evening things up a bit and increasing interest over here. It sure did. It wasn’t all about Sevvy. The American stranglehold on world golf was also being loosened by German Bernhard Langer and Ballesteros’ fellow Spaniard Jose-Maria Olazabal, with whom he created the most successful partnership in Ryder Cup history. 

One of my favourite Open battles came in 2007 when Padraig Harrington went head-to-head with Sergio Garcia. Despite considerable success around the globe, neither had a major to their name, and I didn’t mind which came out on top. Sadly for him, Garcia blew his third round lead and the Irishman beat him in a play-off. It took Sergio another ten years to achieve that elusive first major, bless him!

In the past few decades many others from across the Channel and North Sea have starred in the top tournaments. Jesper Parnevik, Henrik Stenson and Thomas Bjorn have led a superb Scandinavian contingent, Martin Kaymer won two majors in the States, the cigar-chomping Miguel Angel Jimenez was one of the most familiar faces on the circuit and now Italian Francesco Molinari is amongst the best in the business. He is already a Ryder Cup legend having won all five of his matches, pairs and singles, in Europe’s stunning 2018 destruction of the Yanks in France. 

The competition has never really seared itself in my consciousness the way the Open Championship has done. Perhaps it’s because I wasn’t brought up on it, watching on television. In recent years I’ve been content with highlights coverage, whether from Europe or across the pond, especially since Sky secured exclusive rights, turning the event into a war-like confrontation. The broadcaster would have loved the 1991 ‘War on the Shore’ and 1999’s ‘Battle of Brookline’ when jingoism reached new heights, or rather depths. 

I’ve always detested the US gallery’s tendency to ‘Whoop!’ at every opportunity. I would gladly strangle the irritating sod who, after an American drives off the tee, shouts “It’s in the hole!” There’s always one. And it’s never in the hole, you moron! Thus my interest in the Ryder Cup has intensified whenever the Europeans are in the driving seat. I know that not all the Yanks are as obnoxious as Paul Azinger but my Euro-patriotism is whipped up to eleven whenever the USA have their asses whupped, especially on their own soil. The ‘Miracle of Medinah’, when Europe overturned a 4-10 deficit to succeed by a point, was particularly satisfying. Perhaps this makes me as bad as the zealously patriotic Americans. Almost. At least I reserve my histrionic demonstrations of bias for the privacy of my own living room.

All the on-course fist-pumping and wife-hugging leaves me somewhat uneasy, even the manic actions of our own Ian Poulter but the Ryder Cup does feed my dislike of almost anything American, and that was before golf-loving Trump became President. It seems a shame that, while Europe are as competitive as ever in world golf, Britain is reverting to prehistoric nationalism and fear of Europe over the whole Brexit fiasco. Well, I for one will counter the Stars and Stripes by continuing to fly the blue and gold stars when it comes to golf, cheering McIlroy to Molinari, Rose to Rahm.