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.