I feel ashamed that I would struggle recognising more than a
handful of them in an identity parade. Even the world number one, Ashleigh
Barty could pass me in the High Street and I wouldn’t notice. The first I’d
heard of Dutch number four seed Kiki Bertens was on the pages of a KLM
in-flight magazine I was perusing en route for Amsterdam last month. As for
knowing my Svitolina from my Sabalenka or Savastova, no chance!
It’s all such a leap of Roland Garros rally proportions from
the Seventies or Eighties. Year after year I could anticipate the rivalries
between Billie-Jean King, Margaret Court and Evonne Goolagong Cawley or Martina
Navratilova, Chris Evert and Tracy Austin. The supporting cast also rotated
extremely slowly, from Stove to Shriver, Melville to Mandlikova, Barker to
Bunge.
Admittedly, the twelve years from 1982 to 1993 became a bit
tedious, as Navratilova and that incredible
athlete, Steffi Graf, stubbornly refused to allow anyone else near the
Wimbledon title. They may have won countless tournaments elsewhere but other
stars like Monica Seles, Arantxa Sanchez-Vicario and Hana Mandlikova were never
able to parade the coveted Rosewater Dish on Centre Court.
I used to feel sorry for Arantxa. The stocky Spaniard with
the engagingly crooked smile blazed away for years only for her friend and
perennial for Steffi to stand in her way. While Martina became
synonymous with Wimbledon for almost two decades, her fellow Czechs Hana
Mandlikova and the late Jana Novotna tried and failed to
emulate her. That is, until the joyous day in 1998 when, at the third time of
asking, Jana won the final and somehow avoided sobbing all over the Duchess of
Kent’s posh jacket.
There was a limited period when the smaller players sneaked
onto the honours boards, which pleased me no end. Amidst all the 6 foot Amazons
like Venus Williams, Lindsay Davenport and current stars such as Sharapova, Muguruza
and Kvitova, I have a more natural affinity for more ordinary mortals. I was
more likely to cheer the progress of Justine Henin (she of the beautiful one-handed backhand), Martina Hingis or one of
the biggest surprise successes in event years, Marion Bartoli, than the power hitters
with arms even longer than their names:
Since 2000, women’s tennis has become frustratingly
dominated by the Williams sisters. At first, as with Tiger Woods in golf, it was
refreshing to see black players not only mixing it with the usual blue-eyed
blondes but trouncing them. Then, as familiarity inevitably leads to contempt,
that early enthusiasm waned rapidly. They are just so hard to like. Venus
always appeared so haughty and Serena, with her astonishing power and speed,
appeared contemptuous and even disrespectful of lesser players not necessarily
in her words but in her body language. Then there’s the grunting.
It all started with Jimmy Connors in the men’s game, well
before Monica Seles made it so hard to focus on her tennis. When Sharapova, Azarenka and her ilk
developed the high-pitched shriek, I’m sure many
passing-trade tennis watchers like me lost a degree of interest. No, it’s not
gamesmanship, we were dutifully instructed; it’s about exhalation of air to
assist the strokemaking. Bollocks! When Venus or Serena
Wlilliams raise the decibels to deafening levels, you know she’s feeling
pressure and therefore the need to distract her opponent by ‘legal’ cheating,
if that’s not too much of a contradiction.
So, no, I’m not a fan of the Williamses. However, I can’t
deny that Serena in particular has transformed tennis. If Bobby Riggs had been
forty years younger, would he have dared challenge her to a big-money match as
his actual self infamously did with Billie-Jean King and Margaret Court in
1973? Serena would have blasted him off court and eaten him for breakfast, and
good on her for doing so!
The emphasis on powerful groundstrokes, normally executed
with two hands, has sadly come at the expense of the relatively artistic ‘touch’
tennis. That’s not to say that the long-limbed athletes can’t be elegant and capable
of a subtle drop shot or two, but I do hanker for a new Henin or Hingis at the
top of the women’s game. What do I know? Amongst the ranks of the ‘-ova’s and
‘enka’s swelling the modern seedings there may well be some old-school artists,
but I’m simply ignorant of them.
While the men’s game still generates the biggest headlines,
women have finally achieved equality in so many ways, not least in prize money.
The US Open granted parity for men and women way back in ’73 but it took
Wimbledon another 34 years to fall in line. I have some sympathy with the
argument that to achieve full parity, not only for Grand Slam champions, but in
all events, women should play more than a maximum of three sets compared with
five for men. However, in terms of entertainment value and undeniable
physiological differences between the sexes, I accept that the status quo is worth preserving.
For all
the progress made regarding sex equality, I'm amazed that cameras remain trained more on the
women’s tennis outfits than their on-court performances. When I was a child,
all the pre-Wimbledon chat was about which Teddy Tinling dress the top women
would wear and sadly it hasn’t changed much. Tinling may no longer be with us
but the world’s top contemporary fashion designers still use tennis players as
highly-lucrative clothes horses, if not the frivolous bunting from the
Seventies. I suppose it’s a win-win for
both parties.
As for this year’s tournament, apart from my antipathy
towards Serena and ‘our’ Johanna Konta, I have been happily neutral when it
comes to following the Ladies Singles. Had she not had to face Konta in the
fourth round, Petra Kvitova would have been a popular winner after her left
hand was severely damaged by a burglar’s blade but to be honest, I’ll be content
supporting any chirpy, polite competitor under 6 feet tall who can volley but
is – please, God! - shriek-free.
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