My Most Memorable Tennis matches

One certainty in a top-level tennis match is that you will definitely get some fantastic shots, ding-dong rallies and moments of heart-stopping tension. It’s what elevates the sport above most others. However, as in football, rugby, golf or whatever, a few will linger longer in the memory. Most are Wimbledon finals, the magical moments amplified by the association with the trophy-lifting glory at the end. There have been some real humdingers, men’s marathon five-setters and rollercoaster women’s three-setters but often the shorter ones are more memorable for the clashes in style and personality or in the historical significance of the result.

I recall the Men’s Singles showdown in 1974 between 21 year-old Jimmy Connors and the Aussie veteran old enough to be his dad, Ken Rosewall. In these times of Federer, Serena and Martina defying the ageing process, such an achievement would barely register but in the early Seventies it was astonishing. At the time I didn’t know who to support.  Connors was the brash youngster tearing up trees around the world with his all-action style while the popular Rosewall, at 39 despite two decades at the top spanning amateur and pro eras, had never won Wimbledon. They weren’t just chalk and cheese; it was like Connors was playing in colour against Rosewall in black-and-white. Well, in our household, all TV was in monochrome, but you get the picture!

Sadly, the short, slight Australian was no match for his youthful opponent and I found myself warming to underdog Rosewall as the game wore on. He won a mere six games. And yet it wasn’t quite a final hurrah. Amazingly, the two met again shortly afterwards at the US Open, also played on grass, but the winning margin was even greater, as Connors triumphed 6-1, 6-0, 6-1. The baton had been well and truly passed to the new generation. There was a slight hiccup the following summer when fellow American Arthur Ashe, then 31, upset the odds to great acclaim in a four-setter I also remember well. 

During Bjorn Borg’s five-year tenure at Wimbledon, classics were in short supply. His 1977 semi aganst Vitas Gerulaitis was an exception but I didn’t see it, presumably at school. The Swede’s 1980 defeat of John McEnroe is also held up as an all-time great but I was probably too disappointed in the outcome. I have fonder memories of the 1981 final in which McEnroe triumphantly ended Borg’s run with an emphatic volley.

Another inter-generational encounter which sticks in the mind occurred in 2001. Pete Sampras had won 31 consecutive matches and was seeking a record-breaking eighth Wimbledon singles title. In the fourth round he faced the 19 year-old number 15 seed from Switzerland by the name of Roger Federer. After five tight sets, Pistol Pete ran out of bullets and we all sat up and took notice of the long-haired, chubby-faced Swiss bloke with a broad white headscarf. Commentating, John McEnroe predicted he’d become the greatest ever. He wasn’t wrong.

Federer had to wait for his maiden Grand Slam because Britain’s Tim Henman edged him in the quarters. Tim’s next match was another one for my personal record books. Drawn against the wild card Goran Ivanisevic, the path was surely clear for the Brit to meet his Wimbledon destiny. In the event, rain delays and postponements, allied to the former finalist’s mental strength to achieve his own ambition, combined to send the Croat through after five gruelling sets.

That wasn’t a shock but of course we all love an unexpected ousting of a leading seed by a rank outsider. Most take place during working (or school) hours but that didn’t prevent me being distracted by the start of Paradorn Srichaphan’s defeat of reigning champion Andre Agassi in the second round of Wimbledon 2002, the conclusion of which I watched after the evening commute home. More recently, when Rafa Nadal was knocked out by the dramatically dreadlocked Dustin Brown I marvelled at the audacity and verve of the Jamaican-born German.

I don’t normally cheer for the Brits but I found myself supporting Heather Watson when I switched channels to see her close in on beating the all-conquering Serena Williams in 2015. Spurred on by a fiercely partisan and often highly disrespectful Centre Court crowd, the 23 year-old actually served for the match only for the top seed to reel off the last three games and proceed to win the whole tournament.

Many years previously I enjoyed watching the graceful young Evonne Goolagong beating the legendary Margaret Court in 71 and, again, nine years later when the now-married Evonne Cawley beat Turnbull and Austin before recapturing the title against Chris Evert Lloyd. I rarely watched the women’s final because until 1982 they were scheduled for the Friday, but in 1980 I was home from university. In 2004 I was also available to applaud the 17 year-old Maria Sharapova’s momentous thwarting of Serena Williams. This was before the humble lissom-limbed Russian became an annoying American gruntaholic, much like her opponent.

A couple of epic Wimbledon finals from the Nineties also stand out, each involving Steffi Graf. The first was the German’s nailbiter against Jana Novotna in ’93 then, two years later she survived another three-setter against the Czech before being pushed all the way in the final by the tenacious Arantxa Sanchez-Vicario. 

The men have also produced some lengthy classics. I’ve already mentioned the Pasarell-Gonzales marathon from ’69, up there (almost!) with the Apollo 11 mission to the moon just a few weeks later. In those days, tennis was still too professional to be granted Olympic status but by 2016 the sport had become a popular part of the Games. I admit I haven’t watched much of the competition but did catch bits of a wonderful contest between champion Andy Murray and the likeable but injury-prone Argentine Juan Martin del Potro. The latter had lost a gruelling five-setter versus Federer in London four years earlier and had eliminated Djokovic in the first round in Rio. In the final, the Brazilian heat played a part and poor del Potro could hardly lift his racket at the end. A great game played in an even greater spirit.

Back to Wimbledon and in 2010, an unheralded first-round tie turned into a chapter of Grand Slam history that can never, ever be surpassed. It wasn’t tremendous tennis, but it certainly captured the imagination of all of us who tuned in, as enthralling as any 3 nights-a-week TV soap opera. It pitched the tall American 23^rd seed, John Isner against the French qualifier and one-time Wimbledon junior champion Nicolas Mahut, neither of whom I’d heard of at the time. I watched for ages on the second evening, struggling to comprehend how Mahut refused to succumb to the Isner serve before bad light stopped play at 58-all. After more than eleven hours, Isner finally broke through on the Thursday afternoon to win 70-68 in the fifth. Not only were both players physical wrecks but an IBM technician had been drafted in to enable the electronic scoreboards to keep up with the games tally! Unbelievable. Since then, Isner has scooped numerous ATP titles helped by his awesome ace count and has participated in quite a few other five-setters. Mahut never made it in singles but has become one of the most accomplished doubles exponents on the tour.

Nowhere near as long but possibly even more absorbing was the so-called Clash of the Champions in 1992. Ex-winner Pat Cash was a wild card entry and an injury-affected John McEnroe out of the seedings but it was a tasty second round match-up and it delivered in spades. Amazingly, Mac went all the way to the semi-finals where he bowed out to Agassi and sadly never played the tournament again.

McEnroe had played many grudge matches against Jimmy Connors around the world. I had bad memories of his loss at Wimbledon in 1982 but they were eclipsed by McEnroe’s straightforward revenge two years later. Games involving players who make no secret of mutual hatred are often highly attractive. This year’s second rounder reuniting third seed Rafael Nadal and the dashing but deeply unpleasant Nick Kyrgios provided fireworks galore and I’ve never previously seen Nadal so pumped up in victory so early in the tournament.

Over the years there have been countless games which have been memorable for others but had passed me by. Ah, if only I had stayed at home last weekend to witness Simona Halep’s comprehensive slaying of Serena!  Fortunately I was persuaded to watch Roger Federer’s final against Nadal back in 2008 and found it impossible to leave before the end. Including rain delays the match spanned more than seven hours, with actual play lasting almost five. But this wasn’t just about the duration; it was the sheer mesmeric quality of tennis both players produced. My household was predominantly in the Spaniard’s camp, which made Federer’s eventual defeat, 9-7 in the fifth, even harder to take but at least I can say I watched the drama unfold well into the evening, a true classic.

Tennis: Doubles Delights

Doubles tennis doesn’t get the credit it deserves, at least on the broadcast media, in today’s obsession with the singles specialists. It wasn’t always so. As a teenager, I’d look forward to watching live coverage of the pairs at Wimbledon rat-a-tatting volleys in lengthening shadows after tea and homework, even more so than the big-money duels taking place earlier in the day.

In 2019, it would appear that doubles, whether men’s, women’s or mixed, only got a look-in if at least one of the participants was a Murray or someone else with a Union Flag appended to their name. I became heartily sick of the whole Serandy - or is it Andena? - partnership farrago, when there are so many other brilliant pairs in action. It’s not just about the relegation of competition which doesn’t involve loads of zeroes in the prize pot. After all, the winners of the men’s and women’s events get to share more than half a million quid. Not in the Singles stratosphere, but hardly a bag of peanuts.

Anyone who has played tennis will have enjoyed doubles for the social value. By and large I found it fun to play with and against different partners in my tennis club or amongst friends, although in terms of competitive club matches I tended to prefer singles, as I felt responsible for my own destiny and I couldn’t muck it up for anybody else. However, it was good to mix it up a bit, and there’s nothing more satisfying than standing at the net to punch away a point-winning volley!

The current professional tours see little of the old-school blending of formats. Outside the Davis or Fed Cups, the Olympics or a few exhibition matches, I don’t know when the likes of Federer, Nadal or Djokovic last played competitive doubles. It’s simply not worth their while. That leaves some of the less familiar names to dominate the separate doubles tournaments, and I’m sure I’m not alone in trying to put those names to faces each summer at Wimbledon. It doesn’t help when, as already stated, even the TV cameras at SW19 swerve to avoid them.

Back in the day, the top singles players tended to be doubles winners, too, but they seemed to play with a sense of fun. With precious little money to play for, I guess such clashes would inevitably revolve around honour and enjoyment. Furthermore, when John Newcombe and Tony Roche met, say, Rod Laver and Roy Emerson across the net, it must have felt like one of those Saturday afternoon knockabouts, even if a Grand Slam title was at stake.

I think Newcombe and Roche won about a dozen Grand Slams together and several more with separate partners. Up to the late Seventies they were more important to my Wimbledon viewing than the likes of Connors, Borg or Nastase but they were not alone. That midsummer fortnight also brought us the white cap of Frew McMillan in partnership with Bob Hewitt, not to mention Billie-Jean King and Rosie Casals bringing an always watchable blend of touch and power to women’s doubles.

The Aussie production line was maintained through Case and Masters, McNamara and McNamee then in the Nineties by the incomparable ‘Woodies’, Mark Woodforde and Todd Woodbridge. They were the classic combination of left- and right-handers and, thanks to their bright demeanours, brought a sense of entertainment beyond mere tennis skills. I never picked up the same happy vibe when the American Bryan brothers were grabbing eighteen Grand Slams between 2003 and 2014. They represent a completely different era, the one where partners feel obliged to ‘finger-slide’ (not even a fist-bump!) each other after every point, won or lost, and conduct all their tactical conversations behind the shield of a ball It all seems so – well – professional, but of course that’s because doubles is a serious business.

There were many other enduring American partnerships to savour in my formative years. Smith and Lutz, Gottfried and Ramirez, Flach and Seguso, Navratilova and Shriver all flew the Stars and Stripes with great aplomb for many years, although my favourite duo has to be John McEnroe and Peter Fleming. When once asked who was the best doubles pairing, Fleming repled: “McEnroe and anyone”. If Mac was a superb singles player, he was even better at doubles, so devastating was his knowledge of angles and touch on the volley. A true genius.

McEnroe’s contemporary and fellow leftie Martina Navratilova was another supreme doubles player, whether paired with King, Evert, Stove, Mandlikova or Shriver, while Jonas Bjorkman was the best and most enduring of a string of Swedish doubles stars. Jana Novotna was another whose game was tailor-made for doubles, and she scooped sixteen women’s or mixed Grand Slams in her stellar career.

However, even Jana was outdone in the Nineties by Natasha Zvereva. A product of the Soviet Union, I used to support her partnership with Ludmila Savchenko, partly because the USSR was, despite the arrival of Gorbachev, glasnost and perestroika, still supposed to be our enemy. They made an unlikely pairing but were brilliant to watch. Their match-up didn’t survive the Soviet break-up, but it was Zvereva who, alongside Gigi Fernandez, won nine out of ten consecutive Grand Slam titles in 1992-94.  I don’t know why, but the Belarussian is possibly my fave women’s doubles player of all time.

She must be pushed hard by Martina Hingis. In her first, teenage, incarnation around the turn of the millennium, she claimed doubles titles with six different partners then, after her comeback, formed a formidable pairing with Sania Mirza. Neither were muscular powerhouses but were so aesthetically pleasing to watch. What is it about Indians and doubles? Vijay and Anand Amritraj introduced some Asian elegance in the Seventies while in the new century, Leander Paes – like Savchenko-Neiland not blessed with the standard tennis player physique - has proved one of the finest on the circuit and the go-to partner for any title-hungry female. His ten mixed doubles Grand Slam trophies span sixteen years and counting. He won three with Hingis in 2011 alone when pushing forty but it is his successes with the 47 year-old Navratilova in Melbourne and Wimbledon in 2003 for which he may be most fondly remembered.

Excluding the comedy senior matches involving Mansour Bahrami and Henri Leconte, there is one game which above all others epitomised everything I once enjoyed about mixed doubles in the Seventies - and yet it happened in 2007. I’m talking about the summer when the scratch pairing of Jamie Murray and Jelena Jankovic somehow harnessed their engaging bonhomie to not only reach the Wimbledon final but to actually win the title. It was such a throwback to a different era. They were having fun, and it was infectious; sport at its most life-affirming.