Yorkers and a Deep Third Man at Wimbledon

Tennis: the most perfect combination of athleticism, artistry, power, style, and wit. A beautiful game, but one so remorselessly travestied by the passage of time. Martin Amis, celebrated novelist and essayist.

‘Anyone for tennis?’ Why those three words became a cliché for books published and stage plays enacted during the turn of the twentieth century and beyond, is a bit of a mystery wrapped in a conundrum and couched in an enigma. Typically, if you could visualise a light-hearted comedy of the sort Oscar Wilde was so partial to writing, the curtains will part to reveal the main characters going about their lines with all the sophistication and espièglerie you would have come to expect from a Wildean drama. All of a sudden, without any notice, without so much as a by-your-leave, a character will come bounding on to the stage, dressed all in whites, long flannels as prescribed by the sporting wardrobe of the times, wielding a wooden Dunlop tennis racket still encased in its wooden frame, exclaiming ‘Anyone for tennis?’ This unexpected and, let’s face it, asinine entry line leaves the rest of the cast somewhat bemused and befuddled.

The best response one can imagine is for a Lady Bracknell (The Importance of Being Earnest) or some such grande dame drawing herself up to her full height, her lorgnette flashing on all cylinders, ‘Don’t be silly, Algernon, we are discussing your forthcoming nuptials and you are clearly surplus to requirements. So be off with you.’ Thus chastised, poor Algernon does a quick about turn and disappears off stage, muttering something on the lines of, ‘Well in that case, righty ho, pip pip, toodle-oo and all that sort of rot.’ Which of course, is more Wodehouse than Wilde but I shan’t quibble.

That needlessly elaborate opening paragraph was only to impress upon you the fact that I have been completely engrossed in tennis this past fortnight. And if you still have not cottoned on to why that is so, you are more to be pitied than censured. If you are feeling a bit foxed or indeed, befuddled or bemused like the cast of that fictional play I referred to at the top of this piece, the answer is ‘Wimbledon, silly.’ The crème de la crème of tennis tourneys is the one that takes place in this leafy suburb, after which the tennis fortnight is eponymously named. In England’s green and pleasant land, Wimbledon, adorned by its pristine grass courts, is widely regarded as the one all tennis buffs want to watch or follow, and all players want to win above everything else. Not that the Grand Slams held in Melbourne, Paris and New York are any the less in stature but it is all a matter of perception. For us in India, the exploits of the Krishnans, the Amritrajs, Bhupathi, Paes and Mirza will always be inextricably intertwined with and benchmarked against the green, green, grass courts at London SW19.

However, I am not about to embark on a detailed analysis of how the tournament panned out this year. By the time you get to read this, Wimbledon will be on the verge of bidding a tearful goodbye to fans, players and royalty – not the money, but the sceptre and crown folk from the House of Windsor. The results will be in and we will know whether the human machine, Djokovic added yet another feather to his cap or if the precocious Alcaraz, the inscrutable Medvedev or the wafer-thin Sinner held aloft the Gentlemen’s Singles Trophy for the flashbulbs. On the distaff side, I include the likes of Jabeur, Sabalenka, Svitolina and Vondrousova*. (This is being typed up while the semi-finals are in progress). The influx of new East European and Russian stars every year, particularly on the women’s side of things, has led to our tongues being twisted like nobody’s business. In short, you can get all the results and how they were achieved without my having to weigh in with my two-bit.

In lieu of which, I felt it would be a good idea to concentrate on a different aspect of Wimbledon tennis to share my thoughts with you. Namely, watching the game on television and enjoying the running commentary that goes with it. For the most part, the commentary on TV consists of former tennis champions, mostly British and American, as well as a handful from other nationalities. Our own Vijay Amritraj has been reduced to an insignificant, walk-on part this year. If only the wretched, reverberating advertising commercials in between games were not so intrusive, denying us the pleasure of experiencing the contrasting emotions of the players. And what good do they do for the brands, when our thoughts turn so hostile towards them? If I were in the market for a new car, Renault will be the last on my list of preferences. Ironically, I say this as a former advertising professional!

At this juncture, I would request the readers of this column to indulge me in a small sidebar. Around the time that players in skirts and shorts have been whacking the ball cross court and down the line, not to mention the odd double fault, the Ashes cricket series has been gripping the British nation like never before. If you are a cricket buff, you will know exactly what I mean. The stadiums have been packed to the rafters, while England and their arch enemy, Australia have been going hammer and tongs at each other. No holds barred. Test cricket is alive and well. Even to disinterested watchers, this is not India playing Pakistan after all, the cricket has been riveting and we have been glued to our sets, switching frantically at times between Centre Court and Headingley.

So, what has all this got to do with the tennis commentary, or for that matter, cricket commentary? Tarry awhile. All shall be revealed. Imagine, if you will, American tennis superstar and super-brat of yesteryear John McEnroe in the commentary box at Wimbledon Centre Court, alongside former British tennis ace Tim Henman, describing play. Bear in mind that while Henman, being English, is fully familiar with the niceties and nuances of cricket and tennis, McEnroe knows next to nothing about the game ‘played by flannelled fools,’ but has a few aces of his own up his sleeve. This provides for some interesting exchanges. What follows does not purport to be a word-for-word accurate description of the proceedings. Rather, treat it more as an impressionistic word picture.

Henman – ‘Alcaraz goes for a monstrous forehand, mistimes it, ball flies off the edge of his racket, and is pouched safely at deep third man in the stands. And now a brilliant, deep return from Djokovic. Almost at yorker-length to Alcaraz.’

McEnroe – ‘What the hell was that, Tim? Deep third man? Yorker? You got me there, buddy.’

Henman – ‘Those are cricketing terms, John. Deep third man is a fielding position. A yorker is…well I’ll explain later.’

McEnroe – ‘What the %$#@? Are we watching tennis or cricket? Anyhow, Alcaraz lobs, Djokovic rises to smash for a clean winner. Slam dunk!’

Henman – ‘Well done, John. Touché.’

McEnroe – ‘I say, Tim. I hope I was off camera when I used the %$#@ word? I will get the sack otherwise.’

Henman – ‘Not to worry, John. They know you and know what an incorrigible crosspatch you are. They will be disappointed if you did not throw the odd unprintable expletive. Meanwhile, Alcaraz plays an exquisite forehand pass. Smooth as silk. Like a Joe Root straight drive.’

McEnroe – ‘Who or what is Joe Root? And what is a straight drive? Come to that, what is a crosspatch? I am going nuts here, Tim.’

Henman – ‘Tell you what, John, stay on in England for a few more days after Wimbledon. I will take you to watch the 4^th Ashes Test in Manchester. Just for a day, mind you, and I will give you a full cricket education.’

McEnroe – ‘How do you mean, just for a day? How many days does the match go on for?’

Henman – ‘Why, five of course!’

McEnroe – ‘Christ almighty! Five days? You cannot be serious!’

Henman – ‘Now you are starting to quote yourself, John. I can sense the italics. Yes, Test matches are played over five days, and guess what John? Even after that, sometimes we may not get a result. We could have an exciting draw or some very unexciting rains.’

McEnroe – ‘I am not sure I am coming to Manchester. I’ve had all the rain I can take right here in Wimbledon. I think I’ll take a rain check. Ha ha! While we have been faffing around on cricket, Alcaraz is clearly behind the eight ball in this set.’

Henman – ‘Hmmm. Behind the eight ball. I know that one. Baseball?’

McEnroe – ‘You’ve lost it, Tim. You are behind the eight ball. Billiards, buddy. A game you guys in England play so well.’

Henman – ‘My bad, John. Bowled, lock, stock and barrel. Let’s grab a beer at the Wimbledon pub. Oh, and look who is here! Ben Stokes, as I live and breathe. Taking a break from the cricket? Ben, let me introduce you to John McEnroe. John, Ben. Ben, John.’

Stokes – ‘An absolute honour meeting the great, all-swearing McEnroe. May I take a selfie with you and Tim?’

McEnroe – ‘No problem. Any friend of Tim’s. And what do you do for a living, Ben?’

There can be no snappy answer to that amazing question. Stunned, England’s celebrated cricket captain and Tim Henman hurriedly disappear into the milling crowds while McEnroe is left bemused and wondering if Tim has vanished with this stranger, Ben Woakes or Stokes or Foakes or whoever, without paying for the beer.

Cheapskates.

*Unseeded Vondrousova of the Czech Republic shocked Tunisian crowd favourite Ons Jabeur to win the women’s singles title.