I feel a strange kinship with The All England Lawn Tennis Club. It’s been raining incessantly here, and it’s been raining incessantly there too. Half an hour into any game, down comes the rain. Then the officials scurry around covering the court, and a whole bunch of white-clothed tennis players who should have been running around on the grass are left to switch on their iPods and meditate about life. It doesn’t really matter. A rainy spell doesn’t mean the tennis disintegrates, and let’s face it, all those promotional ads showing the strawberries-and-cream do help you stay put.
At the end of the day, Wimbledon still rules. It has a funny name, though. I can’t imagine why anyone would want to come up with a name like Wimbledon. Leave out the “don”, and the fact remains that the first part of the word is, quite simply, “wimble”. But in spite of (or perhaps because of) the name, Wimbledon remains my favourite tennis tournament – heightened all the more by the fact that it is clearly Roger Federer’s territory.
My attempts at making Roger win the French Open included much finger-wagging and air-punching, not to mention arguing about his unforced errors with my father and waving a mineral water bottle about animatedly. It wasn’t witchcraft. He lost miserably, and I hated him for a whole week afterwards. But we eventually made up, and here I am, wagging my fingers as usual. And I can’t help but beam as he stalks about the court like a wiry panther (let’s ignore that beige outfit), turns some pirouettes, floats about on the grass, flourishes his racket, and creates poetry. He makes a game which involves so much sweating, running around and straining of limbs look ridiculously, incredibly easy.
This is my toast to you, Roger. Thanks for making me actually take to a sport and promote it obsessively. Thanks for making me add another note to my wish list – I want to watch Roger play at Wimbledon before I die, and eat the strawberries-and-cream while I’m at it. And above all, during an era when most other players’ game strategy consists of getting the ball over the net by hitting it as hard as is humanly possible, thanks for making tennis look beautiful.
At the end of the day, Wimbledon still rules. It has a funny name, though. I can’t imagine why anyone would want to come up with a name like Wimbledon. Leave out the “don”, and the fact remains that the first part of the word is, quite simply, “wimble”. But in spite of (or perhaps because of) the name, Wimbledon remains my favourite tennis tournament – heightened all the more by the fact that it is clearly Roger Federer’s territory.
My attempts at making Roger win the French Open included much finger-wagging and air-punching, not to mention arguing about his unforced errors with my father and waving a mineral water bottle about animatedly. It wasn’t witchcraft. He lost miserably, and I hated him for a whole week afterwards. But we eventually made up, and here I am, wagging my fingers as usual. And I can’t help but beam as he stalks about the court like a wiry panther (let’s ignore that beige outfit), turns some pirouettes, floats about on the grass, flourishes his racket, and creates poetry. He makes a game which involves so much sweating, running around and straining of limbs look ridiculously, incredibly easy.
This is my toast to you, Roger. Thanks for making me actually take to a sport and promote it obsessively. Thanks for making me add another note to my wish list – I want to watch Roger play at Wimbledon before I die, and eat the strawberries-and-cream while I’m at it. And above all, during an era when most other players’ game strategy consists of getting the ball over the net by hitting it as hard as is humanly possible, thanks for making tennis look beautiful.
And when you win, I shall throw my cushion into the air with a hurrah.
2 kindred spirits have swallowed my rambling:
i love the way he walks.. its quite a wonder..really.
the sports I like are golf, rugby, discus throwing (and tape measure extending). they're never shown on tv, so I don't have to fight my brothers for the remote when they're on.
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