Thirteenth of July. Thirty-nine years ago today, it was the most beautiful sunny, hot day; a day full of optimism and unity; a day which would go down in history. Everyone, alive, remembers where he/she was that day … Live Aid. When summers were summers and people cared.
Yes, depressing. I had no idea until I typed in the date. Feels like a lifetime ago – and it was. Anyway, finally sitting at my desk looking out over the garden, it is evening, grey and raining. I suppose I should be grateful that my legs still work considering that I have spent the best part of two whole weeks sitting watching tennis. We have a drinks fridge stocked up with Lanson – courtesy of Becca – but she is back in Italy, for now, and I am home alone. Not the same watching tennis on one’s own and even I can’t crack open a bottle of Lanson on my own! So, it was that I watched today’s Women’s Final on my own. My phone was pinging as I shared the excitement with friends but there was nobody here jumping up and down or filling my glass. Firstly, though, I must apologise to Paulini. I should have known by now that my supporting her would ensure she lost! How I love her fight, her energy and her sunny demeanour; a breath of fresh air, as they say. Not one for the women’s game – as regular readers will know – it seems there has been a dearth of characters for years and as for the names … no hope! Until Thursday, when I happened to watch the semi-final between Paulini and Vekic. The diminutive Italian with the courage and heart of a lion won me over and I was invested. Wow! It was anybody’s game today and, once again, Jasmine Paulini gave it her all. Equally courageous in defeat – the mark of a man, in my book – she is one to watch, and I will. A re-kindled interest in women’s tennis, who would have thought? The Williams sisters have gone – at long last – let’s hear it for Jasmine Paulini!
Wimbledon. The watershed of the year for me. Something to look forward to, and then it’s gone. I can’t bear to think of this time tomorrow. It was ever thus. Wimbledon has been a staple in my life for as long as I can remember. Once upon a time, it marked the end of term and the start of the long summer holidays. Freedom. Fun. Carefree days in the sun … Borg, McEnroe, Connors and Nastase; Chris Evert and her inevitable battles with Navratilova. Moreover, the wonderful voice of Dan Maskell – and his demand for etiquette! It wasn’t unspoken, be that he was happy to voice his opinion on the outbursts of McEnroe! Borg, on the other hand, was deserving of his praise – his quiet determination and gentle manners often lauded. Wimbledon was a different place when he was at the helm. I still love to see the old faded footage and to hear his commentary … Dan Maskell, the voice of summer.
Sadly, that was then and this is now. A different world. A different time. Wimbledon has fought long and hard to maintain its elegance, its etiquette, its style but there have been chinks in its armour for some time. Money. Crude money. Quintessentially English, even that cherished bubble of class which is SW19 is no longer sacrosanct. The plethora of corporate seats ensure that the real tennis fans are denied as clients are wined and dined in hospitality, no interest in tennis, rather just the kudos of being there. The alcohol flows while the coveted seats remain empty … The alcohol flows and ‘the crowd’ – as opposed to the genteel audience of old – becomes ever more raucous. Shouting, booing, clapping double faults and errors. Unsportsmanlike behaviour. Do they care? Do they know any different? Money talks now and they have it. Once again, it took Djokovic to call them out; to highlight the disrespect which has seeped into the stands – and he was right to do so. A man of principle, courage and integrity, he is to be saluted rather than booed by the ignorant and, in truth, those dwarfed by his intellect and strength.
Somehow, it felt as though the colour had been drained from Wimbledon this year. Bereft of summer, the roofs of Centre Court and Court One have been closed almost daily as the gloom pervades and the rain hammers down. Disheartening. Joyless. Black and white where, once, there were vibrant hues enhanced in the golden sunlight … A metaphor for life today, one might say. The Guard, too, has Changed, marking the passing of time and leaving many behind. Oh, that it were for the better … For my part, I am grateful for the halcyon days courtesy of a gentler world. The days of elegance, style and manners; of wooden rackets and one coach! No agents, no physios, no psychologists or chefs … no teams and, funnily enough, no injuries! Moreover, no sponsorship overkill just because I can! Young players taking expensive watches from their bags or changing their shoes before the after-match interview – Alcaraz. Vulgar. Yes, that’s the word. Something the All England Lawn Tennis & Croquet Club must surely recognise and endeavour to contain. After all, SW19 is a bubble in time and should remain so.
Sunday, 14th July. There it is. On the day that we received the news of an attempt on Trump’s life at a rally in Butler, Pennsylvania, Wimbledon is over. The flattest of finals, a fitting end to a fortnight of little sparkle. I did crack open the Lanson in a bid to cheer myself up – and will Djokovic on – but it didn’t taste the same. Djokovic failed to find his magic faced with Alcaraz and his team! In constant conversation with his box – they should never have lifted that ban – I hate the way triumphant players, now, insist on leaving the court and climbing up to their team before the prize giving. Initiated by Pat Cash in 1987, I fail to remember Dan Maskell’s reaction – although I can imagine. Unfortunately, it has become the thing to do, Andy Murry, himself, following suit. Djokovic? I don’t think so. A class of his own and today, once more, so magnanimous in defeat. Life deals some cruel blows but it is how one deals with those blows which defines the man. Djokovic is his own man and an example to one and all. Donald Trump? Defiant. A fighter and, as demonstrated in Butler, truly courageous. I watched into the early hours as the news broke and it terrified the living daylights out of me! This is a world full of hate. A world on the edge. There is no escaping reality and, more than ever, we need someone with the guts of Donald Trump, and the belief. May he stay safe.
I wear a silver bangle every day – as does Becca – both of which we bought at Wimbledon in 2016. Life was particularly difficult for us that year and those bangles were a ‘must have’. Ralph Lauren, Limited Editions, at a time when I was embroiled with lawyers, I remember pooling all our funds to buy them. No regrets. They have never been repeated. The inscription on those silver bangles mirrors the words of Rudyard Kipling’s poem, ‘If’, which are to be found above the door through which the players enter onto Centre Court. No greater life lesson. Ask Djokovic!
‘If you can meet with triumph and disaster
And treat those two impostors just the same …’
Rudyard Kipling, ‘If’.
This is Trish, signing off.
