To Ivan Lendl, with love

I am not a big fan of lawn tennis and watch an occasional game on TV when there’s nothing better to do. I used to follow the game many years ago, but gave up ever since my personal favorites Ivan Lendl and Chris Evert-Lloyd retired and went into oblivion…I was briefly impressed by Pete Sampras but stopped following him too since he was winning all of them. I like to cheer a bit of an underdog so that my mood can swing from low when he’s losing to ecstasy when he wins. If there are no low points, the ecstasies tend to get blunted and this is what happed between me and Pete. I gave him up when his victories started to sound like statistics. But I still remember with fondness his extra-long short pants (not what figure of speech is this?). Having said this, I still make it a point to watch the Wimbledon ladies and gentlemen’s singles finals, whenever I can. I simply love the ambience at Wimbledon. The lush green surface, the traditional surroundings in dark green and mauve, the disciplined ball boys and girls (The BBGs), the players in compulsory all-white outfit and the way the players are addressed to on scoreboards. I love to see the BBGs scoot from one end to the other and across the court, swiftly and deftly, and the way they offer the towels and the balls to the players. I also like the very considerate audience and their measured applause; the umpire, and his clout. ‘Silence’ he’d say to the slightest murmur and you could hear a pin drop. The late June rain often disrupts the games but it only reminds you of where the games are being played, and the surety of the seasons there. The rain breaks are gleefully lapped up by the TV commentators, often former players themselves, to get nostalgic about their own times on the centre court. Finally, I like the way the Duke and the Duchess carry themselves during the ceremonies after the game. How they make it a point to chat with the BBGs lined up on either side of their walkway, and how they spend more time chatting up with the runner-up rather than with the champion himself.

But whenever I do watch a Wimbledon final, I’m remembered of the bitter fact that my favorite Ivan Lendl could never win a final here. Perhaps I come back each year only to mourn this fact. Ivan, I still love you…