Tales of Tennis

As published in my column, 'The Blog Roll' in the June edition of Sport Elizabeth.

It’s the mid-year school break, it’s winter, it’s 07.30, and there is a ‘hoot’ at the gate. It’s Uncle Reuben dropping off Wesley for our next five-set extravaganza at the Victoria Park High School tennis courts in Union Road, Walmer. These days, if you hooted anywhere near my gate at 07.30 while I was supposed to be on holiday, you’d most likely befriend a brick. Not those days. In fact (and I never did tell Wesley this), I would have been awake and up since 05.30, warming up and stretching in the back garden. While wolfing down a bowl of corn flakes (post toasties) I’d watch videos (yes, as in VHS or Beta) of Wimbledon highlights to psyche myself up for the ‘very serious’ match ahead. We did this every single weekday during the June/July holidays for about three years – except when it rained. Then it was devastating for us; sort of like a death in the family.

There were no half measures when it came to our do-or-die tennis matches. We’d take it in turns to buy brand new balls once a week. There really was nothing better than that loud ‘crack’ of the brand new tennis ball tin opening and the strong, sweet smell that bounced out. We even did the whole nylon tracksuit thing; remember those? Mine matched my tennis shoes and my sweatband – Donnay if I remember correctly. We were pros. We must have been, as we made the Wimbledon Men’s Final every June/July weekday for about 3 years. We even broke strings now and then. And it all worked out perfectly because we’d be finished our umpteenth ‘Wimbledon Men’s Final’ by around noon every day when we’d walk back to my place around the corner, share a loaf of bread, a block of cheese, six eggs, a packet of tomatoes, and plonk our sweaty selves down in front of the television just in time to watch the day’s play at Wimbledon. And then, at about 17.30 Uncle Reuben would hoot at the gate again, and Wesley would go home. Well, admittedly, only for 14 hours.

Where have all the ‘professional’ tennis players gone? And I do not accept ‘Nintendo Wii’ as an answer! Driving past those tennis courts in Union Road these days is depressing. There are only four of them left and there is never anybody using them during the holidays. Now I don’t know if the courts are inaccessible to the public, but even so, surely pupils from the school are able to use them. In the early 90s if we didn’t arrive at those courts by 8 o’clock, we would most likely have to wait – all six of them would already have been taken.

Watching tennis back then was different for me because I was ‘familiar’ with all the tennis players: Stefan Edberg, Pete Sampras, Goran Ivanišević, Ivan Lendl, Andre Agassi, Jim Courier (although I never liked him much for some reason), Steffi Graf, Monica Seles, Jennifer Capriati, and probably my favourite, the Argentine Gabriela Sabatini. Depending on my mood on any particular day at the courts with Wesley, I’d ‘be’ one of them and do my best to mimic their style and on-court antics. I think in hindsight the only reason I developed a double-handed backhand is because Agassi used to do it so effectively. It worked for me too. At least I think it did, and even if it didn’t, I would have convinced myself that it did. All those tennis players lived in my head and we were friends. I even had dreams of going to the Nick Bollettieri Tennis Academy in Florida.

In fact, while I’m on the players, I think the most exhilarating match I have ever seen (to this day) will still be the 1992 Wimbledon Men’s Final between Agassi and Ivanišević. Much like the Rugby World Cup Final three years later, when the big question was how the Springboks were going to handle Jonah Lomu, the question here was how Agassi was going to cope with the 1.93m Croatian superstar who had so far demolished everyone in his path with his almost unplayable serve. The build-up was massive: Both players were attempting their first Grand Slam title, and Ivanišević, with almost 200 tournament aces going into the final, was by far the favourite. Agassi eventually prevailed, 6-7, 6-4, 6-4, 1-6, 6-4. Ivanišević served 39 aces in the match, while Agassi only managed 37 throughout the whole tournament. I reckon it was Agassi’s lethal cross court double-handed backhand that did it. I convinced myself of it. After two more failed attempts at the final, Ivanišević had his day nine years later in 2001 when he defeated Australian Patrick Rafter in another five-set thriller. The Croat took the final set 9-7.

Now I know what you’re probably thinking: The epic 2009 Wimbledon Men’s Final when Roger Federer beat long time rival, Andy Roddick, by taking the fifth set 16-14, was far more exciting than the 1992 Men’s Final. Well, it probably was, but what made the 1992 final far bigger for me is that I ‘knew’ those players. I shouted at the television all the way through.

At the time of writing, the 2010 French Open at Roland Garros had just got underway. The time of year I used to love and live for, I now secretly dread. Why? Simple: aeiou. Yes, those are the five vowels. I’ve placed them there so I can have a good look at them. Over the next few weeks as I sweat my way through my afternoon tennis updates at Algoa FM, vowels will be a rare luxury; like water in the Eastern Cape. And that, ladies and gentlemen, is where I was going with this elaborate tale of tennis balls, parachute jackets, fried eggs and sweatbands. Trvsjytsxostrjykova – sorry, just practising.