There was a moment, during the tennis match between Kevin Anderson and John Isner on Friday, when I feared it might actually go on for ever. I even began to suspect that we were merely being shown the same six games on a loop, like in Speed. It wasn’t so much a tennis match as a feat of endurance, for players and viewers alike. Quality-wise there were better matches on offer this year, but none had the mesmerising, gladiatorial quality of this one – boxing with tennis rackets. Would there be a break of serve? Like hell there would, not until both players had had all the energy thrashed out of them by their own relentless bludgeoning.
No less entrancing was the subplot: Anderson might have emerged the eventual winner of the tennis, but Isner had the upper hand in the Battle of the Fistpumps. Where the South African opted for the private and personal pump – a celebration of a point won and an exhortation to repeat the task – Isner took the whole thing up a level. The chest-thump, the short walkabout, the shouted ‘come on!’, and then the main feature: the fist itself – held up in front of the face while mouthing sweet and defiant nothings towards his People. Up in the box, his Entourage Leader and de facto Dickhead of the Fortnight Justin Gimelstob – all blue suit, shades and chiselled jaw – stood up at every significant moment to give a rigid salute of triumph, holding the pose in particularly stilted manner, like a Roman emperor posing for a statue. Sporting celebration as performance art.
Meanwhile, in the locker room, Djokovic and Nadal polished off the Frasier boxset and embarked on the Ring cycle, knowing they had a while to wait yet.
But all goodish things come to an end, and when the moment finally arrived, Anderson briefly looked as if reaching his first Wimbledon final was the realisation of all his worst fears, the words ‘Oh shit, I’ve got to do this all again on Sunday’ appearing unbidden in his head. Wisely, he forewent any celebration, but spent his remaining energy by dragging himself to the other side of the net to give his friend and adversary a long consoling hug – a heartening sight in these days of universal brouhaha and confrontation.
After the Anderson/Isner marathon, the BBC chose to show a rather repetitive film which seemed solely to feature Jelena Djokovic reacting to missed break points. Sure, they interspersed it with the occasional shot of her husband playing tennis, but it was clear where their real interest lay. Stop it, sports broadcasters – just stop it.
Much better, for those who bore easily between games, were the slow-motion butterflies. Boris Becker, unbowed by his extraordinary Central African Republic episode, was in fulsome form, treating us, among other things, to his idiosyncratic pronunciation of the word ‘Wimbledon’.
‘Liddle budderflaah dere. Vod a boodifull ting! Only at Wmpltn.’
They cut to Bjorn Borg, his mahogany and chrome colouring nowadays making him resemble nothing more than an expensive executive desk ornament. Sight of Borg at these events is a reliable time machine for those of a certain age. He won his first Wmpltn in 1976, a year inevitably prominent in our thoughts as we contemplate dying lawns and forest fires while openly praying for rain. They were the days of wooden rackets, Dan Maskell (‘ooh I say what a dream of a volleh’) and players sipping Robinson’s barley water while standing (STANDING) at the umpire’s chair between games. Not a fistpump in sight.
Better, simpler times? It’s tempting to think so. Tempting, but wrong. They were neither better nor worse, just different.
And if that makes you feel a bit gloomy, here’s a butterfly to offer balance and succour. Not from Wmpltn, but West Norwood. Vod a boodifull ting!
