I very much doubt that I was the only boy who ever dreamed of scoring the winning goals in All-Ireland finals, F.A. Cup finals and for good measure, the winning try in a triple crown decider.
Of course I never imagined I would do all this Gaisce on the one weekend. No, my dreams followed the seasons. I’d score my try for Ireland in March, because that was when Rugby was on the TV. Then, as the soccer season reached its climax, I’d pop over to Leeds United and meet Eddie Grey’s perfect cross on the volley and snatch the F.A. Cup from Chelsea. Later in the autumn, I would repeat my last gasp goal act for the Cork hurlers and footballers.
In between those heroic dreams there was the summer; the season of no school. This meant that there was no time for daydreaming. Summer was the time for doing, not just thinking about it. By late June everyone on Gardiners Hill and Ashburton was stone mad on Tennis. We played it because it was on the telly. All we needed was a rubber ball, something that resembled a racquet (we always called it a ‘tennis bat’) and some chalk.
After that, it was serve the ball and let the arguments begin. No school of theologians ever argued so intensely about the number of angles that fit on the head of pin, as we did about whether or not the ball went over our imaginary net. But the intensity did not last. The first rainy day after the end of Wimbledon washed away our courts of chalk, and we lost our passion for tennis for another year.
Tennis is an extraordinary sport with an incredibly loyal fan base. Even though it consistently attracts the stars and celebrities from all walks of life, it only grabs the attention of mainstream sports-fandom every 10 years or so.
There are number of likely reasons for this. Firstly, Tennis has gone through several convulsions over the past 40 years. It changed from being an amateur sport to a professional one. This allowed in the riff-raff, and it took the tennis authorities a decade or so to understand that the rules of etiquette are not the same as the rules of tennis.
Secondly, not long after the authorities understood that it was better for business to hear John McEnroe say “F**K!” rather than Stan Smith say “Oh darn!” they allowed technology, in the form of graphite racquets and faster balls, to almost strangle the game. During the 1990s, male tennis became a game for lanky giants who could serve the ball at 140km per hour. At that time the term “rally”, (defined as “an extended series of shots between players”) was dropped from the tennis lexicon.
Finally, tennis is a ‘ball and stick’ sport and like all ‘ball and stick’ sports (hurling, golf, cricket etc.) there are rarely more than a handful of top-class exponents in the world at one time. Over the years the game has tended to be dominated by one or two players. When the top player happened to be someone like Andre Agassi that was great, Agassi was a character on and off the court, and people became interested.
On the other hand, when the top tennis player was Ivan Lendl or, worse still, Mats Wilander (remember him?) there was no charisma and the game of tennis retreated into its shell.
About 10 years ago, women were playing all the best tennis. There were no obvious winners of the big women’s tournaments. The shot rallies were long and often exciting. Then along came the Williams sisters. They took physical preparation to a new level, and began to dominate the major tournaments to the point of tedium.
As women’s tennis plunged into banality a new crop of heroes began to emerge in the male game. Firstly, there was Roger Federer. A sublime player who possesses both grace and class. He could have dominated the game on his own for a decade. If that happened he would probably have killed the game as a spectacle.
The world of tennis should be grateful that just as Federer reached the zenith of his powers, Rafa Nadal emerged as a challenger. Nadal was not an overnight sensation; he more or less crept up on Federer. First he conquered Federer on the European courts of clay, later he did it on the artificial courts of the US and Australia and finally on the super-fast grass courts of England.
Roger Federer had a genuine challenger to his greatness. After their 2008 epic Wimbledon final the Federal-Nadal debate spawned more divisive opinions than any rivalry since Ali-Frazier in the boxing ring. It was about that time too that two other players emerged from the pack. Andy Murray of Scotland and the Serbian, Novak Djokovic. Murray seems to be on a slow burning fuse. It is hard to know if this fuse will detonate Murray to victory in a Major tournament or will eventually fizzle out.
Djokovic is a different matter. After last Sunday’s victory in the Australian Open final against Nadal he has proved himself to be the best player in the world. He is better than Nadal, better than Federer and better than Murray. But only just. The differences between them are so small that there is no guarantee Djokovic would beat any of them in a three set match. As we saw last week, it is likely to take him more than five hours to complete a victory in a five set match. Both semi-finals as well as the final of the Australian Open were five-set thrillers. Tennis, or at least men’s tennis with four potential champions, is once again in a golden age.
When tennis is played at this level it is a gladiatorial sport. Just like there is nowhere to hide in the boxing ring, there is nowhere to hide on the tennis court. It is mano o mano. Only the toughest will survive and every doubt, every negative thought and every error will be punished.
Back in the day, when we fought about the height of the imaginary net, we never dreamed of being tennis players. We barely knew the names of Rod Laver, Ken Rosewall et al because, once Wimbledon finished, they disappeared off the TV. By the time we were back in school looking out the window, they were gone from our minds.
I enjoyed that time when I scored international tries, and F.A. Cup goals but I think, if I could go back to the land of the daydream, I would add another chapter. It would be at Wimbledon. Roger Federer would send a rocket across the court. I would bit my lower lip (just like Nadal), take off across the baseline and execute the most amazing drop shot that lands just over the net. Federer would charge forward in a valiant effort to return the ball. He would fail and I’d win Wimbledon. I probably could too… if I were in fifth class again.