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| Fred Perry |
The first
game of the first set is fraught with tension and the Scot comes out on top
breaking the Swiss’ serve and installing hope in the partisan crowd that the
scrawny ginger man, whose appearance defies all notions of a sportsman, could
repeat the heroics of the late, great Fred Perry, now immortalised in bronze at
SW19. Federer’s touch resembles that of Jack
the Ripper in the early stages of the match as he skews shots into the stand,
giving the cameramen an excuse to focus in on future monarch Kate Middleton and
her sister Pippa, who sit like two porcelain dolls being undressed by the eyes
of the entire male population.
The players
take a well-earned rest after a limb shuddering eleven minutes of tennis. The
score stands at 2-1 to the Brit who munches provocatively on a banana as my
mind wanders momentarily to the issue of health and safety; why when serves often
exceed 130 miles per hour are the line judges not issued with hard hats as
standard? The players take their places back on the court and immediately Roger
Federer breaks back as Andy fails to hit the furry green thing over the net
which turns out to be quite a vital part of the game of tennis.
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| A Sight to Behold |
Centre
caught resembles more of a theatre than a Sports Stadium, packed to the rafters
with celebrities, politicians and Sue Barker’s sexual conquests whilst Boris
Becker talks of unforced errors and unpaid child support payments from the
commentary box. The fans of inadequate
social standing, unable to get a ticket for the feature event, settle for a
place on Henman Hill, possibly the only geographical landmark in the country to
be named after such an undeserving figure.
As a football fan I find the silence that tennis is played out in
unusual and rather eerie, there are no chants about the sexual persuasion of
the umpire and the smell of stale beer, fags and despair is replaced by the
pungent aroma of the on-looking Victoria Beckham’s new perfume. The first set
ends with the inhabitants of centre court on their feet applauding Andy Murray
as he holds his serve to win the set, fist clenched he heads to his bag and
rewards himself with another erotically consumed banana, as his coach Ivan
Lendl sits motionless in his seat, amid the ensuing chaos, paralysed with
either nerves or boredom.
Beating
Roger Federer in a set has the same effect as poking a sleeping lion with sharp
stick; it makes him angry. In a blur of
floppy hair and thumping aces, Federer holds serve before half of the capacity
crowd have even returned their backsides to their padded seats. The set goes with serve, each player
searching hard for a break in the monotony, but it evades both of them. Games pass by in the blink of an eye in a
flurry of thunderous serves and limp wristed returns; a tie break looms until
Federer musters a set point out through a combination power and intricate
craftsmanship. One set all.
Andy
Murray’s mother looks like an elongated version of Anne Robinson, she sits
stone faced, eating a deep fried mars bar shouting sporadic words of encouragement
at her toiling son, covering the back of Ivan Lendl’s head with a spray of deep
fried confection. The heavens open. Cue
a scene of frenzied chaos as flocks of people wearing turf coloured jackets
storm onto the court, disassemble the net and pull the covers across in record
time. The players are ushered hurriedly
off court as if they might melt in the rain and the coverage cuts to the studio
as the British summer rears its ugly head outside.
 |
| Mental Breakdown |
The players eventually
return to the court and exchange gentle shots with each other, like friends
sharing a rally in the height of summer, before battle recommences under the
engineering marvel that is the 80million pound roof on Centre Court. Henman Hill is now a rainbow canvas of umbrellas,
their owners gazing unerringly at the big screen, entranced by Murray and Federer,
hard at work. The third set’s sixth game
is a turning point, lasting just shy of 20 minutes and consisting of six break
points and ten deuces, it is a test of the players’ mental capability as well
as physical stature. The mammoth game
ends in heart break for the Scot who looks weary as he fires a backhand listlessly
into the net. The players walk to their seats,
one rather more spritely than the other.
Murray fails to recover his composure and Federer takes a smug bite from
a Toblerone content in the knowledge that he leads two sets to one.
The fourth
set is a drab affair lightened only by the insistence of drunken fools – who no
doubt climbed into Centre Court, ticketless – punctuating the thick silence
with slurred ‘Come on Andys’. If the
Scot doesn’t win this match at least the Murray genes look set to take a
drastic up-turn in fortunes; his girlfriend sits angelically providing the
antidote to his mothers’ stern, chiselled features. Federer serves and with a puff of chalk and a
flailing of Andy Murray’s racket, moves one point away from being crowned the
winner of Wimbledon once more… The
inevitable is delayed momentarily as Federer strikes the net before Murray
fires the ball long signalling the end of the tournament.
 |
| Champion....again |
Federer
collapses to the ground, hands clasped to his face as he attempts to comprehend
his achievement amid a mixture of disappointed gasps, polite applause and utter
reverence for this genius of Centre Court.
The presentation party assembles in familiarly efficient fashion and the
players are awarded their trophies before Sue Barker thrusts a microphone in
the face of the defeated Scot, who attempts valiantly to form coherent sentences
in the midst of a mental breakdown. He
thanks his fans, coaches and family in a speech that coincides with the release
of two and a half weeks of pent up emotion.
His words are forced through supressed tears, making it sound like he is
delivering his speech from a massage chair.
Murray takes his final bow and traipses off Centre Court sparking a mass
exodus from the grandstands as flocks of tweed clad spectators head for home.
With Fred
Perry’s record stretching yet another year and Andy Murray visibly damaged by
the defeat, there is only one question that remains, why on earth does the
Wimbledon trophy have a pineapple on it?
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