We didn’t have a colour TV when I was a kid. My mother, a woman of modest means, was of the view that putting food on the table mattered more; it was a case of meals over monochrome. Her prudence meant my earliest experience of watching tennis – always assuming the signal held up – entailed squinting at a small, grainy screen on which the players appeared little bigger than wraith-like dots. It didn’t matter. I was transfixed. A life-long love affair had begun.
Tennis wasn’t shown much on British TV, so it was nearly always Wimbledon. And Wimbledon, at that time, meant Bjorn Borg. I remember being fascinated by the way his racket carved out long, loopy circles rather than moving in straight lines. I remember how – unlike Chris Evert, my other favourite player (what is it about ice-cool baseliners?) – he would immediately release his left hand from the racket after hitting his two-handed backhand, almost as if he’d forgetten it wasn’t supposed to be there. I remember the way he would never quite bring the ball and racket together when lining up his serve, his singular habit of blowing on his left hand between points, the way he retained the same enigmatic expression regardless of the score.
And then there was the uber-cool gear: the iconic pinstripe Fila shirt, the distinctive beige headband with its navy and red stripes, those sumptuous kangaroo-skin Diadora shoes that cost a fortune, felt like slippers and lasted all of five minutes on a hard court. To my young eyes, Borg seemed an almost otherworldly figure.
I wasn’t alone. Ilie Nastase used to call Borg a Martian. And as the Swede reeled off five straight Wimbledons on a surface seemingly ill-suited to his ferocious topspin game, frequently pulling off Houdini-like feats of escapology along the way, it did indeed feel like he was playing tennis from another planet.
Except, to me, Wimbledon wasn’t another planet. It was just down the road from where I lived. So I went, and I queued, and I watched, and the love affair continued.
As the years passed, new heroes replaced the old ones. Borg retired, but I grudgingly began to appreciate his two great nemeses, John McEnroe and Jimmy Connors. Then Boris Becker came along, with his booming serves and extraordinary athleticism and charismatic on-court persona. In 1986, I watched in horror from the old Court One gallery as Evert, undone by a combination of food poisoning and Kathy Jordan’s wickedly unorthodox sliced backhand, failed to make the semis of a major for the first time in her career. She would retire three years later, but only after a 15-year-old prodigy named Monica Seles had made the last four at Roland Garros in her first appearance in a major. The torch had been passed, much as it has been ever since.
I mention these things because lately I’ve been wondering what makes the ostensibly bizarre spectacle of people chasing a fuzzy yellow ball around a 78ft-long rectangle so strangely compelling. Part of it is to do with constancy, I think. Life changes; tennis anchors us in time, perhaps without even realising it. You might not remember where you were this time last week but, if you like tennis, you probably recall where you were on 6 July 2008, the day Rafael Nadal overcame Roger Federer to claim his first Wimbledon title in arguably the greatest men’s match ever played. How about the French Open final of 1992, when Steffi Graf saved five match points in an epic 91-minute final set only for Seles to prevail on the sixth for her third successive triumph in Paris? Or Gustavo Kuerten etching a giant heart in the clay of Court Philippe Chatrier in 2001? Or that unforgettable summer afternoon in 1998 when the late Jana Novotna turned tears to triumph by finally lifting the Wimbledon trophy that had twice eluded her?
Those moments, and countless others before and since, revealed something fundamental about the characters involved. And that’s another important thing about tennis: it shows you the person underneath. The same might be said of any sport, of course. Yet there is something unique about the highly individual nature of tennis, the way it forces its protagonists to confront and overcome mental demons – self-doubt, fear of failure or success – without the support of team-mates or the solace of a half-time pep talk from the manager. It is not new to remark that in that respect, in pitting one person again another and letting them go at it until there’s only one left standing, tennis is only really comparable to boxing (hopefully minus the bruises).
But tennis is not just about the professional game – certainly not if you have ever played. It belongs to us all. Personal memories and experiences coalesce around the sport; it seeps into the fabric of our lives. Tennis might be a childhood memory – the first time you hit in the park with your mum or dad, perhaps, or your first lesson with a coach or mentor. It might be a weekly knock with a friend, or the glue that holds your entire social circle together. It might be a source of solace in a tough moment, or the foundation of your self-confidence.
Whatever it is that makes you like tennis enough to visit a website called Love Game Tennis, you can be sure we feel the same. And whether you’re after the latest news, a preview of the next big tournament, live game-by-game coverage or just a casual read on the train home, we’ve got you covered.
We welcome you most warmly.
Les Roopanarine
Editor