Witnessing Wimbledon

Since I was 21, tennis has been central part of my life. This year, I have turned 65. A lot has happened in the intervening years:  Marriages, divorces, children, wooden racquets, metal racquets, short shorts, long shorts, white balls, yellow balls, watching, learning, coaching, and finally, appreciating all of these things.

Living in Florida and turning 65 (the equivalent of having a Bar Mitzvah, since they treat you like a “boy” until then) and watching Wimbledon since Arthur Ashe brilliantly crafted an underdog victory against the sensational Jimmy Connors, champions and runner ups have taken to Center Court to compete for the tennis equivalent of the Holy Grail.

Occasionally, personal experiences coincide with chronology. Sitting watching the scores of the Gentlemen’s Doubles, I watched my friend Scott Lipsky reach the quarterfinals, losing to Bob & Mike Bryan in five sets. I watched one of my former student’s son, Noah Rubin, struggle in the juniors, and I watched a titanic struggle between my hero, and perhaps one of the sport’s greatest players and ambassadors, Roger Federer, and a man who carried a nation on his shoulders, Andy Murray … the veteran against the challenger.

It has been a tough year. Normally, I would have been on the phone with my mom, who loved to watch, but never played. Sadly, this year she not here to share the recap; such is the circle of life. I am trying to balance skills diminished by time with the untarnished joy of hitting a ball within the lines.

Unlike New York, in Florida the sun shines most of the time, but for some of the people I compete against, they are more concerned with the lines on their faces than the lines on the court. It is not overly important, since none of us will be invited to compete at the All England Club anytime in the near future. That’s okay, the beer is just as refreshing after the match.

What a match. Racquets sound like rifles and the pace sounds like a racing pulse. HDTV makes it even more impressive. To hit one forehand, one pass or one dropshot like that would be tennis heaven. The only shot that I have in common with Roger Federer is the shank/frame that goes out by five yards. I hit that shot with more regularity than he does. Both certainly brought it all to Center Court. We all speak of Djokovic’s coverage, but it seems everything Roger hit in the first set came back with an answer.

For those of you too young to remember, Murray’s coach, Ivan Lendl, previously lived through the same crucifixion that the British press leveled against Tim Henman and, before today, Andy Murray. It is possible to be a half-step slower when you are carrying the dreams of the Commonwealth on your back. Of course, Federer had his own demons. How do you rise to the occasion against the calendar? Established, comfortable and a happily married father, how do you find the desire to dig into the corners, leap up for the millionth overhead of your career? As I settled down to watch, I thought of Johnny Mac, Bjorn Borg, Stephan Edberg, Jim Courier, Pete Sampras and all of the other greats who walked out to play on the equivalent of Lourdes for a tennis fan.

I also thought of all the high school players who came out and played on a far less famous venue, whether it be courts with cracks that qualify as fault zones against opponents who missed as many shots as they made, but still proved more than a challenge after a full day at school.

I think we witnessed two different matches in the 2012 Wimbledon Men’s Singles Finals—one with the roof open and one with the roof closed. My players didn’t concern themselves with roofs. They played in freezing cold (the outdoor season began in early March), howling winds, courts divided by metal fences rather than tennis nets, and opponents who wanted to win as badly as Murray and Federer. Believe me, I think that the last competitor who walked away a winner was a Federer in his own right, and his opponent was as crushed and deflated as Murray. 

Hope springs eternal in the human breast, and to see the true sportsmanship and compassion expressed by both men; their understanding of the human condition that says one will win, one will lose. What effort, the exertion, the athleticism exhibited and the ultimate handshake at the net, the pat on the back and the precious words exchanged at the net really say that there was no loser. Someone came in second. To me, this is why sports holds the promise of a metaphor for a life well lived.

Sorry I can’t call, mom.