It’s over for another year and the most surprising thing – even more than the marathon game between Mahut and Isner – there was no rain. Not one raindrop. The one thing that I say I’m going to put my money on, and never do, finally happened this year. They’ve even put a damn roof on Centre Court. The rumours that the South Africans came over and stole all our precious rain in order encourage a European winner of the World Cup to kick-start the European economy are true.
But what of Wimbledon 2010? Most years the same thing happens. We get all patriotic and optimistic, it rains, Murray loses, and then Federer wins. See you all next year. It changed this summer though.
It started with THAT game. Began on a Tuesday, ended on a Thursday, and lasted the entire Wednesday in between. My first knowledge of it was whilst down the pub. Through bleary eyes I saw the score at 39-39 all in the fifth set, and merely thought my country was deceiving me and the BBC was displaying deuce wrongly. How very tipsy and wrong I was.
It also sparked open the debate on whether the fifth set should have a tie-break led by killjoy himself, John McEnroe. Fans want to see records broken not just the boring same old ending. I thought you might understand that the masses want entertaining, not boring to sleep Mac? Who would have ever heard of John Isner and Nicholas Mahut had they not had this game. It’s a Cinderella story I tells ya! In addition who wouldn’t want to be betting in-play on that match. Fixated for hours, losing all those pounds on an unlikely break of serve…which never happened.
You thought that was the tip of the iceberg…you were wrong! Enter Victor Hanescu, spitting and spluttering his way to an infamous exit from the Championships. The Romanian should have patented that spitting act though. Cristiano Ronaldo did his best to emulate him, and Hanescu had no royalties to collect.
Although if there’s one thing the tournament did show us, it’s that Serena Williams could hold her own with (the) men. In reducing Vera Zvonareva to tears, she showed that brawn gets its way over beauty, and got me thinking that I could use her booty to rest my dining room table on whilst enjoying afternoon tea. If you feel like retiring Serena, you know where to find me.
And then there was the men’s final, minus the blazer, swagger, and beautiful groundstrokes of Sir Roger. Instead we were made to put up with the humble Rafa Nadal, picking his thong from his crack prior to every point. Thank god it only lasted a mere two hours. I had the sick bowl at the ready, and that wasn’t down to a heavy one the night before.
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