Oh, not all that Wimbledon nonsense that’s going on at the moment. Emma Raducanu in tears (again). Who’s wearing “what” bling, and how much it cost. Arguments about the electronic line-calling system, and the sad exit from the courts of the old style, beautifully dressed, “line judges” in favor of an electronic eye that already seems to have fallen foul (see what I did there) of its reputation far more often than the humans did in any given year.
And, big-footing them all, the figure of eighty-one year old Billie Jean King, who–when she can spare time away from her new BFF, Melinda French Gates–has been making the rounds and urging Wimbledon to get rid of its traditions, for it to allow for the shameless promotion of sports gear and merch, and–most important in her eyes–the elimination of the discreet, decent, all-white clothing requirement for the players. She’d like to replace it with something more along the lines of NFL jerseys–different colors, with names and numbers on the back so that those viewers who are too stupid to distinguish one player from another will have an explicit visual cue:
There’s a match that comes on, you sit down, and you look – let’s say it’s television – who’s who? Tennis people say: ‘Well, the mark is next to their name’ [to indicate who is serving]. I shouldn’t have to look at a mark, I shouldn’t have to look at anything. I should know [who’s who]. My sport drives me nuts,” she sighs, burying her head in her hands.
The above quote comes from a Telegraph article which swiftly and rather bizarrely ties King’s concern to her “lifelong [campaigning] for social justice and equality.” And goes on from there.
I don’t really know what King’s beef is here. After all, don’t the American stations who cover NFL games (where the players do have distinct uniforms, with numbers and names imprinted on the back), still indicate with some sort of “mark” at the bottom of the screen, who’s got the ball, how many more downs, and how much further they have to go to get the first down, and what the actual score is?
Beloved sister, who follows Wimbledon far more assiduously than I do these days, finds Billie Jean’s concern trolling to be laughable. She has no trouble telling the players apart, and said as much:
I love that the players are all in white. When my husband joins me partway through a match, I love explaining who is who.
“The chap winning is the one who keeps pulling his underpants out of his bottom.” “The other one is the one who keeps pulling at his crotch.” “No, that’s the one who wipes his nose on his sleeve.” “She’s the one who grunts…”
LOL. Such true little vignettes for those who’ve watched more that a few moments of Nadal, Alcaraz, and almost any woman over the last couple of decades.
Back in the day, things were different. Players restrained themselves. And those (almost fanatical on my part) are the times I do remember.
Eighty-two years ago today, British tennis player Mark Cox was born. He made an indelible name for himself among tennis fans everywhere in 1968, when–in the new “open” era of men’s tennis in which amateurs could compete against hardened professionals, he–a rank amateur–beat the American Pancho Gonzales in a tournament at Bournemouth. He subsequently beat several other professional players, including #1 seed Rod Laver at the 1971 Australian Open, and Ken Rosewall the following year at the US Open. I watched both of those on television. Although he never won a grand slam title, he was highly ranked for quite some time, and played on the British Davis Cup team for many years–Dad and I went to Cleveland to see him play in 1969. (It was my 15th birthday. In the best of British traditions, Cox lost. I wouldn’t have had it any other way.)
Happy Birthday, Mark Cox. I can’t believe you’re that old. (Oh, wait…looks in mirror…)
And fifty years ago today, on July 5, 1975, one of tennis’s most gracious and gentlemanly champions, Arthur Ashe, became the first (and so far only) Black man to win Wimbledon. He did so by beating that tiresome man-child and overwhelming favorite, Jimmy Connors in a four-set extravaganza. Four years later, and in the face of what seems to have been hereditary heart disease on both sides of his family, Ashe underwent a quadruple-bypass operation, followed by a second round of surgery a few months later. Almost a decade after that, Ashe was diagnosed as HIV-positive, a state that was attributed to his numerous blood transfusions at the time of his second surgery. (Ashe chose to go public with the information, rather than waiting for it to leak out via a prospective USA Today story.)
He died on February 6, 1993, at the age of just 49, from AIDS-related pneumonia.
His legacy is defined by his unique victories at Wimbledon, the US Open and the Australian Open. And also by the fact that his acquisition of HIV through blood transfusions led to educational foundations begun in his name, and much closer scrutiny of the nation’s blood supplies going forward.
Arthur Robert Ashe Jr., Rest in Peace.
And Wimbledon: Whatever you do, do not screw with the strawberries and cream. That is a bridge too far and a hill to die on. Please let Billie Jean know, and suggest that it might be time for her to zip it.
**The photo at the top of this post is of Fred Perry. The last Englishman to win Wimbledon. In 1936. Truly a legacy of which to be proud. (The last English woman to win the title was Virginia Wade, in 1977, 48 years ago. Ditto.)
After all, as those of us who are British born understand, it just wouldn’t do to show off, year after year.
