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 Recalling Wimbledon '98 as twilight falls on 'the sleeping kingdom'
Posted: Sunday July 05, 1998 01:02 PM
Frank Deford is working his third Wimbledon as a commentator and essayist for HBO Sports. Each Wimbledon is of itself, yet each is a part of them all, which began in 1877. And so this year, when Don Budge was invited back to celebrate his Grand Slam of 1938, he was like a pivot in the history of the Championships -- they began six decades before he won his first Wimbledon and here they are again, exactly six since his last. In a way, the old gentleman who just enjoyed his 83rd birthday symbolized all our Wimbledons, and not just that special one of 60 years ago. Probably, too, the 1998 Fortnight will not be so memorable in history as '38 -- except maybe for Samantha Smith, who gave the British ladies a fourth-round appearance, best in more than a decade for the home team, allowing every newspaper headline writer in London to use "Play It Again, Sam ..." and then "Sam Can't Play It Again" when she lost. Oh, well. But nothing was stopping Tim Henman, a quarter-finalist the last two years and now -- gloriously -- a semi-finalist, until, alas for England, Pete Sampras ended his run on Friday. Poor, poor England -- its soccer team put out Tuesday in a ghastly overtime defeat and now the nation's greatest tennis hope falls just short. Ah well, at least there was a certain symmetry to Tim's loss. Wimbledon traditionally begins every year by having four of the All England Club's better players christen the Centre Court and Court One. And this year, Tim's mother was one of the quartet chosen. Alas, Mr. Henman watched alone in an empty stadium as his wife went down to Wimbledon's first defeat of 1998. And now, in somewhat more crowded circumstances, Mr. Henman watched his son lose on Friday. The other British hope, Greg Rusedski, was forced out early with a leg injury, but as sad a loss as the world's No. 4 leaving might have been for Union Jack, the fetching Anna Kournikova left in an even greater flurry of flashbulbs, robbing Wimbledon of its best chance to divert some wandering male eyes from the World Cup. Steffi Graf, snatched back into tennis from the brink of retirement, said that Wimbledon "overwhelmed her," then literally cried tears of joy when she tried to express herself. But emotions were ahead of her conditioning, and she was dispatched in the third round by Natasha Zvereva, who was so happy, she did a little jump, which, in her best colloquial English she apologized for as "my dorky little jump." It rained, of course. Of course. Last Friday the official weather forecast for Wimbledon included this sentence: "Unfortunately, if the sun appears during this dry spell, it is liable to set off some sharp showers." Oh. Only at Wimbledon does even sunshine produce rain. El Nino? Global warming? Not at Wimbledon, where July dresses up as April. Wimbledon has traditionally featured a heavy female quotient. It's always a little bit of a rock concert. Rios, Ivo. ... The match between Henman and Pat Rafter, the Australian heartthrob, was even billed as a conflict, for the women watching, between "their hearts and their hormones." Television ratings spiked all over the country. Take that, World Cup. But this year, Wimbledon absolutely belonged to the women. The ladies have the stars -- the players who are both consistent and charming. And, even better, to satisfy any taste, they come in two distinct groups, the kids and the mids. The teenage brigade -- led by the canny defending champion Martina Hingis, and the beaded and bold American Williams sisters, Venus and Serena -- would, however, all lose, Venus most distressingly. It was a couple of the older AND getting-better crowd -- Natalie Tauziat and Jana Novotna -- who made the finals. For Novotna, twice the loser here under excruciatingly painful circumstances, it was the most popular triumph. Wimbledon is not a spendthrift with its affections. Some players, like Novotna, have to earn the love that is granted easily to others. And Wimbledon never does make up its mind about some players -- like Andre Agassi. Yet everyone hated to see him dispatched early on with the help of such a dreadful line call. It is ironic, too, that even at a time when the mobs of English hooligans were putting such an ugly scar upon the face of this sceptered isle, the Wimbledon fans continued to act, as they always have, with a patience and civility borne of their respect for the game and their love for the players and for this quaint old place that rests in suburbia at the end of the rainbow. Fifteen years after Don Budge won that first Grand Slam, Maureen Connolly won the second. Little Mo, they called her; sadly she would die much too young. So she couldn't come back for her 45th anniversary as Budge did his 60th, but she did leave this preciously perfect description behind. "Wimbledon," Little Mo once said, "is the sleeping kingdom that comes to life for two weeks every year." And now it is twilight, 1998.
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