My interest in ‘Wimbledon – the Championships‘ has declined over the years, to the extent that nowadays I can barely be bothered to watch any of it. Truth be told, I rarely did, except when I had a particular favourite player to follow, those including the Australian great Rod Laver, Bjorn Borg, Roger Federer and Scotland’s finest Sir Andy Murray. Those legends, while happily remaining with is, are no longer on court superstars and with their retirement went my interest. Last night, another former legend made a comeback at Wimbledon and it didn’t end well. I watched some, though not all, of Serena Williams comeback match against Maya Joint and, if nothing else, it reminded us all of the age process and, if you want to be really gloomy, gave us a glimpse of our mortality.
At 44, Williams still looked the part. Physically, she looked to be in great shape, as if at her peak when she took on the rest of the tennis world and ground it into the dust. And when she served and returned the ball, it looked like little had changed. But you did not need to look too close to see that she could barely run. She was the footballer whose ‘legs had gone’, the boxer who had forgotten how to ‘float like a butterfly’.
Williams v Joint was not a freak show. It was a live match which went to a deciding third set, during which it became clear the former champ was running on empty. From time-to-time, she would send an explosive forehand or backhand, sensationally winning a point, or serving a powerful ‘ace’ and the crowd would react, as if she was successfully rolling back the years. But she wasn’t, not really. The mighty physique, the determination to win, was still there. The body had other ideas. I switched off long before the end, when it became painfully obvious that you cannot turn back time.
Oh, how the crowd roared in support, yet I felt more sympathy for her young appointment, the young Maya Joint, who was up against not just a legend of the game, but also a vast centre court crowd who seemed to believe that their unqualified support could work in concert with Williams’ declining powers and see her to victory. Clearly, it was not to be.
The TV director showed umpteen close-ups of Williams’ team of coaches, friends and relatives and there were no smiles. And while the old champ let nobody down and certainly didn’t disgrace herself, it was hard to ignore the sheer levels of futility of what later became a mismatch. The crowd roared every time Joint mishit a shot as enthusiastically as they cheered on Williams’ winners, as they do when every old warhorse comes up against the one opponent they cannot defeat: age.
At least Serena Williams will not suffer the catastrophic effects as the boxer who has fight too many. But I did not like what I saw, a true great of the game losing eventually quite comfortably, to a player who would barely have taken a point of her during her peak years.
It was not an exhibition match as such because the greats never lose the competitive edge and Williams will never lose that. But still it was more exhibition than contest. Neither player had a prayer of winning Wimbledon. Perhaps the centre court should be where only those who can win are front and centre?
That’s probably Wimbledon all over for me, in half an hour or so between two World Cup football matches. Now it’s time for Serena to properly retire and concentrate on whatever comes next in her life, perhaps by helping to enable the next generation of champions, particularly those who come from more challenging backgrounds, as she and her sister did.
Meanwhile, thanks for the memories, Serena. You gave it your best shot, as always, but you can’t fight the fella in the brite (sic) nightgown.
