The Jellyfish (Wimbledon CC, Day 8)
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by Pete Bodo
It isn't often that you get to experience an opening and closing ceremony at the same time, but that's what happened at Wimbledon yesterday, as the All-England Club finally got to play with its new roof (any of you who grew up with Tinker Toys will know how tempting that is). They closed the roof it late in the afternoon, probably after offering multiple prayers and a Nez Perce rain dance, when at long last a few tiny and torpid raindrops were detected falling from the skies somewhere in the vicinity of Croydon.
Dinara Safina and Amelie Mauresmo were whisked off the Centre Court and the laborious process began; by the time the roof rolled closed, you were unwise to step outside without your Ray-Bans. But, because of the elaborate "moisture management" system (which, wisely, is employed to keep the turf from sweating and becoming more like March ice than well-packed sod), the girls had to wait a fairly long time before they were allowed to finish. Finally, though, the new roof was tried, tested and found suitable under real-world conditions.
Thus, Andy Murray and Stanislas Wawrinka (Red Nose, if you prefer his Nez Perce name) got to play the first full match under the new roof. I was otherwise occupied for the first two sets of that one, and didn't get to experience life under the semi-translucent skin (the roof reminds me of those accordion-type shades made of stiff Japanese paper) until they were well into the third set - with Stan the Man belting the living hail out of every ball Murray sent his way, while England's darling looked more and more like he was going to revert to the mopey, self-censuring, borderline-whiny Andy Murray of many moons ago.
The first thing I noticed when I skipped up the steps of Centre Court to the press section was the blast of cold air. This was welcome, given that the day had been hot and muggy, not unlike a typical first-week day at the U.S. Open. I quickly realized this was the product of the unique "moisture management" system that keeps the grass acceptably dry when the roof is closed, but the real cause for rejoicing was this: The British have finally discovered air-conditioning. Hallelujah!
The ambiance inside is hard to describe, although I think those broadcast images did a fair job, showing the Centre Court as a translucent jellyfish afloat in a dark sea surrounded by phosphorescent, winking city lights. What struck me, and brought a smile to my face, was the luminous atmosphere under the roof. Everybody in the place seemed transported, also afloat, but in this case somewhere between the extremes of gap-jawed wonder and sheer joy. The mood was only interrupted when Murray flubbed a forehand or made a hash out of a drop shot, at which time everyone forgot the enchantment of simply being there and reverted to weeping and the gnashing of teeth.
However, when Murray hit a winner or won a key game, the applause was nearly deafening, and sounded most like giant breakers crashing on a gravel beach. By the third set, this was a night match played not in some indoor stadium last inhabited by a heavy metal rock outfit, but in an ethereal bubble. I half--expected to see angels floating around as fans cried out, "Come on, Andy!"
But tennis is a game of angels and demons, and if the former never quite showed themselves, Wawrinka did a fair impersonation of a demon, tormenting the putative local hero (if the whole of the United Kingdom can be described as a locality) with fiercely ripped one-handed backhands and prodigious forehands. Wawrinka showed no compunctions about spoiling the British tent party, but that's a role for which this stoic, stone-faced ball-clubber seems suited. Wawrinka has a talent for making tennis look like hard labor, and all that effort seems to collect in his capillaries and rush to his nose, lighting it red as a traffic light. A cagey opponent would be wise to watch Wawrinka's nose closely, in order to judge his degree of resolve by the shade of redness.
Andy Murray is nothing if not a cagey player. And that was amply displayed once again. For most of the match, he seemed to embrace a rope-a-dope strategy, going right at either of Wawrinka's wings in long cross-court exchanges, as if sending the message, Is that all you got? Here, try this! This is a pretty good approach against a player like Wawrinka, who is all too easily drawn into a hitting contest. The hitter is seduced and carried along on a wave of I'm the Man confidence and exuberance, ignoring the rueful fact that every wave is destined to crash and vaporize. To Wawrinka's credit, he rode high and he rode long, and in the end he was less a victim of his own power (as is so often the case) than of a few critical lapses (falling behind 0-3 in a fifth set is never a good idea) combined with Murray's crafty ways.
My favorite trick of Murray's was performed in the fourth set when, after failing to goad Wawrinka into an error of exuberance, he seemed to have a profound change of heart and threw in a strange, semi-sliced faux drop shot that landed right around the service T on Wawrinka's side. Having insufficiently exercised his forehand muscle in the power rally that preceded the shot, Wawrinka steamed in, took a huge cut, and drove the ball smack into the net.
After the match, Murray said that no matter what anyone else was feeling, comfort-wise, he found the court very humid - so much so that both he and Wawrinka requested the fluffier, white towels used in the locker room, because the perspiration was so heavy on their hands. "It was like, you know, I'd been in a bath. It was very, very humid. Because of that, the court played heavier. I got very few free points from my serve when it did go in. You know, you can really swing very hard at the ball and it can go in the net or it doesn't really go anywhere."
Well, you sure fooled me - from where I sat the rallies looked positively atomic.
Just a few minutes ago I came across Neil Harman of The Times, nattily dressed in coat and tie, being interviewed for television. He was beaming: The interviewer asked, "Was this Murray's best match, ever?" It's been like that all around here this morning, and all around town, too. I understand that the London streets were nearly deserted last night while the match was on. Andy Murray fever is raging.
I didn't linger to hear Neil's reply, but with no disrespect toward Roger Federer or any of the other seven men still in the tournament, it would be fun to see Murray win this thing. Not for Scotland. Not for England. Not for Wimbledon, but for Neil.
As at 1pm ET, an Overflow is up - Andrew