High life
Tennis balls
Taki
When Vitas Gerulaitis lost to the unknown Pat Dupre" at Wimbledon last Monday, moans of anguish and despair replaced snorting sounds throughout chic London discos for one night. Vitas is the jet set's golden boy and when he exited prematurely the Beautiful People died a little. It was like Branca getting thrown out from Mark and Lla's. Or Margaret Trudeau being refused entry at Studio 54. Only more so. Athletes are very big these days. especially tennis Players. They are revered almost as much as Pop stars — their manners, background and Physical appearance are roughly on a par. Gerulaitis of course, more so. Here is a Jock hip enough to know Halston's Christian name, aware of the difference between a quaalude and a purple passion, wise to the fact that John Bowes-Lyon is called Bosie by his friends. No wonder despondency ruled OK after his five set loss. I watched his Match from the competitors' lounge. straining to get a glimpse of court number two over the heads of about one hundred groupies ohhing and ahhing after every shot. It sure was different from the old days.
The competitors' lounge is supposedly reserved for players and their friends. In the past, before tennis was discovered by Madi-son Avenue, players sold their extra tickets to fans who wanted to see their idols up close. Half of the lounge was full of Czechoslovak exiles wanting to see Drobny. Or South Africans up for the summer in pursuit of Abe Segal and Gordon Forbes. Even some Australians looking for Hoadie. No longer. With the megabucks came the groupies. The place now sounds like the backlot of 20th Centry Fox. with greaseballs like Bob Evans holding court, fast-talk promoters like Donald Dell clinching deals, and Gucci-Pucci walking advertisements like Philip Martyn posing as athletes by rubbing shoulders with jocks who know what the meaning of vicarious is. The hush puppies and Lilywhites brigade of fans is gone the way of patriotism and playing to win for glory. The me first generation has discovered its favourite game. Tennis. The ultimate ego trip.
In the Observer last Sunday I read of one Bud Collins selling his wares to the complacent British public. He is an American promoter who is employed as a journalist by NBC and the Boston Globe. He reminded me of the 5 o'clock follies of Saigon. Nuance is a four-letter word to sportswriters in general and Bud Collins in particular. His subject was McEnroe. I hope for his sake (Collins) some Madison Avenue executive read it. Or government official. (He explains McEnroe's bad manners and rudeness to the public as his sense of beauty. 'To him, everything has to be just so. Good officiating, no noise ' Well, I am not surprised. In America they call workers' overalls 'corporate clothing' and canteen lunches Inplant feeding situations.'
What does surprise me is how quickly we forget. Every day 1 hacks tell us how great Connors and McEnroe are. Rubbish. They hit the ball short, and have no weight behind it. A Gonzales or Hoad would take their short ball and put it deep. blanket the net and knock off anything that dared to come back. Borg and Vilas would be just as good then as they are now. Typically, their attitude and deportment on court is oldfashioned. A bad word. But interesting. Imagine the ultimate in hypothetical matches. Gonzales and Hoad v. Connors and McEnroe. Connors, his beady eyes intercepting the bridge of his nose, his tassled socks swinging in the wind, his princevaliant haircut ditto, his Freudian swagger. And McEnroe playing tough guy. Gonzo. the closest thing to a death machine come alive, and Hoadie. a study in controlled fury. would fix them with their hatchet looks and there would be nothing their business managers or mothers would be able to do to help them except change their underwear after the match.
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