COMPETITION

Tennisonian

Jaspistos

IN Competition No. 1478 you were invited to write a poem on any aspect of Wimbledon.

After the war (you know the one I mean) I used to sleep on the grass outside the turnstiles, rise early and get into the Centre Court with ease. My first memory is of the fruitless baseline grafting of John Bromwich, ground down by Falkenberg, one of the first big serve-and-volleyers and surely the most boring of all men's singles winners. Later I watched the philosophical efforts of Fred Stolle, the sporting chronic loser (Allis generation, as Von Cramm was of his; the gaunt and ageing Gonzalez, fingers uncontrollably plucking at his shirt between points, swarthy face sallow with exhaustion, as by pure force of will be broke bustling Charlie Pasarell in that five-hour-twelve-minute marathon; chunky, lovable Drobny adjusting his spectacles after an especially delicate drop- shot, like a schoolmaster who has just demonstrated an equation; Patty and Mol- loy, their combined years well into the eighties, outfoxing and outlasting Hoad and Fraser in a doubles final, Molloy theatrically using his upturned racket as a shooting-stick in the last set. . . . Yes, I've seen 'em all.

Who was the first player at Wimbledon to hold one serving ball in his hand instead of two? To use the two-fisted backhand (was it the Australian McGrath?)? To be fined for bad language? Information will be gratefully received, though not acknow- ledged.

The postal strike affecting the Doughty Street area may have foiled one or two competitors, but even so the entry was pleasingly big. B. J. Kennedy, K. Roken and Philip A. Nicholson are, so to speak, semi-finalists. The winners get £12 apiece, and the bonus bottle of 904 Gran Riserva from La Rioja Alta, the gift of Mr David Balls of Wines from Spain, goes to Roy H. Maltby because I always love a word- player.

Wimberwacky `Tis thrillig when the lithely coves Do wamp and wimble on the grourt; All screamsy grow the groupiedroves Who spectulate the sport.

`Observe the Bekkerbore,' they cry, `The serves that slam, the strokes that smash; Observe the Marti-Gnat, and spy The steffious Hanacash!'

And all the torpal afternoon, Complesmerised by magibox, They squint and leap like startled sheep Or tonic on the rocks.

One, two! one, two! The grourt's wet through; The drurgling rain goes pit-a-pat; While antiwims sing quiet hymns And coothe the spartled cat. (Roy H. Maltby) Two words I hadn't heard for years In that revered and verdant spot: I couldn't quite believe my ears - Did someone really say 'Good shot!'?

When Jean Borotra used to grace The sanctum of the Centre Court He'd smilingly applaud an ace, For then it wasn't war, but sport.

Today, should linesmen deem a ball To be unquestionably long, They know that if they dare to call They'll be abused for being wrong. Disgusted though I am by those Who thus behave, I cannot wait To watch that nasty bunch of pros Again in 1988. (Peter Hadley) From Cairo to Kendal. From Darwin to Dover, They tune in to Lendl, To Navratilova.

From Minehead to Mecca, From Looe to Lusaka, They're barking for Becker, They're bawling for Barker.

From Rhyl to Rwanda, From Mull to Mbini, They're mad for Wilander, For Gabs Sabatini.

But bathing or baking Or biking or boating, It's Chris has me shaking And Evert-emoting. (Len Wellgerbil) His racket gripped with crooked hands, His hair held back with coloured bands, Ringed with th' expectant crowd he stands.

The yellow ball above him curves; He watches it with tightened nerves, And like a thunderbolt he serves. (T. A. Jones) We played in trousers, not the shorts That now demean our tennis courts; What's more important, we were sports, Who took defeat like men. When our opponent called it 'out', We didn't show the slightest doubt, Abuse our racket, swear or shout - But that was way back when.. . The present lot's not worth a damn Alongside Perry or Von Crarnm; All biff bang wallop, pow and wham - It's far beyond my ken. Still, no use mourning what has been; Although it isn't quite my scene, I'll settle down before the screen And watch it all again.

(I. C. Snell)

When it was fifteen-thirty, I heard my father say, `Go easy with the drop-shots, And watch your cross-court play; Be nice to every line-judge, And cut the repartee.'

But it was fifteen-thirty, No use to talk to me.

When it was fifteen-thirty, I heard him say again, `The Wimbledon tradition Of English gentlemen Means moderate your language And never lose your cool.'

But now it's fifteen-forty, And I'm a bloody fool. (David Heaton)