A mini-drama

This story is based on true events. That happened on Saturday. Any character that bears any resemblance to any person living or dead exists because it's about me. And I'm like totally a real person.

Katy got home and found an envelope on the bookcase. Just a little envelope. Plain and white and sitting there, minding its own business. It looked like your run-of-the-mill faceless printed nonsense belonging in the category of uninspiring credit card-related junkmail; perhaps at best some beseeching charity-related sales material. It took her a moment to focus her eyes on the tiny yet familiar logo on the single sheet of paper she found inside.

Look carefully, my keen-eyed cherubs. Can you tell what it is yet?

'Dude.' She cried. 'It's freaking WIMBLEDON tickets.'

Katy had assumed she would have no chance in the ticket ballot amongst the maelstrom of baying tennis hounds around the UK and indeed the world and had put it to the back of her mind but the sheet in front of her told no lies. The reality of the situation sank in.

'I'VE SCORED FREAKING WIMBLEDON TICKETS!!!!!!'

Katy cannot believe her luck. The OPENING DAY as well, that will be quite something. Think of the atmosphere! The frisson of excitement running through the veins of the thronging, strawberry-eating, Pimms-quaffing SW19 contingent; it's too mouth-watering to even contemplate! And Number 3 court! It may not be centre but it renders the chances of Katy seeing her favourite players HIGH, bearing in mind none of them rank higher than 10.

But suddenly, reality dawns. Monday 20th June. Oh god.

'That's Exam Board week!! Only the busiest and most important week of the year in my godforsaken job! NOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!! There's no WAY work will let me take that day off.'

Quickly she rationalises... 'But - but - it's freakin' WIMBLEDON dude! I'll fake an exotic disease! I'll threaten to sue them for wrongful, er, wrongful not-letting-me-have-the-day-off-al! It's so UNFAIR!!

So. Not. Impressed. But there must be some way... The optimist within her fights and battles and...

All of a sudden her eyes zero in on a date printed towards the bottom of the letter. 07/04/11. 'When's that then?' She wonders in passing. 'That's like, next year or whatever, dude. And what does it mean, anyway? Could it be important in some way?'

The words before it read 'PAYMENT MUST BE MADE BY'.

Then it hits her.

Oh. Holy. Arsepotatoes.

That date was... Thursday. Just. Gone.

'I've missed. The cocking. Cut-off date.'

She wildly flails around for a target to slam with the full force of her blame and recrimination.

Is it because the letter arrived late, and therefore it's all Wimbledon's fault? Noooooo.

Is it because the postman somehow failed to deliver the letter, hence rendering the whole of the Royal Mail responsible, the blundering, incompetent fools? Noooooo.

Or could it be, perchance, because Katy left the envelope sitting on the bookshelf for a week because she thought it was just another tree-raping piece of pointless, needless, worthless, fetid, pollip-in-the-armpit-of-the-world junkmail?

Yes. Yes it could well be.

This tragedy was brought to you in the third person because the protagonist can't bear to inhale the filthy stench of her own putrid incompetence. Quite why she used her own name in the story she doesn't know. She really must be some kind of prize idiot.

I feel no further exposition is necessary, other than to state the clear moral of the story. I BLOODY LOVE TENNIS, ME!

Oh wait, that's not it. That's just an unfortunate fact I happen to be pretending is untrue at this present moment in order to salve the cheese-grating torment of my own gargantuan failure.

The moral of the story is in fact: OPEN YOUR ARSING MAIL, YOU COMPLETE AND UTTER IMBECILIC HALF-WIT!

This is me now:

Sorry about all the image stealery and adaptery. But thanks. That's totally correct referencing behaviour and shiz, right? Yeah, I thought so too.

ATP World Tour Finals - Tuesday 23rd November

If it was hard for me to coherently pull together a football match report following repeated exposure to ice hockey of late, how the hell am I going to cope with a tennis report? At least football is a team game, and it’s played outdoors, which is almost as cold as an ice rink. And people are rowdy. For my live tennis experience and subsequent ramblings, I would have to reign in my inner hooligan and re-discover how to applaud politely and NOT encourage opponents to beat each other senseless. This could be interesting.

My first experience of the former Millennium Dome, the now O2 Arena played host all last week to the ATP World Tour Finals, the end of year tennis Championships which sees the top 8 men in the singles rankings and the top 8 mens’ doubles pairings gathering to do battle for the final points of the year. Each session featured one singles and one doubles match, and I would be attending both sessions of Tuesday’s action. We had elected to go for the cheap seats for the early session, and I now see why the seats in the upper tier of the O2 have been described as the ‘nosebleed seats’ – I can honestly say that never before have I experienced such a vertiginous seating experience; I was already feeling nauseous as we ascended the numerous escalators to the high point of the Dome, and this was before climbing the equivalent of 3 or 4 flights of stairs to finally reach our seats in the gods. Nevertheless, it gave an almost bird’s eye view of the action. The place is seriously impressive, and the build-up to the matches lent a real air of excitement.

View of the O2 Arena from the 'nosebleed' seats. Nice.

First up were 4th ranked doubles pairing Lukas Dlouhy and Leander Paes against the wildcard entrants and Wimbledon champions, singles specialist Jurgen Melzer and his partner, the German Phillip Petzschner. It started out slowly but picked up tempo, some blistering power from the Austro-German combo battling against the doubles specialists from the Czech Republic and India. Power and precision eventually won out though, the double-fault and error-strewn performance of Dlouhy/Paes being exposed and punished, despite some flashes of brilliance, particularly from Leander Paes.

The feature match of the afternoon saw the mighty Roger Federer take on our very own Andy Murray (that’s the first and last time I’ll ever claim ownership of Murray! *Shudder*). I was surprised that the support for the two was pretty equal, unlike at Wimbledon where Murray-mania totally takes over and people lose their heads in an annual show of unwarranted patriotism. I would venture to suggest it’s because the British media don’t give a crap about the year-end championships and as a result, no-one has really had a chance to get their panties in a bunch over it. Either that or they’ve all realised what a dour old pain in the arse Murray is. It’s the first and last time I’ll ever shout ‘come on Roger’ that’s for sure. And Roger did indeed come on. It has to be said, that whether or not you are a fan of the man, seeing that whipping forehand in person is really something. It's a force to be reckoned with. And he proceeded to paste Murray all over the court with it. The Scot didn’t really turn up, I’m not sure where he was, perhaps he lost his mojo when he had about 8 inches of excess curls lopped from his strangely shaped noggin, but whatever was going on, he never really got going and Federer cruised to a straight sets victory, 6-4 6-2. Good work from the Swiss who seemed similarly surprised when asked in his post-match interview about Murray’s lack of game. Perhaps he was put off by the sight of footballing legend Maradona, who was in attendance, alarmed by the prospect of him plucking the ball from mid-air in an ‘innocent’ mid-rally incident to give Federer another break of serve. Or perhaps he just had another attack of indifference, an affliction which seems to strike Murray on occasion. Who can say.

Murray v Federer. Spot the ball! Oh, it's in Diego's hand.

We descended back into the lower troposphere for the evening session which was nice, and a cider or three helped me to recover from the altitude sickness. Had a wander around the perimeter of the arena and caught a certain Rafael Nadal on the practice courts, understandably attracting a large crowd despite looking as though he had been happier in his life. Not sure what was bothering him, but Uncle Toni was on hand to advise. My first time seeing my favourite player in the flesh, it was a thrill just to see him hitting, and I thought he looked fantastic; skinnier than I had expected – he’s not carrying an ounce of excess weight OR muscle – honed to perfection – he’s a lean, mean ball-hitting machine! Wide-eyed and fawning, me? Never.

Rafael Nadal: Wearing colours that most human beings can't look at directly since 2002.

The first match of the evening session featured the number one ranked doubles team of the year, the USA’s Bryan Brothers, against the Polish pairing of Fyrstenberg and Matkowski. It was expected to be routine for the Americans; they have been the mens’ doubles equivalent of Chelsea this year, winning everything in sight and schooling their competitors on a weekly basis. Quite why they are so good can really only be attributed to one thing (well apart from their superior skill, fitness, training and those minor details!). It’s all about the twin factor. You know, that thing where twins can feel each other’s pain, and know instinctively when the other one’s in danger. And of course, which way they’re going to serve. Nope, apparently not that last one. One of the twins (please don’t ask me which one, I can barely tell when I’m looking at a picture of them close-up, let alone the backs of their heads from a distance) actually managed to serve the ball directly into the back of his brother’s head. I kid you not. It was hilarious and touching in equal part, as the culprit twin ran over to the victim twin to check he was okay, and they had a little embrace. Aw. Also, I almost forgot to mention, that they actually went to the toilet together. Now THAT is brotherly love. Possibly gone a little too far.

The whole serving-into-the-head incident must have really thrown them off their game though as lanky pole and chubby pole (sorry, but it's easier to type than their actual names) took the second set to take the match to a tie-break, which they dominated and did the unthinkable – they beat the Bryan Brothers. Good work Pole-type dudes. Better luck next time Bryan 1 & 2. Trying not to knock each other out would be a good start.

Hey Mike/Bob! (delete as appropriate). Watch your head - Mike/Bob (delete as appropriate) is serving!

The evening session concluded with the Swedish world number 5 Robin Soderling taking on clay-court specialist David Ferrer from Spain. It was an exciting and tense match, Ferrer the pint-sized powerhouse not making things easy for Soderling, despite the blistering pace of his serve and his hard-hitting forehand. Ferrer had the majority of the crowd, who were fairly subdued despite the excellent quality of the tennis on offer, and the presence of one John Cleese, the back of who’s head I could see just a few metres in front of me (I really had to bite my tongue not to shout 'Basiiiil!' in one of the quiet moments - thankfully I managed to restrain myself). He’s an unerring work-horse (Ferrer that is, although I'm sure John Cleese is quite conscientious too!), and what he lacks in stature he more than makes up for in sheer effort levels. He regularly leaves the ground when applying his racket to his driving forehand and in addition to this he also appears to be a thoroughly pleasant chap, humble and under-stated. Soderling had to fight hard to clinch the first set on the tie-break, before eventually overcoming Ferrer’s challenge in the second set, the Swede’s intensity and power overwhelming the Spaniard as he went on to claim a straight sets victory.

Verdict on the day as a whole: excellent. Very well-organised, impressive venue, some great competition, and a good selection of food and drink (shame about the prices though!). Next year I will be back, and I’ll be buying tickets for two days’ play to make sure I get to see everyone. And yes, that does mean Rafa. Right, back to hockey! This tennis malarkey is turning me into a southern softie again. Bye bye, old blog!

And normal service is resumed… (or, why sporting success is bad for me)

I don't seem to cope well when teams and individuals I support in sport do well. It's all a bit, well, satisfying, to be honest, and frankly I was having a hard time reconciling my thoroughly British desire to have a whinge and be a bit glum with the success going on in my various areas of sporting interest. I'd become a bit giddy of late, what with Watford reaching the dizzying heights of fourth in the Championship and all the goals they’ve been scoring, and then I go and start supporting a new sports team and their response is to win immediately! It's all been too much for me, I've been having palpitations, you know. Luckily, the winning streak was soon to come to an end.

I mustered a respectable crowd of 5, including myself, for the Newcastle Vipers match against Coventry Blaze on Saturday night, following last week’s epiphany (that being that ice hockey is a sport I could really get involved in – see my previous post!). I even managed to drum up some actual enthusiasm! Mostly in anticipation of the numerous fights I had promised would break out (see, I told you it wasn’t just me!) but hey, they were there and that’s what counted.

We arrived early enough to see the pre-match warm-up which was quite a sight. Very well orchestrated training drills gave the impression of a tight-knit unit, which is what you would expect, they are professional athletes don't you know. But it proved to be a bit of a false prophet; not quite such a pretty picture was painted by the team when it came to the match itself. At first glance it appeared the Vipers were a little more organised than the previous week against Braehead Clan, and definitely more focused, with very little in the way of physical conflict – much to the disappointment of my brethren who were all but baying for blood, and also so it seemed later, to the detriment of the team.

Coventry were simply much more well organised and motivated, and they attacked Vipers netminder Charlie Effinger with increasing ferocity, systematically exposing the flaws in the Vipers’ defence culminating in a five-goal stand in the second period which effectively ended the game and put the kybosh on what might otherwise have been a jolly happy evening in Whitley Bay town centre. (Does it sound like I know what I’m talking about yet?).

Gone was the buzz of the previous week, to be replaced by an air of frustration and discontent at the dismal showing, one particularly disgruntled fan taking it out on a poor, unsuspecting seat right in front of us and almost causing foot-al injury to my better half (although I have a sneaking suspicion his anger may have been caused in part at least by a spot of domestic unrest rather than the hockey). Luckily seats don’t fight back, although I’m not so sure about his rather shouty spouse who stormed after him all guns blazing. Apparently it’s not just the players who get wound up at hockey matches.

On reflection, despite a pretty uninspiring performance, I did enjoy the evening. My understanding of the game has increased exponentially in the space of a week, the kaleidoscopic action shifting ever so subtley before my very eyes and dissolving into clarity, sort of like a big, cold, 3D magic eye picture. The hyperactive fly effect of the first night was substituted for a spectacle of grace and aggression – by no means a perfect exemplar of the game of ice hockey in general, but enough to enchant me nonetheless. I continued on to think that perhaps I should begin following the NHL. After all, they exhibit the game at its finest. But it’s a rather strange concept, selecting a team to support when you don’t have the slightest inclination of loyalty to any of the available options. I was thinking about basing my selection on the team with the coolest name (currently I’m between the Buffalo Sabres and Minnesota Wild) but in reality, it’s best for me to wait a couple of weeks and just see who settles at the bottom of the league. It’s best for all involved.

Elsewhere, and vying heavily for a spot in my rundown of depressing sporting news of the week, my favourite Americans Sam Querrey and Mardy Fish fared poorly in the Beijing ATP 500 tournament, Querrey being knocked out by in-form Frenchman Gilles Simon and Fish pulling out prior to his second round clash with Novak Djokovic with an ankle injury. Probably for the best as the Djoker is 5-0 up in the head-to-head statistics against Mardy. Not pretty! Sadly it also means he has withdrawn from the Shanghai Masters this week, so no Fishy action for me for some time to come it seems. I may have to resort to supporting Rafa again. Although he wins most of the time so I don’t think it’s a good idea on account of my fragile constitution and overly realistic expectations of my sporting charges.

The best thing about the weekend’s sport was that as no Premier League or Championship games were taking place, it was physically impossible for Watford or Sunderland to lose. Bonus! On the down side, England are taking on Montenegro in a European Cup qualifier tonight and it’s being televised on terrestrial channels, so I will feel obliged to watch it despite my impassioned vows to the contrary following the World Cup. Oh joy. Hopefully we’ll put in a mediocre performance and scrape a 1-0 victory in a predictable and entirely tame snooze-fest of a match. Any more than that, and I might have to start on the blood pressure medication.

U.S.Eh?

I don’t know why I’ve become such a US sympathiser when it comes to tennis. It’s not as if our pals across the pond are short of supporters in any of their sporting endeavours.

Or so you would think. As it goes, when it comes to tennis, the majority of American sports fans these days fall into one of two broad camps: indifference, or scornful disbelief – can the leader of the free world really no longer have a man in the world's top 10? It’s unthinkable. To a country that more often than not finds itself at the top of countless sporting leaderboards, not winning – at least sometimes – is simply not an option.

Perhaps this attitude is borne out of having so-called ‘world series’ competitions in your national sports but not inviting any other nations along to participate. I jest. Well, sort of. In all seriousness, the US has always been a nation that has excelled in all areas of sporting achievement. Their amazing strength in depth in both individual and team competition must surely come from the extensive infrastructure that supports, encourages and promotes sporting endeavour from pre-school right through to the exclusive college scholarships and lucrative cooperate sponsorship deals at the professional end. Sport is big business, but yet it appeals to every young American, the allure of honing yourself as a physical specimen whilst bringing home glory for the red, white and blue too strong for its wide-eyed and hopeful youth.

And tennis was no different. American mens’ tennis seemed to experience a perpetual glory era, and in my earliest memories of Wimbledon lurk the brash characters of Connors and Macenroe, followed in the 90’s by the consistently brilliant Sampras and the wildly talented and charimastic Agassi. A little later followed Andy Roddick, who although never seemingly reaching his full potential, still has a Grand Slam title under his belt and years in the top 10 to be proud of. America have always had a few guys at the top to shout about.

So why am I so bothered about them, and why now? The state of American tennis and the frustration at their recent lack of success felt by the general populace was never clearer than at this year’s US Open, where the current pretenders to the almighty shoes of Macenroe, Sampras et al were relentlessly interrogated by the American media about the pressure to perform and the almost pathological desire of Americans to be in the top 10.

‘We’re doing our best,’ replied Sam Querrey, the youngest of the current crop of top Americans at 23. He was pragmatic in his responses to the success-hungry media and I couldn’t help but feel sorry for him, and also view very distinct parallels between himself and some of our own athletes and sportspeople, as the pressure of national expectation was hung over him like the sword of Damocles. The British media are frequently lambasted by other countries for being too hard on our sportspeople and piling on the pressure, but it seems that the American media are no better. Despite an inconsistent year, the affable Querrey has won four ATP 250 titles, but has lacked confidence on the bigger stages and has openly admitted that at times he just isn’t at the top of his game. How much of this, one sometimes wonders, is down to the sheer weight of expectation being shovelled onto his not inconsiderable shoulders.

Coping better with the pressure it seems is Mardy Fish. The most experienced of the current in-form crop at the age of 28, Fish lost 30lbs following a special nutrition and fitness regime and has since become a completely new player, performing spectacularly in 2010. He has picked up two titles and numerous final appearances, and he put in one of the strongest American performances in history in the recent Davis Cup play-off against Chile, playing three of the four rubbers, totalling over 11 hours tennis in three consecutive days, singles and doubles, at 9000ft altitude, and all with the crowd against him. An absolutely Spartan effort.

Making up the trio of American hopefuls is 6’9” John Isner, who shot to tennis fame this year after his epic first round tie at Wimbledon against Nicolas Mahut. He really seems to be the hot prospect, currently developing the weaker areas of his game to add to the giant, high-bouncing serve that is already frustrating opponents at all levels, and has been tipped to break into the top 10 in 2011.

So maybe things aren’t so bad after all? To a British tennis fan, of course, four players in the top 25 is an unimaginable fantasy. But even if we had that, would we let them rest easy in the comfort of their already admirable achievements? Would we bollocks. We’d expect Grand Slam titles to be seeping from every gold-rimmed orifice, year after triumph-filled year. Would we have the right to expect this? Absolutely not. Do the Americans? Arguably, yes. I’m British and I can’t help but support the underdog. And however paradoxic it may seem, right now, unbelievably, in the world of tennis, Team America are just that.

A tale of my sporting loyalties, and other such rambles

With just two weeks to go until the World Cup kicks off, I could be forgiven for admitting that not a great deal has crossed my mind in the last couple of weeks that isn’t sport-related. However it’s surprised me to learn that it’s not ALL football-related. The build-up to Wimbledon for me, at least, has started early this year, and I find myself strangely drawn to the French Open.

So what's happened so far on the Parisienne clay then? Well Nadal is looking devastating, in more ways than one (did I say that out loud?!). I can't see anyone standing in his way this year, knee permitting. Which is going to cause something of a moral dilemma for me in the next round as it's looking like he'll face Hewitt. And not only have I always been a big fan of the Aussie, but I always support the underdog. Will my Rafa-naticism hold out? Or will my resolve crumble and the guts or glory instinct take over, compelling me to sing ‘let’s go Lleyton, let’s go’ at the top of my voice, along with the hoardes of mouthy Aussies that will doubtless congregate at Court Phillippe Chatrier for the match? Watch this space.

Murray's been a bit all over the place so far, although he seems to be settling down now. I don’t know why I mention him really, I am still physically incapable of giving even the teeniest tiniest hamster crap about him, however ‘unpatriotic’ that might make me (yes, let’s ask him who’s he’s supporting in the World Cup THIS time and see if he manages to piss off practically his entire fanbase AGAIN). Also, I saw something yesterday I don't think I will ever emotionally recover from, and as such I think anyone with even a passing interest in tennis needs to see it so I'm not alone. It's only a minute long (it's more than enough, really):

http://www.atpworldtour.com/Tennis/Media/Videos/2010/05/Roland-Garros-2010-Karaoke-Murray.aspx]http://www.atpworldtour.c...10-Karaoke-Murray.aspx

The less said about that the better.

So, tennis anyone? Just me for now then! I'm sure it'll be more of a talking point in a month or so when the white-clad ones take to the manicured lawns at the All England Club. In the meantime I am revving up my England-fuelled emotional torture device and it should be ready to go by the time we take to the field for the first time in Rustenburg on 12th June. I’m sure by that point we’ll already have lost at least two key players to metatarsal injuries, inflicted by aggrieved WAGs most likely. Respective tears for respective pints at the ready, everyone? Good.

Until then, I’ll be drinking to the finale of Lost tonight (yes, I know I’m late, but I’m a traditionalist. Plus I’ve been on holiday and have only just caught up) and the ever-fabulous Eurovision Song Contest tomorrow. Don’t even pretend you aren’t going to ‘have it on in the background’. Come on Slovenia! I can’t cheer you in the World Cup but I bloody can in this. And anything has to be better than that pathetic wet tissue of a British entry.

Right. Have a good weekend, everyone!

EDIT: I've just discovered that Slovenia aren't even in the arsing song contest. It's got to be between Armenia and Moldova, right? Right...?!