8601290352
DETROIT FREE PRESS
860629
Sunday, June 29, 1986
METRO FINAL
1C
Photo Color MARY SCHROEDER;Photo Associated Press
MITCH ALBOM
Copyright (c) 1986, Detroit Free Press
WIMBLEDON SEEMS OVERDONE
GRIM IMAGE OF COLORLESS CLONES IS DRAGGING TENNIS DOWN
WIMBLEDON, England -- It is not for me, as a slow, middle- class person with
no backhand, to suggest to speedy foreign tennis millionaires that they need
to improve their image. But I am going to do it anyhow.
There is trouble here at Wimbledon. Beneath the genteel grass surfaces and
the strawberries-and-cream stands and the Royal Box and the oversized
umbrellas and the hulking green structure that houses Centre Court, there is
an undercurrent of, well . . . boredom.
Not with the scene, mind you. As long as those Dukes and Earls keep showing
up (or maybe The Dukes of Earl?) and as long as there's a chance the wind
might lift Princess Anne's skirt for a quick peek-a-boo by the British
paparazzi, people will keep coming back.
No, the problem is not the setting. It's the action. Where are the
on-court thrills? This grand tournament -- which is to tennis as Carnegie Hall
is to sopranos -- has reached the halfway point of its 100th running, and
has raised as many goose bumps as waiting for a bus.
But then, what are we waiting for? Another Martina Navratilova vs. Chris
Evert Lloyd final? Well, we've seen that a few times, haven't we? Another
Boris Becker vs. somebody? Why? It'll never equal last year. McEnroe's not
here. Connors is out. How about Mats Wilander vs. Miloslav Mecir? How about
Dianne Balestrat vs. Hana Mandlikova? How about some Sominex and warm milk?
What is the trouble? Here is the trouble. Big-time tennis is getting stale
-- not in reality, but in people's minds. The players are becoming robots.
The names and faces are blurring.
Quick. Who is Jay Lapidus?
I rest my case.
Now why is this? Well, as a baseball fan, I believe you can watch people
hit a ball back and forth for only so long without hoping to see it go over
the center field fence.
But as a journalist, I figure it's because the tennis world today is ruled
by two Czechs, one of whom now has a U.S. passport, the other only $8 million
worth of U.S. real estate.
And it's not enough. Not for Americans anyhow. Martina Navratilova. Ivan
Lendl. Blah. They do nothing for us. True, they are ranked No. 1 in the world.
But in today's sports scene, personality is gunpowder, and together they have
barely enough to set off a cap pistol.
Let's take Lendl. No, you take him. Ha, ha. That's the kind of joke you
hear about this guy. Time magazine once called him a "chilly, self-centered,
condescending, mean-spirited, arrogant man with a nice forehand." Not the kind
of clip you send home to Mom.
Of course, he doesn't help matters by living in a veritable fortress in
Greenwich, Conn., surrounded by surveillance cameras and attack German
shepherds.
There is no denying Lendl works hard at his tennis. There is also no denying
that Lendl often wins, takes the check and leaves. Once at a tournament in
New Hampshire, Lendl ducked a post-match press conference and pulled out in
his Porsche, with a P.R. man hanging on one window and his agent hanging on
the other, begging him to come back. This is not what you call "media
accessibility."
On top of that, for all his high rankings, Lendl is still not a bona fide
"money" player. For years he was better known as "Choke-slovian" for his
failure to win the major tournaments. He has never taken Wimbledon or the
Australian Open, and only last summer won the U.S. Open for the first time
after losing twice in the two previous finals. People could accept the aloof
posture of a Bjorn Borg because the guy was clutch. He was a winner. And, yes,
he was good-looking. That covers a lot of flaws.
Lendl, through no fault of his own, has those jolting cheekbones and
crooked teeth, which suggest someone a little more, uh, frightening.
"He thinks he looks like Frankenstein," his agent once said.
Well . . .
And what about Navratilova? How many matches has she won already? How many
new records? How many No. 1 rankings? Yet she leaves us standing at the
refrigerator door. Chilly and unsatisfied.
Personally, I don't think Martina is all that bad. She trains like a
soldier, she never ducks the enemy, and she figures she can kill every time
she does battle. I can name 50 football players who fit the same bill. And
they are heroes.
The problem, of course, is that Martina is a woman, and for all our
progress in the equal rights areas, Americans still like their women athletes
with a dash of eye shadow and a "gee- whiz" smile. Can you ever recall a
match where Chris Evert Lloyd was less the crowd favorite than Martina?
I rest my case.
Martina has tried. She has done ads for watches and silk blouses and posed
for calendars in the softest, most feminine light. But there is always the
shadow of her sexual preferences -- which she has detailed in her
autobiography. And besides, when she gets out there on the court she does
what comes naturally, which is win by playing hard -- and when she plays hard
she is far, far better than almost everyone she will face. As a reward, she
finds people rooting for her opponents.
"I've gotten used to it," she said Friday, with a shrug. "They cheer when
someone wins a game from me. I don't mind. I understand it. Hey. It's a hard
thing to do."
Yet deep down, Navratilova still aches from the tepid acceptance. And why
not? She endures a double whammy. While Lendl suffers for being too little a
man and too much a machine, Martina suffers for being too much of both.
Now. Why is this bad for tennis? Only because Navratilova and Lendl keep
winning. And when your top two players are icemen, it's hard to defrost your
audience to the rest of the field.
Who, for example, can capture America's attention on a tennis court for
more than 20 minutes these days? Boris Becker. That's one. (We'll get to him
in a moment.) Next? John McEnroe. Only he's at home, nursing his newborn son,
and may never return full-throttle to the game. Next? Jimmy Connors. Only his
age (33) is showing, and so is his dwindling resistance. He was bounced out
of Wimbledon this year in the first round -- the first time in 15 years he
has ever left that early.
And next? Next? . . . Hello? There is no one really. Yannick Noah is good
for a few minutes, mostly because of his hair. The Swedish players put us to
sleep (I am convinced they put each other to sleep).
And it's worse for the women. After Chris Evert Lloyd, 31, who will almost
surely retire within a year, there is no one to challenge Navratilova, or the
imagination. The Women's Tennis Association is extremely concerned about this.
Here at Wimbledon, a player must have at least eight media members interested
before a post-match interview is held. Almost no other women besides Chris and
Martina have been able to command even that this past week.
Now, I know that the tennis should be enough. I'll bet when Lendl and
Navratilova were growing up in Czechoslovakia, their parents told them
"practice the hardest and you will be the best." No one ever told them they
had to be interesting.
But to attract attention in the crowded sports stage these days, you must
be just that. Show some emotion. Some personality. McEnroe -- love him or hate
him -- never had a problem keeping you riveted. Same for Connors, and even
old Ilie Nastase.
Becker -- only 18 -- does it today. He leaps and jumps and dives and
smiles. Which is why the powers-that-be in tennis love the guy. In fact, they
wish they had about a dozen more of him. In both sexes.
But the rest of the underclassmen (and women) are less promising
characters. Gabriela Sabatini, 15, the hot young Argentine player, is a dynamo
on the court and a dud off of it. Mary Joe Fernandez, 14, is too young.
Steffi Graf, Hana Mandlikova, Claudia Kohde-Kilsch, all too distant.
The men's side? After Lendl, McEnroe and Becker, the Swedes have things
clogged up. Tim Mayotte is the most promising American here, and if he has
said two interesting words all week we missed them.
Part of the problem is that tennis players are generally only interviewed
en masse right after matches. Few athletes say anything interesting in such a
setting. And with the players moving about the globe so much, it is tough for
any place outside of their hometown to identify with them.
But that doesn't erase the problem.
Don't misunderstand. The tennis is not bad. In fact, the tennis is
excellent. There will be great matches this week, matches the true fan will
love.
But the rest of the sporting world needs a little nudge. Needs to feel in
tune with the humans behind those Ellesse and Adidas shorts. And the players
and their associations had best recognize that. Because their sport -- even
here at Wimbledon -- is in danger of blurring into an anonymous bunch of
racket swingers.
Don't believe me? Quick. Who has a better chance here -- Stefan Nyberg or
Rob Tibert?
Neither. I just made them up.
I rest my case.
CUTLINE:
Martina Navratilova is hot, but leaves tennis fans cold.
Ivan Lendl . . . a winner, but an arrogant iceman.
Gabriela Sabatini . . . a dynamo and a dud.
COLUMN;TENNIS;CRITICISM