Wimbledon Final Quotes

The first point is always important, more so in a Wimbledon final

The Rafa Nadal the world saw as he stormed onto the Centre Court lawn for the start of the 2008 Wimbledon final was a warrior, eyes glazed in murderous concentration, clutching his racquet like a Viking his axe. A glance at Federer revealed a striking contrast in styles: the younger player in sleeveless shirt and pirate’s pantaloons, the older one in a cream, gold-embossed cardigan and classic Fred Perry shirt; one playing the part of the street-fighting underdog, the other suave and effortlessly superior.

Do we ever stop dreaming? I know I haven't. I must have been at least twenty-five when the Spice Girls happened, and I distinctly remember imagining my way into the group. I was going to be the sixth Spice, 'Massive Spice', who, against all the odds, would become the most popular and lusted-after Spice. The Spice who sang the vast majority of solo numbers in the up-tempo tracks. The Spice who really went the distance. And I still haven't quite given up on the Wimbledon Ladies' Singles Championship. I mean, it can't be too late, can it? I've got a lovely clean T-shirt, and I've figured out exactly how I'd respond to winning the final point (lie on floor wailing, get up, do triumphant lap of the ring slapping crowd members' box). It can't be just me who does this. I'm convinced that most adults, when travelling alone in a car, have a favourite driving CD of choice and sing along to it quite seriously, giving it as much attitude and effort as they can, due to believing – in that instant – that they're the latest rock or pop god playing to a packed Wembley stadium. And there must be at least one man, one poor beleaguered City worker, who likes to pop into a phone box then come out pretending he's Superman. Is there someone who does this? Anyone? If so, I'd like to meet you and we shall marry in the spring (unless you're really, really weird and the Superman thing is all you do, in which case BACK OFF).

One more thing about the kind of audience that football has decided it wants: the clubs have got to make sure that they're good, that there aren't any lean years, because the new crowd won't tolerate failure. These are not the sort of people who will come to watch you play Wimbledon in March when you're eleventh in the First Division and out of all the Cup competitions. Why should they? They've got plenty of other things to do. So, Arsenal... no more seventeen-year losing streaks, like the one between 1953 and 1970, right? No flirting with relegation, like in 1975 and 1976, or the odd half-decade where you don't even get to a final, like we had between 1981 and 1987. We mug punters put up with that, and at least twenty thousand of us would turn up no matter how bad you were (and sometimes you were very, very bad indeed); but this new lot... I'm not so sure.

The cultural code of the stiff upper lip is not for her boys. She is teaching them that it is not “sissy” to show their feelings to others. When she took Prince William to watch the German tennis star Steffi Graff win the women’s singles final at Wimbledon last year they left the royal box to go backstage and congratulate her on her victory. As Graff walked off court down the dimly lit corridor to the dressing room, royal mother and son thought Steffi looked so alone and vulnerable out of the spotlight. So first Diana, then William gave her a kiss and an affectionate hug. The way the Princess introduced her boys to her dying friend, Adrian Ward-Jackson, was a practical lesson in seeing the reality of life and death. When Diana told her eldest son that Adrian had died, his instinctive response revealed his maturity. “Now he’s out of pain at last and really happy.” At the same time the Princess is acutely aware of the added burdens of rearing two boys who are popularly known as “the heir and the spare.” Self-discipline is part of the training. Every night at six o’clock the boys sit down and write thank-you notes or letters to friends and family. It is a discipline which Diana’s father instilled in her, so much so that if she returns from a dinner party at midnight she will not sleep easily unless she has penned a letter of thanks. William and Harry, now ten and nearly eight respectively, are now aware of their destiny. On one occasion the boys were discussing their futures with Diana. “When I grow up I want to be a policeman and look after you mummy,” said William lovingly. Quick as a flash Harry replied, with a note of triumph in his voice, “Oh no you can’t, you’ve got to be king.

Every few years, in the world of sport, someone ascends to the most rarefied of all levels—the one at which it becomes news not when they win, but when they lose. It must have been like that in the early Fifties, when a tubby Italian called Alberto Ascari was stitching together nine Grand Prix wins in a row, a record not even Fangio, Clark or Senna could match. Or when the great Real Madrid side of Alfredo Di Stefano and Ferenc Puskas won the first five European Cup finals, between 1956 and 1960. Or when Martina Navratilova dominated Wimbledon's Centre Court, winning nine ladies' singles titles in thirteen years. The current Australian cricket team is in just such a run at present, having just completed nine consecutive victories, putting them four wins away from establishing an all-time record. And then there is Tiger Woods.

The label finally decided I needed media training after I did an interview with the CBS Early Show at the Arthur Ashe Kids’ Day, a concert that kicks off the U.S. Open every year in August. I have to admit that I did not know who Arthur Ashe was. Now I know he was one of the greatest tennis players in the world and the first African American man to win Wimbledon. When he came out as HIV positive in 1992, he created an impact that lasted long beyond his death a year later. But back then, I just showed up and sang where people told me to. 98 Degrees was going to perform, so I was excited to sing with Nick again. I barely knew who any of the tennis players were, even Pete Sampras and Andre Agassi. During the interview before the concert, the tennis players and us singers stood off-stage, and we were each asked what it meant to be there to celebrate Arthur Ashe’s impact. “I’m just so proud to be here and to give back,” I said, and then turned to Andre Agassi. “This is such a great event you put on.” Andre’s eyes widened in a look of “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Everyone, including the news crew, realized I thought Andre was Arthur Ashe. The late Arthur Ashe.

Two days later, Michael Stich and I won the darkness-delayed doubles final against Jim Grabb and Richey Reneberg, 5–7, 7–6, 3–6, 7–6, and 19–17. It was the longest Wimbledon final ever in terms of games—eighty-three!—and the energy of the crowd, which had been let in for free on the extra day, made me forget how tired and stiff I actually was. Not too shabby for an old man.

If our wonderful impostor had been in charge of the whole Bricky situation, then he would have wrestled that first dragon to the ground in the middle of the men’s finals at Wimbledon right in front of the royal box with the entire Royal Family in attendance, possibly with Sir Elton John playing the incidental music, and then finished it off with his sonic sodding screwdriver. As a finale he’d have magicked up strawberries and cream for the entire crowd at no extra cost, making Jesus’s feeding of the five thousand look like the act of a misanthropic miser.

In 2013, British tennis player Andy Murray was lauded across the media for ending Britain’s ‘77-year wait’ to win Wimbledon, when in fact Virginia Wade had won it in 1977. Three years later, Murray was informed by a sports reporter that he was ‘the first person ever to win two Olympic tennis gold medals’ (Murray correctly replied that ‘Venus and Serena have won about four each’).61 In the US it is a truth universally acknowledged that its soccer team has never won the World Cup or even reached the final – except it has. Its women’s team has won three times.

Voilà à quoi je pensais, tandis que je marchais pour rentrer chez moi, légèrement ivre, après avoir quitté L. devant le bar où nous avions bu un troisième verre. Nous avions bien ri, elle et moi, au fond de la salle, car finalement la conversation avait dévié sur nos passions adolescentes, avant Barthes et toute la clique, à l’époque où nous accrochions des posters dans notre chambre. J'avais raconté à L. les deux années durant lesquelles, vers l'âge de seize ans, j'avais contracté puis developpé une cristallisation spectaculaire sur la personne d'Ivan Lendl, un joueur de tennis tchécoslovaque au physique ingrat dont je percevais la beauté obscure et saisissante, au point que je m'étais abonnée à Tennis Magazine (moi que je n'avais jamais touché une raquette de ma vie) et avais passé des heures devant les retransmissions televisées du tournoi de Roland Garros et Wimbledon au lieu de réviser mon bac. L. étais sidérée. Elle aussi l'avait adoré! C'était bien la première fois que je rencontrais quelqu'un qui avait aimé Ivan Lendl, l'un des joueurs les plus detestés de l'histoire du tennis, sans doute à cause de son visage austère que rien ne pouvait dérider, et de son jeu de fond de court, méthodique et rébarbatif. Selon toute vraisemblance, c'est d'ailleurs pour ces raisons, parce qu'il était si grand, maigre et incompris, que je l'ai tant aimé. À la même époque, oui, exactement, L. avait suivi tous les matchs d'Ivan Lendl, elle s'en souvenait parfaitement, notamment de cette fameuse finale de Roland Garros jouée contre John McEnroe, que Lendl avait gagné à l'issue d'un combat d'une rare intensité dramatique. Les images l'avaient alors montré victorieux, défiguré pour l'épuisement, et pour la première fois le monde entier avait découvert son sourire. L. était incollable, se souvenait de tous les détails de la vie et de la carrière d'Ivan Lendl que j'avais pour ma part oubliés. C'était incroyable, plus de vingt ans après, de nous imaginer toutes les deux hypnotisées devant nos postes de télevision, elle en banlieue parisienne et mois dans un village de Normandie, souhaitant l'une et l'autre avec la même ardeur le sacre de l'homme de l'Est. L. savait auusi ce qu’Ivan Lendl était devenu, elle avait suivi tout cela de très près, sa carrière comme sa vie privée. Ivan Lendl était marié et père de quatre enfants, vivait aux Ètats-Unis, entraînait de jeunes joueurs de tennis et s’était fait refaire les dents. L. déplorait ce dernier point, la disparition du sourire tchécoslovaque (dents rangées de manière inégale dont on devinait le chevauchement) au profit d’un sourire américain (dents fausses parfaitement alignées, d’un blanc éclatant), selon elle, il y avait perdu tout son charme, je n’avais qu’à vérifier sur Internet si je ne la croyais pas. C’était un drôle de coïncidence. Un point commun parmi d’autres, qui nous rapprochait.