Watching Tennis

This morning, as I do every Sunday,I went in my kitchen and, still in my nightgown, cooked two poached eggs and toast. Then, still in my nightgown, I leaned back in the recliner in my living room and watched “CBS Sunday Morning” and “Face the Nation” on my 42-inch plasma tv. What luxury! Who in the World has a more relaxing way to spend a Sunday?

After that, Charlie came and climbed on my lap. Together we watched the men’s final tennis match at Wimbledon. The Serb beat the Spaniard..

You know how I feel about the Serbs. Look in the archive for my blog: “I Hate Serbs.”

Today I give the Serb credit: Djovonik played an excellent game to beat Nadal, who won the past two years. The Serb became Wimbledon Champion by winning four sets to one over Nadal. How I wish his countrymen would pursue their goals as peacefully – and fairly!

A couple of years ago I was sad when Nadal triumphed over Federer. I liked the Swiss player. I also liked our American champion, Pete Samprus. Those are my prejudiced opinions, based on hearsay. I heard both were true gentlemen, on and off the court. I’m not always a Polyanna.

I’ve enjoyed watching Wimbledon for many years. I don’t play tennis. I took a few lessons when I was in summer school at Texas Tech in 1947. I am not quick on my feet. I never learned to serve. If I hit the ball, it went right into the net. I appreciate the skill of all the players as they dash back and forth across the grass courts in England with amazing agility, hitting balls back across the court as accurately as if they were Supermen. Maybe they are.

Wimbledon is the pinnacle of all tennis, outranking the French and American open matches. In all the years I’ve been watching, no British player made it into the finals. The English crowds cheer both winners and losers wherever they come from.

Twice I managed to be in England during the “fortnight.” Just like at home, I watched the games on television.

The first time I saw the excitement when young American Andre Agassi, long blond hair flying wildly, arrived to play in the championship games, a first time for him, too. He didn’t win that year, but the English loved him. (You’ve seen him, totally bald, in television commercials with his tiny son swinging the tennis racket.)

The second time in England I sat on the king-size bed in a bed and breakfast just a few miles from Wimbledon. Mother, David, and I went into that little town to catch the train to London. Like saying “I’ve been to Atlanta” because I changed planes in that monstrous airport.

I’ll soon forget all the dramatic shots in today’s match, just as I don’t remember who won the year Mother, David, and I were in England. On the final play, the Serb shot the ball over the net and Nadal sent it back, right into the net. I'll remember the pure job on Djovonik's face, more radiant than any bride’s on her wedding day.