Something New

For the last 5 days or so my life has revolved around Tennis. For the month before this my life revolved around the NBA playoffs. For the 6 months before that my life revolved around being newly married, and around NBA statistics. For the year before that my life revolved around convincing the love of my life to become my wife, then planning the wedding and somewhere in between these pursuits I factored in pro-football (barely) . For the 5 months before this my life revolved around convincing the love of my life to date me (this was not easy, she's much prettier than me). Before that...I'm not sure what I did with myself...I vaguely remember it involving music, YouTube, books, my friend Ryan and at one point Pokemon - but that was probably years ago. Anyway, no matter the time, through out my life I've always had something to revolve my life around...or at least something to keep me vaguely interested. When I didn't, time seemed to stop moving completely and existence became remarkably similar to what life in an old folks home must be like; nothing ever happened and my back mysteriously hurt a lot. I guess my life needs to revolve around something; when it doesn't, I really don't know what to do with myself. I am so glad that I have Wimbledon! And of course the love of my life. Bearing this in mind....

Today I'm going to avoid Tennis completely...well, almost completely. Did you see that Andy Murray match? Marcos Baghdatis looked like an overweight middle aged Greek fisherman out there! The fact that Murray took 4 sets to beat that guy is awful. In my humble opinion anyway...I'm no expert on Tennis. And besides, it wouldn't be a proper Murray match without the usual "OH NO!" moments. Anyway...I digressed into Tennis once again, even though I promised I wouldn't.

This isn't a Tennis blog. Promise.

So, something new...something new...

DAMN!! Cyndi Lauper was a scary looking MoFo back in the 80's! I'm currently watching the "Girls Just Wanna Have Fun" music video with my wife and I am starting to realize that I have NEVER seen a scarier looking can-can in all my life. Also...if girls really do just wanna have fun, does that fun need to involve copious amounts of confetti? Because if that is indeed the case then the house party that Cyndi and her posse crash/create at the end of the video was totally Off. The. Chain.    

This brings me around to what I was intending to write about tonight. Kinda. In all honesty I had no idea coming into this what I was going to say...I only know that I planned on mentioning Wimbledon. Again. I lied earlier. 

Well, we do have the 80's.

My wife LOVES everything about the 80's. The music, the movies, the fashion, Corey Haim. Every. Thing! I don't get the 80's. I lived the first month of my life in the last month of the 1980's and I am not ashamed to say that I am glad I got out of that mess fast! This is mostly because (excluding hair metal) I hate everything that the 80's had to offer musically. We'll get to that.

Growing up I was accidentally totally anti-music. My friends would waste time talking about what they had seen on Top of The Pops, music they had heard on the radio or who they were listening to at that point in time and while they were doing this I'd be off in my own little world pretending to be the BFG, making a dream trumpet and running around with a cloak on. I was totally cool, honest. They would ask me what music I liked and I would respond by nervously saying that I didn't actually listen to music. I didn't. And I was strangely ashamed of this.

I think I didn't listen to music because I was raised by my grandparents, they were old and as such they had pretty much forgotten what music was! Occasionally I'd visit my mom and my sister; they would always be listening to popular music. I tried to listen along with them, but I realized that I couldn't relate to it at all. I spent my days listening to The Lord of the Rings on cassette and pretending to be Macbeth. I was not a normal child.

In my defense this was the 90's and music wasn't exactly stellar. In Scotland in the 1990's people were listening to Steps, The Venga Boys, and a million shitty boy bands. I wasn't touching that! (My wife will hate me for this.) The 90's did have redeeming bands like Nirvana and the rest, but no one was listening to that where I came from...and if they did, they certainly stopped after 1996. I discovered what I call "the gems's" of the 90's much later.

When I eventually discovered the power of music in my early teens, I was drawn to Hip-Hop. I was attracted to the controversy of it all! The swearing, the glorification of violence, the misogyny (which is wrong!) and the unknown. Hip-Hop was initially something totally unknowable! I couldn't relate to the life of urban African-Americans! I was a white 14 year old from Scotland, attending a posh boarding school. This music was not meant for me. But like a fly drawn to the neon glow of a hanging bug zapper, I was pulled in. Hip-Hop helped me express complex emotions that I never even knew existed within myself. Thanks to 50 Cent I realized that I truly don't give a f**k if it's your birthday, shawty, even though we're gonna party like it is in fact your birthday.

Now, back to the 80's. I just don't understand what was happening musically during that decade. It seemed like it was required by law that every song/album to involve synthesizers, key-tars, keyboards steeped in ambiance, or saxophones to make it releasable. Why?! From my observations I have also noted that awful hairdo's were a prerequisite of success, music video's couldn't make sense and every man had to dress and act (in at least one video) like a Geisha. For someone who was initially drawn to Hardcore Hip-Hop and who now favors Classic Rock (with abundant splashes of rap in there also) this does not make sense. You will never see Scarface act like that. You will never see Eazy-E act like that! (Not just because he's dead, but also because that dude was real!) R.Kelly technically did molest children a la Gary Glitter, but come on! He's about as real as Superman's love child! He does not count! You will never see these things. I know KISS wore make-up, Mick Jagger was extremely camp and at least 20% of the bands that I LOVE were founded in the 80's...this does not mean that I can relate to that decade. Maybe that

I married someone who loves 80's music...so one day I may learn to understand it...maybe even love it. Who knows? Certainly not me. You will never totally escape some things, no matter how hard you try. I fear that the influence of certain aspects of 80's culture certainly fits this mold. Forget fearing it, I know this is the case! I guess all that's left then is to find some girls that just wanna have fun, start a can-can, get plenty of confetti, throw a raging confetti filled house party and then slink off quietly to an empty room, put in my ear phones and cradle myself while listening to "Poppa Was a Player".

What The Hell Just Happened?

I imagine that after Lukas Rosol spanked Rafael Nadal like a petulant child during the fifth set of tonight's incredible Center Court match at Wimbledon and sent him crashing out of the tournament, the remaining three of the worlds top four got together on the phone. They had some MAJOR issues to talk out. I imagine that their imaginary conversation was strained...even painful. They had just watched their brother in arms, their friend and common enemy be beaten, ball-gagged and sodomized like Marsellus Wallace in Pulp Fiction. This happened in front of millions. On Center Court. At Wimbledon. Did I mention that millions of people were watching? Because they were! And as Djokovic, Federer and Murray sat watching, they probably all thought the same thing: who the Hell is Lukas Rosol?

That's what I was thinking. I was watching this massacre with my family, getting more and more drawn in; with every Ace, every 99mph return of service, every crushing forehand that Rosol delivered made me ask again: who the hell is this guy? What am I watching? It's been two hours since Nadal crashed like Oceanic Airlines Flight 815 and I'm still in shock. I can't believe it. This is what it must have been like being a bystander at the fall of the Roman Empire. Rafael Nadal is to Tennis what Kryptonite boxing gloves are to Superman in Apollo Creed's Americana shorts. He's the guy that keeps on grinding. He's the Tennis world's equivalent to Michael Jordan, John Elway and Muhammad Ali in their respective sports. I'd say he's second only to Federer on the list of all time Tennis greats. So really he's like Bill Russell, Joe Montana and whoever they consider to be the second greatest boxer ever...I don't follow boxing. The point is; Nadal is incredible! He's the guy you never discount. He's never out of the game, even when he looks like he's out of the game. He can always come back. Except when he can't...and tonight, for the first time I can remember - he couldn't.

That's what made tonight so unbelievable. I've never seen Rafa look so scared. Never. Occasionally he looks shaken, even nervous; but never scared! And tonight in that fifth set, he looked, like Liv Tyler in The Strangers scared. Going by tonight I wouldn't be surprised if Nadal's career just simply imploded. His uncle won't let him touch a racquet after this. No way. Nadal will be serving up paella in a cantina in Barcelona by Saturday. Maybe...

A lot has to be said for Rosol. Tonight he played the game of his life. He played like the Albanian Mafia had abducted his little sister, and her only hope was an upset over Nadal (can you imagine the odds on this game? If you bet on Rosol - Congratulations! ) tonight. He couldn't play a bad shot! It was like he was channeling Djokovic or something. (I sense a Freaky Friday style sports comedy could come out of that idea.) Rosol was in complete control of that fifth set. Nadal was out played. Purely and simply out played. The whole match was an anomaly.The first set went to tie break; this was unexpected. Rosol commanded the second and third sets; this was really unexpected. Nadal went wild in the fourth set; this was typical. Then Rosol made Rafa his bitch in the fifth; this was insane! Lizzy Borden level insanity. Like I said, kudos has to be given to the Czech. In his post-match interview he looked like Moses after he saw God for the first time. He struggled to put words to his emotions. Not because of any language barrier, simply because he was stunned by what he had accomplished. He couldn't believe it.

I'm wonder if this Rosol thing might turn in to the Tennis equivalent of Linsanity. Linsanity on a much smaller scale, but insanity none the less. "Rosolmania" maybe. If Rosol continues in the same manner for his next match, it'll happen. Unquestionably. He'll be the new tennis wunderkind (at 26...maybe not). Just like for those 5 or 6 weeks between February and April when Jeremy Lin was king of New York and the king of the NBA, he'll be the king of the court. If that happens I'll be amazed. 

What's more like to happen is an exit in the next round, tonight's game proven to be a fluke, a freak occurrence...an ATP double rainbow. Rosol will be forgotten (just like Tennis) and Rafael Nadal will come back with the ferocious intensity of a wolverine on crack. Andy Murray will crash and burn in the quarter-finals, Djokovic will win Wimbledon, Federer will continue to dress like he's going fox-hunting with the Duke of York, and like I emphasized in my last post: Tennis won't matter until next year. Everyone who isn't Rafael Nadal or Sue Barker will forget who this guy is, or was. 

Even so...it was still something. To someone like me, someone who loves Tennis (and really any sport, I'm becoming "That Guy", we all know a "That Guy" he's that guy who stays up late to watch basketball games and researches baseball statistics) tonight was really, really something special. Something to remember.

I know the top guys were watching. They had to be. How could the not be drawn to this? One of their own slapped around like Whitney. Philipp Kohlschreiber was probably watching too, thinking to himself: "What can I do against that?!"

When Federer, Djokovic and Murray had their imaginary conference call to discuss the "Rosol Problem" they probably couldn't figure out what the hell to do. Steal his racquets? Tell the Albanian Mafia to raise his sisters ransom? I'm sure they couldn't come up with anything, because if he plays again like he played today, he will be unstoppable. 

I come back to my original question: who the hell is Lukas Rosol? Where did that come from? If every male player at Wimbledon isn't asking themselves that same question, they should be. And they also should be asking: what the hell can we do to stop him?

I just spent the last 3 hours of my life thinking about one Set of Tennis...at times like this I have to ask myself something very important: why did my wife marry me? 

I'm sure she asks herself that question too...

Thirty-Love: Why only Wimbledon matters.

There’s a small tennis club that’s about five miles away from the house that I grew up in; it sits just off of the main road. It has six courts that sit side by side, the court surface a roughly 50-50 sand/AstroTurf mix. For eleven months out of the year it sits, deserted. The gates are always open, and every two days or so you might see a car or two in the adjoining gravel car park as you drive by. The club has lighting, but presumably you need to be a member with a key to turn the system on. Usually the club remains deserted. Except for two weeks out of the year when you see nothing but hive-like activity. Two weeks when this small tennis club, and thousands around the country like it, are swarming with life. The two weeks of The Championships, Wimbledon. During these two weeks the club literally buzzes with small children holding over-sized racquets, old couples playing back-and-forth and sulky teenagers who’ve suddenly become sporty after years of hiding in their bedrooms listening to Slipknot and Megadeath. The courts teem with activity during the two weeks of Wimbledon except, of course, when Britain’s annual number one seeded buzz kill Andrew Murray – or Andy to his, well…everyone – steps on Centre Court and ruins the Great British Summer.

Now, I’m not here to rag on Andy Murray. Not at all! The sporting press and anyone who has ever seen a tennis racquet will do enough of that when his tank runs out of gas in the quarter-finals. I’m not here to pick on poor Andy, we all know that he’s useless, and really that’s all that needs to be said about him. He’s like Jessie from Breaking Bad: he means well, but he is just useless. What I want to look at is this: why does tennis suddenly become important when it’s being played here? Why is it only during Wimbledon that tennis matters?

Question: why does no one care when they’re playing tennis in Australia, or France or Uzbekistan? I’m sure they have tennis players in Uzbekistan. And presumably (if it exists – I haven’t done any research here…) the Uzbekistan Open is a semi-prestigious event. I’m sure that they even clean the camel turds off the court before play commences. I’m sure Andy Murray plays this event if it actually exists. So why don’t we care about tennis then? Why aren't the nation’s children out buying cheap Wilson racquets and sneaking over the fence on to private tennis courts year round to practice (weather permitting, of course) during that tournament? Again I’ll ask; why is it only during Wimbledon that tennis matters? 

I feel that a lot of it has to do with deeply rooted British pride. We are a nation of prideful Brit culture-junkies. We love to love being British and we love everything this involves. We’ll complain until we are blue in the face about the state of things in this country. We’ll complain to anyone that will listen. But we here in Britain are proud of our mess. We love our mess! We wouldn’t have Britain any other way, even though we spend inordinate amounts of time talking about how much Britain needs to get its act together. We have that British pride that just won’t quit. We love our music festivals, our mediocre musical acts that have somehow attained prominence in America (another British Invasion, only this time the “music” isn’t music, the “artists” are actually talent show hacks and it definitely hopefully won’t last); we love our traditions, our Queen, football, football violence and more than anything else we just love being British.

 Wimbledon falls in with this great big bubble of Britannia. It’s our tournament. It’s a sport the French invented, but we brought it here and we Brits will be damned if we’re gonna let those bastards lay claim on anything. It’s our tennis tournament. Of course these feelings are subliminal, we don’t even realise that it’s an international struggle against the French. We probably don’t even realize that we care, or why we give a damn. We just do. It’s in our blood. We just love Wimbledon. It’s a tradition.

This kinda illustrates why Britain will never embrace “American Sports” like Football, Basketball or Baseball. We have our sports. We don’t want or need any more. We can’t relate to these modern sports. We like our sports like we like Sunday dinners, TRADITIONAL! We have football (how'd America get Soccer? Really?) a sport that peasants used to play with  pig bladders during feudal times, a sport that the British working class have been able to get drunk to for over 140 years! We’re not going to replace this tradition with ten tall black men, two hoops and a bouncy orange ball. Hell no! This isn't because we're racist here (we are) it's because we don't get it. We also have rugby, a sport that the inbred aristocracy and pompous middle class have been using to hash out their daddy issues for well over 150 years. It’s a sport (and really, just something) that the Welsh have actually succeeded at! There’s no way that that’s going anywhere anytime soon. Then we come right back to Tennis. Tennis is all manners and restraint. Whereas in Yankee Football there is no restraint, just sheer brute force and trash talk; pure power and aggression. Even though the majority of Britain is working class, we’re really still all about our traditions, even if we don’t like to admit it and even if we don’t realize it. And where British sports are concerned, it really doesn’t get any more traditional than Wimbledon. I mean come on! I saw Prince Charles at Roger Federer’s Centre Court match today! Royalty attend Wimbledon! You’re not gonna see the Royal Family roll up at the Super Bowl. You can count on that. American Sports will never make it in Britain because we are too hung up on our “old” sports to welcome in any new sports. Not only that, we SUCK at all of our sports on an international level. When sports are concerned, we Brits SUCK on all the levels you can think of. There’s no way that we’re getting shown up on a Baseball diamond.


Like I said, it all (probably) comes down to our national pride. We have a lot of pride in Wimbledon. It’s part of our culture. Like it or not (usually not) we watch Tennis between June and July. It’s what we do. It’s Britain’s Tennis tournament. We have to care. Just like you wouldn't see the Royal Family in throwback Patriots jerseys at the Super Bowl (you’re more likely to find Drake and Chris Brown sharing Gazpacho in a Canadian Bistro tomorrow afternoon), you won’t see them at the Uzbekistan Open. It’s a fact. You won’t see it because it doesn't matter. Only Wimbledon matters. It matters because it’s British. 


I've only driven past that local Tennis club once since Wimbledon started, and it was during Andy Murray’s first round blow out against Nikolay Davydenko. It was deserted. No cars in the car park, no one on the courts. I didn’t drive past today, but I didn’t need to – I know what I’d find. I know that it was packed, that it’ll be packed tomorrow (until the Andy Murray game) and that the trend will continue until Wimbledon ends. It may last for a week or two after that, but then the inevitable will happen: those courts will again be deserted. They’ll be used maybe once or twice a week. Tennis will be forgotten until a) next year’s Wimbledon, or b) Andy Murray wins a Grand Slam. Whichever comes first? All those racquets bought across Britain will find themselves bagged up and thrown to the backs of hallway closets. Neglected, forgotten, gathering dust and Tennis will once more cease to matter.

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