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Watching the French final at the weekend, you felt for poor Robin Söderling who was presumably wishing to Christ he could be anywhere else. The most interesting bit of the afternoon — apart from the Fed’s grace in victory, pleasure in his own achievements and effortless ability to switch from English to a beautifully modulated French — was the presence of Vogue dominatrix Anna Wintour, resplendent in gigantic shades and cemented bob haircut — in the Roger box. I then remembered she appears to have a massive crush on him (who doesn’t?) and has taken him as her plus one to the front row of Marc Jacobs fashion shows.
But Wimbledon is about much more than Federer, Anna Wintour and assorted levels of Murraymania. It’s also a showcase for a much more typical kind of Brit. Let’s call him Chris, because he generally is. Chris is 22 and has a world ranking somewhere in the 300s. He and an old school-friend share a flat in Surbiton that’s cluttered with sweaty tennis gear. For 51 weeks of the year Chris ekes out a living on the ATP Challenger circuit, losing in the second round at such tennis meccas as Posnan or Bogota, from where he sends long text messages back to his girlfriend — she works in PR in Chiswick — telling her how much he misses her.
Then along comes Wimbledon. As tournament hosts, the All England Club has in its gift a number of wild cards it can put the way of anyone it fancies. Obscure Brits always do well out of the arrangement, and this is Chris’s big moment.
He gets lucky in round one when he comes up against a young Kazakh who is already exhausted from battling his way through four rounds of qualifying while spending his nights in the back of a camper van parked in a driveway in Kingston. The Kazakh swears at the umpire a lot (in Kazakh) but Chris keeps his cool and he’s through to the second round. This time he’s even luckier. He’s up against another Brit, with a similar story to tell. This one’s called Mark. Chris beats Mark in front of a Court 13 crowd that doesn’t know which one to cheer, and now he’s in round three. The press is going wild and Chris’s girlfriend, who is called Leah and turns out to be rather pretty, is pictured on the front of the Daily Mail.
Chris’s opponent is the No. 19 seed, an Argentinian who is ten times more talented than Chris but a bit iffy on grass. Chris plays a blinder. He gets to match point but dumps an easy volley straight in the net. By now the No. Two court is full to bursting, spectators are almost fainting with excitement, and the BBC delays the start of Gardeners’ World to stay with the tennis. Eventually, of course, Chris loses (8-6 in the fifth), but he’s had the entire nation in his thrall and shown that he’s got a pretty decent backhand.
But within a couple of days everyone’s forgotten about him, and a couple of years later he retires for a lucrative job in sports sponsorship. I wonder who this year’s Chris will be?
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