The French Open is on (between the showers) and is serving up the usual band of grunting clones who will stand at the baseline and slap the ball at each other until the last grunter falls and Nadal flexes a bicep in an excruiatingly overused parody of himself and everyone goes home.
It’s the equivalent of watching two geeks play Tekken. Interest level – zero. Why? Because there are no real people out there playing out the type of human drama I grew up with.
There are no battlers. The sort of players who eventually lose after five sets but receive a standing ovation anyway.
There are no bad guys. The sort of players who are so highly strung you just know they are going to freak out and smash up their deck chair.
There are no heros. No guys who refuse to lay down in the face of some Swedish machine who never hit the damn ball out.
No stories to live and die by. No one to cry with at the end of the game.
What’s left? Tennis. And unless you are out there playing or sitting with your new business man boyfriend waiting to be photographed in the stands, no one gives a crap about tennis. Hitting a fuzzy ball over a net, or catching a pigskin ball in the end zone, or tapping a tiny white ball into a tin cup are all just motors for us to experience human stories.
No story – no point.
PS Jimmy’s take on it.