Women's tennis: This season's stylish new grunt
Women's tennis: This season's stylish new grunt
Also In The News
Saturday, 19, Jun 2010 04:50
Women's tennis is as much about post-stroke exhalations as shimmering strokeplay, discovers Alex Stevenson.
The Aegon Eastbourne women's singles, part of the Sony Ericsson WTA tour, reached its semi-final stage on Friday. Centre court on the south coast has some subtle differences to its better-known equivalent in SW19: more squawking seagulls, more wrinkly spectators, some quaint Gothic towers stuck on the overlooking houses.
But the similarities are all there. The kids on school trips rustling their crisp bags, the front row of frankfurter legs tanning in the sun - and, from across the outer courts, the primordial howl of line judges as they inform the world a ball has just gone "aaaaahhhht". The scene was set for semi-final number one: the well-regarded Sam Stosur, a feisty (and, we were to discover, grumpy) Australian, was taking on a Russian qualifier named Ekaterina Makarova.
One of my companions, a tennis writer who has actually played the game, pointed out that the individual with the tanned thighs, sporty sunglasses and ruthless streak to our left was the world number eight's coach. His running commentary on her progress was relentless in its positivity. As the game progressed Storus was repeatedly told to "compete"; to "have some purpose"; to "stick to it"; and, in a moment of crisis, to "just play".
A marvellous idea dawned on me. Surely ordinary mortals would perform much better at their day jobs if they had a coach urging them on? "Find a way," I'm urged, as I struggle to think of another word for 'politician'. "Big mental effort", I'm told, as I sweat over my keyboard. "Work hard, come on!"
Presumably Storus was already aware these were good ideas. She responded by ignoring them all.
Or at least she appeared to. On closer inspection the real communication between the pair was not in the froth of inane encouragements, but a much more subtle interplay of expression. The most significant exchange came just as Storus slipped into her final defeat. Her coach gave a simple downward gesture with his left arm; she sighed desperately in response before returning to the remorseless momentum of her losing game.
Storus' opponent, the tenacious Makarova, was remarkable only for the nimbleness with which she evaded especially bouncy serves. After a poor start she continued her impressive run to the final with quiet efficiency, slowly wearing down "Sammy" with a series of nifty returns and aces. Storus became increasingly frustrated - and her game paid the price.
Her grumpiness was nothing to the personality on offer in the second semi-final, when the tempestuous Belorussian Victoria Azarenka took on France's Marion Bartoli.
The first set, won by the alarmingly fluorescent-pink-dressed Azarenka, was observed from the luxurious setting of the hospitality suite. Its muted surroundings only told half the story. As we tottered back to our seats a strange feminine cry could be heard, as if a damsel was being most definitively distressed. What was this quavering, shuddering whimper of a whine?
It was, of course, the latest grunt on offer from the aural world of women's tennis. Not that there was anything gruntish about the Azarenka moan, which seemed to have originated more out of extravagant habit than from a search for extra strength.
Bartoli, perhaps feeling left out, attempted to compete with a grunt of her own. Hers sprang from direct exertion, as she sensed the game slipping out of her grasp. It was no competition to the extended Azarenka trademark.
There was no let-up. Between points Azarenka spent her time muttering what seemed like quiet oaths in her native language. Sarcasm seemed to form a large part of her armoury: the net cord (kissed) and an unmoved linesman (glared at) were given special treatment. Bartoli had no reply. Azarenka won in straight sets.
After the main event came a clash of the (male) titans - the world numbers 46 and 47, Michael Llodra and Alexandr Dolgopolov. The big-hitting men's game takes some adjusting to after the fizzing rallies of the women's, but there was still scope for Llodra to demonstrate his creative excellence over Dolgopolov's steady orthodoxy.
Even creative geniuses have their troubles. "Ah, merde!" the Frenchman yelled after one of his less successful efforts. His coach, the former world number one Amelie Maursemo, didn't bat an eyelid. Llodra's exhalation was nothing to what emerges from the mouths of women tennis players.