The Tennis Player from Bermuda (21 page)

The groundskeeper snorted. “I don’t believe you, but even if I did, the courts aren’t in any condition for play.”

She went over to him and kissed his cheek.

He shrugged.

Claire took his arm and hugged it to her right breast. She stroked her finger slowly along his thin moustache. “Your moustache looks so dashing now that it’s all gray.”

“You’ve used that line with me before. It won’t work.”

I could tell his resolve was crumbling.

Still hugging his arm to her breast, Claire said, “Your wife is lucky to have such a vigorous man.”

“I’ll tell her you said so.”

“Which court would you say is in the best condition?”

“Court 5 is probably the best of a bad lot,” he grumbled.

“Good, I’ll practice on Court 5.”

Once we were on the court, and Claire was about to toss her racket and ask me to call it, I said, “Claire, was that appropriate? I mean, flirting with that older gentleman just now?”

“Fiona. Please. He loved every second of it. And we needed a practice court. Rough or smooth?”

T
UESDAY
, 26 J
UNE
1962
C
OURT
14
L
ADIES
’ D
AY
F
IRST
R
OUND
M
ATCH
A
LL
E
NGLAND
C
LUB
W
IMBLEDON

My first round match at Wimbledon was against a French woman, Michelle Lyon, who was seeded fifth. She was about 25, and 1962 was her fourth Wimbledon appearance. The year before, she had reached the quarterfinals at Wimbledon, and she had just played in the semifinals of the French championship at Roland Garros. Lance Tingay’s World Rankings for 1961 had Michelle in the number six spot. Claire had played her twice, once on grass and once on clay, and had won both times.

“Michelle is more comfortable on clay than grass,” Claire told me, “but her groundstrokes are strong. She’s consistent. She’s going to pass you at the net a few times. Just be steady. Don’t get rattled.”

“Can I beat her?”

“I’m sure you won’t if you’re asking questions like that. The question is
how
will you beat her.”

“So how do I beat her?”

“You’ve only got one game. You attack the net. So, attack. But she’ll have strong passing shots, and you’ll just have to deal with them. And you can.”

My match with Michelle was set for two o’clock on Court 14, which in 1962 was about as far away from Centre Court as it was possible to get and still be standing on a grass tennis court. (Today, the court known as Court 14 is just to the north of Centre Court, but in 1962 the ground north of Centre Court was beyond the Club’s boundary.) Claire was playing the traditional opening ladies’ match on Centre Court at the same time as my match with Michelle, so I was on my own. Claire had told me, though, that after her match she would come to Court 14 and hope to see the end of my match.

The first set went past in only 20 minutes or so; I lost 6-2.

I knew this was going to be a disaster. I would be out of Wimbledon in the first round. I cursed Mark for telling me I would lose; as much as I hated admitting it, I believed him. I absolutely had to pull myself together, right now, or Wimbledon would be over for me, quickly.

In the first game of the second set, I held my serve and played a couple of solid points at the net. Michelle won the first two points on her serve in the second game, but then I volleyed a ball back to her. It took a bad bounce on the grass in her deuce court, and her return went wide. So it was 30-15. Her first service went into the net.

This was my chance: I took her second serve on the rise, returned it down the line as hard as I could, and came in behind it. She got to the ball and hit it back crosscourt, but I caught it with my backhand and angled my volley short into her service court. There was no way Michelle could get to it. 30 all.

If I could just win the next two points, I would have broken her serve. I felt a little more confident; my volleys were working better for me now. Also, as I watched Michelle bouncing the ball, getting ready to serve, taking her time, I sensed she was thinking that she needed to get her first serve in, and hard, to keep me away from the net. I decided to take a chance: if she got her first serve in, and I could do anything with it at all, I would rush the net.

Michelle served. It was in. Beautifully placed wide but not hit that hard. I returned it down the line and came in. She had plenty of time to set up a passing shot. ‘Probably she’ll go crosscourt,’ I thought, and I moved toward the centerline of the service court. No, she went back down the line, and her shot was the hardest she’d hit so far in the match. I lunged for the ball and volleyed it back. Then I slipped and hit the grass with a thud.

My volley wasn’t the best, but at least it went deep and gave me a split second to jump back to my feet. Now she had to go crosscourt because I was at the net wide, and she did. But I caught the crosscourt shot and punched back a deep, hard volley. She had to lob.

I drifted back, picked out the ball against the sky with my finger and swung as hard as I could. Both my feet were off the grass when I made contact with the ball. Michelle charged for my smash and made it, but her return was wildly wide. My ad.

Michelle tried to do too much with her first serve and faulted. ‘This is it,’ I thought. She served a slice right into my body. I sidestepped, took it with my backhand, and started to run in behind it. But I stopped. I didn’t have to come in. It was a winner. The games were 2-love. I had broken her serve.

The crowds that second day of Wimbledon were distracting because people were walking up and down on the narrow path between Courts 14 and 15 – ‘St. Mary’s Walk,’ it had always been called, after the old church in the distance. It ran all the way through the outer courts to the covered gangway between Court 1 and Centre Court. Few of the spectators stopped to watch our match. It was a high seeded player against a qualifier nobody; it wouldn’t last long and would be boring while it did. I did my best to pull a curtain around the court in my mind and focus on the game.

At the next changeover, I sensed that Michelle was concerned. She’d been in worse situations than this and pulled out wins. She was up a set, but still – concerned. My volleys were clicking now, my footwork was better, and, most important, I had forgotten that this was Wimbledon. Now it was just a tennis match that I had to win.

I cruised through the rest of the second set and took it 6-3. Now there was a crowd watching us – could this be a possible upset? And this unknown qualifier was from
where
? Bermuda?

Third set. Neither of us could break the other. We went to extra games. On my serve, I made two stupid mistakes and got behind in the score. It was love-30. Michelle smelled blood. She was experienced; she was going to make full use of this opportunity I’d just handed her on a platter. Two more points and she’d put her first round into a bag.

For once, I took my time getting ready to serve. I tossed the ball high and out, and swung through it with every bit of strength I could find. The instant my racket collided with the ball, I rushed the net.

But my serve was an ace, my first of the match. Michelle didn’t get near it. 15-30.

On my next serve, I came in, and Michelle tried passing me down the line. I got to the ball with plenty of time, but I punched it back and it went just long. Another careless mistake. 15-40. Two match points for Michelle.

I faulted on my first serve. Nerves. I decided to gamble on following my second serve in. I hit a good second serve and forced Michelle to try and pass me at net. Michelle hit her shot into the net.

One match point saved. 30-40. Michelle’s ad.

Claire, meanwhile, had finished the demolition of her opponent on Centre Court. Now she was at Court 14 to watch the end of my match. The crowd made a path for her to the yellow rope along the side of the court; everyone knew Claire was my practice partner. The chair umpire noticed Claire’s arrival and gave her a short, stern glance that meant ‘no coaching.’ So Claire stood there, arms folded over her chest, showing no emotion, and not applauding.

I had never been so glad to see someone in my whole life.

I served wide, to Michelle’s backhand. She returned low, to my feet, but I made a good half-volley into her deuce service court. She ran up but couldn’t reach it. Both match points saved. Deuce.

I won the deuce point and gained the advantage. I served, ran forward, caught her return on my racket and punched it back. She had to stretch to reach my volley, hit a weak return, and I put it away.

My game. The crowd roared with approval.

I lost the first two points on her serve. 30-love. But then she faulted on her first service. This was the wrong time to hand me a second serve. I got to the net, took her passing shot with my backhand, and angled it away from her. 30-15.

She took her time on her next serve, and it paid off. An ace, her third of the match. 40-15. I risked a glance at Claire, who had not a trace of emotion on her face. Suddenly what Mark had said Sunday evening, that I would lose, that I had no chance, came into my mind. I gritted my teeth; I was
not
going to lose this match.

Michelle served, and I took the ball on the rise, returned it down the line, and came to the net. She got to the ball easily and hit a beautiful crosscourt shot, which I cut off with a volley and sent back down the line. Again, Michelle reached the ball with plenty of time and fired a forehand straight back at me, hard. I caught it with my racket, let my hand and arm drain off the momentum from the ball, and angled it softy into the opposite service court. A stop volley. Michelle couldn’t reach it. 40-30.

The crowd on St. Mary’s Walk had grown.

Michelle put her first service into the net. The crowd gasped. Michelle seemed tired to me. She had to serve as hard as she could over and over just to try and force me to stay back, and now her serve began to fall off just a notch.

I stepped inside the baseline for her second service. She sliced the ball wide but not hard. I sent it back down the line. This time, she hit a sharply angled, perfect crosscourt shot that should have been a winner. But I raced across the court and hit the ball back crosscourt.

I was off the court when I hit the ball, and I slipped on the grass and fell on my backside. The crowd groaned. But at least I’d hit a good volley, and Michelle had to run to get it back. She was off the court as well, and she hit the ball down the line with her backhand.

I sprang to my feet; I could just get to the ball. I ran back across the court as fast as I could and volleyed the ball crosscourt. Now it was Michelle’s turn to race across the court, which she did – Michelle was
fast.

She had time to hit a groundstroke but she didn’t; instead, she lobbed down the line. I was surprised. I wasn’t in a good position to take this lob. I had to jump to reach it with my backhand. I angled my shot into the opposite service court.

This should have been a winner. But Michelle sprinted diagonally across the court and reached my ball. Amazing speed. She hit the ball crosscourt, but then slipped on the grass. Michelle didn’t fall, but she did have to catch her balance rather than get back in position for my next shot. I knocked the ball with my backhand into the service court away from her.

Deuce. If I could just break Michelle’s serve, I thought I could take the match.

I won the deuce point. My ad. Michelle took her time serving. She went down the middle, to my forehand. She’d had enough of my backhand for one afternoon. I took her serve on the rise and ripped the ball crosscourt, deep into her deuce court. She couldn’t get to it. I had broken her. I would serve for the match.

The crowd cheered; even Claire decided it was permissible for her to yell “Fiona! Fiona!” Michelle, as a good sport, clapped her hand against her racket head in acknowledgement.

I was playing on autopilot. She took her time setting up to receive. I could tell she was struggling to make passing shots off my serve. I fell behind in the score, 15-30, because of a volley that went long. But I made it 30 all with a crosscourt volley, and then 40-30 after she lobbed one of my volleys, and her lob landed long.

Match point in my favor.

The crowd was hushed. I served and came in. She had to pass me. She went crosscourt, and by instinct I sidestepped and hit a backhand volley into the corner of her deuce court. She barely got to the ball and then hit another lob. She was tired. That’s why I was getting all these defensive lobs.

I set up, found the ball in the sky with my finger, and whipped my racket through the air. Michelle didn’t get near my smash.

Claire was jumping up and down yelling, “YES! YES!” I shook hands with Michelle and then with the chair umpire, who called, “Game, set, and match to Miss Hodgkin, 2-6, 6-3, 10-8.”

I was in the second round of Wimbledon.

I shook hands with Michelle, gathered my rackets and pocketbook, walked off the court and slipped under the yellow rope where Claire was standing, or rather jumping. She hugged me. She was still yelling. “INCREDIBLE PLAY!”

There were people with cameras taking photographs of us, and several British reporters were asking me questions. Claire knew all the reporters, and she said to them, “Not now, boys. Fiona needs a bath and a cup of tea before she’ll be fit to talk with the likes of you!”

Claire and I walked back along St. Mary’s Walk to the upper dressing room. She had her arm draped over my shoulders. All she could talk about was my “spectacular” upset of the fifth seed; she didn’t bother to mention her own victory on Centre Court.

“Claire?” I said softly.

“Yes?”

“I would have lost if you hadn’t been there.”

“Nonsense.”

But I could tell Claire was pleased.

As we walked, Claire warned me not to talk with reporters, at least not unless I had plenty of time to think and was careful in what I said. “They’ll twist anything you tell them.”

“Do you talk to reporters?”