The Wrong Pants

Okay, anybody who Really Cares about sport is a bit nuts and probably a prey to their hormones (ie testosterone) because none of it actually matters one iota. Still, for the last week of June and the first of July in England, a lot of the population is nuts, and for once, including me. So I have something to say about the tennis.

I have watched Wimbledon with various levels of fervour ever since I was ten years old, when I went to tea with a girl so cool her television-making mum let her have people over with nobody else in, and we ate cucumber spread on white bread and watched tennis with the wonder of children still enraptured by the glory that was colour television, and the heady sense of adulthood that lone tea and tv inspired. I treasured the wins of Boris Becker, yawned and switched over from Pete Sampras, and fell asleep during Edberg; and for the last few years I have squeaked "Too good!" in chorus with commentators during many a Federer rally.

Federer is a funny faced little thing, with his squashy nose and hiding teeth, but I have warmed to him over the years - in spite of his tedious consistency - for two reasons. Firstly, he is invariably one of the gracious and the generous. It's hard to watch a Federer match without disquisitions on his charitable work (presumably to reclaim his reputation as he straight-set -squashes opponents on-court like so many flies). In interview he is polite and rather dull. He sets a good example for sportspeople, many of whom behave extremely badly - in some cases to the extent of sexual and physical assault. Not so Mr Roger. His recreations are mainly buying lovely new suits. Who doesn't love a man with nothing to prove?

Secondly because he is not only a brilliant placer of the ball - someone who can create beautifully unreturnable shots, exquisitely placed in the corner or on the line, who can move about and return shots that lesser players wave to as they go by, who can surprise the viewer with his ability to out-think somebody sitting on a sofa and find the time to do it - but because he moves with such elegance. He is a big teddy bear type bloke with a lot of body fur, but when he plays a backhand, he adopts a pose famous mainly in ballet (an attitude) and sculptures of Eros or Cupid. Ridiculously but truly, he is graceful.

For these reasons, I can forgive him an awful lot. And on finals day, he graciously wore white underwear, which was a relief. Nadal always does, but he is troubled by his mighty muscular beefcake bottom. He is a bull of a boy, with an arse too powerful to be comfortable in its trowsis, and the amount of time he spends picking his Nike plus fours out of his bumcrack beggars belief and sometimes holds up play. If I were Nike, I would be busy redesigning his shorts, but to be fair, his pants are serious and appear to be about the same size as your average Spanx Magic Knickers. Maybe they were magic, too, while plainly Mr F was not wearing his lucky pants. We saw them in earlier rounds, and they aren't white. Nuff said.

Which brings us to the deep disappointment of his loss yesterday. I accept that he would have to lose sometime, and there would be no other giant killer than Rafael Nadal - likewise a poster boy for good manners and charming behaviour, clearly the perfect escort for Miss Robson to the Champions' Dinner UNLIKE SAFIN WHO IS 28 DAMMIT - who could bring him down. I also accept that Rafael Nadal, who has been writing a delightful blog for the Times Online this year, in which his Home-Loving Charm has been on daily view, is probably a relatively nice person to be beaten by, and that the crowd just adore him. He is young, devoted to his family, works as hard as nails, and he deserves his victory; but I was not impressed by his fans' behaviour yesterday.

Federer actually blew the match by not challenging a couple of bad calls at psychologically key moments, and by dumping many many balls in the net, which he does not usually do. To some extent this was as much a match lost by Federer as won by Nadal. But he cannot have been assisted by the untimely shrieks of "Come on!" to Nadal in mid-stroke, or the calling of "Out!" during rallies. If the spectators can't behave, they can watch on telly.

I also didn't like the chanting of "Rafa! Rafa!" between points. For the first time, I felt the crowd at Wimbledon was ungentlemanly. I felt it a bit during Murray's matches, but frankly the Brits need all the help they can get, and since there is no prospect of them blundering into a final, it seems less important. (One hopes the will French shriek for M Gasquet at least as loudly should a re-match occur at Roland Garros.) Still - there is no need for it to turn into football. One should watch the tennis, as much as enjoying supporting the players. Especially when I (alone) am in a proper English manner supporting the underdog, without the aid of lucky pants.