NOVEMBER/DECEMBER 2007

By Bill Simons

t had to be a mirage.

While trekking in youthful bliss near the Himalayas, I turned a corner on some long forgotten trail and before me, shaped out of the exotic slopes, was a shimmering vision: a delicious, oh-so-inviting tennis court.

I couldn’t resist. So I put down my backpack, straightened my more-than-scraggly hair and soon talked my way on court. As I promptly cranked out a few decent-enough cross-court backhands and stroked a nifty Seeing-Eye lob, the local Indians’ jaws began to drop. “Had Rod Laver suddenly descended from the moon,” they seemed to wonder.

I, too, was stunned to see a tennis court hidden deep within the Garhwal Hills. I shouldn’t have been. After all, one of the greatest defining forces in history was the unrelenting spread of “Western Civilization” by British colonialists. Armed with a mercantile genius, bolstered by a penchant for by-the-book administration, and stirred by what they called “the white man’s burden,” plucky Brits with their mighty muskets, imposing Navy and stiff upper lips brought afternoon tea to the African Savannah and sleepy villages by the Nile; to Fiji or the frozen north, to idyllic rain forests and the dusty Aussie outback. Never mind slavery and plunder, opium and caste, divide and conquer — for three centuries, it was quite the adventure: a surge of manners and marmalade; power, profit and propriety. And in the wake of all the voyages and victories, followed all those delightful sporting endeavors which emerged out of the fertile Victorian mind — cricket, rugby and tennis.

So colonialists in India created Hill Station retreats to escape the withering heat of the subcontinent and the court I encountered was but a curious vistage of “the Raj,” the brightest “jewel in the crown” of an Empire which, at its height controlled more than one quarter of the world’s population.

But all things must pass, and, after WWII, the British Empire — not unlike the Soviet Bloc after it — began to crumble like some mighty house of cards. In 1947, Britain lost its greatest treasure.

But no matter, the indomitable Brits exited in style. “On the balmy evening of Aug. 15, 1947,” Ben MacIntyre recalled, “Earl Mountbatten of Burma, the great grandson of Queen Victoria and the last Viceroy of India, gave a sumptuous party in the Mughal Gardens of Delhi to mark the end of that empire. Thousands of tiny lanterns hung from the bougainvillea and jacaranda trees as the great and good of India, past and future — native princes in dazzling array, British colonial army officers, Indian politicians of every creed and stripe wandered among the fountains and rose beds, sipping Champagne and eating canapés...It was a surreal occasion — Britain renouncing and dividing up the jewel of the empire with every appearance of satisfaction.”

But don’t kid yourself, just below the surface, there was a certain gloom and melancholy — an inexplicable sense of loss and dismay: all that glory and dominance now but dust and memory. Sadly, Britain also wilted in all those grand games they themselves had invented. The West Indies or the Aussies prevailed in cricket. New Zealand and South Africa ruled in  rugby. And the futility was even worse in tennis. Not only had no Englishman won Wimbledon since 1937, but unlike rugby, cricket and soccer — the prevailing championship in this sport actually came each year to British soil, London’s All-England Club.

But as the world watched, all the homestanding Brits could offer were modest journeymen soldiers like Roger Taylor, John Lloyd and Jeremy Bates. That is, until young Timothy Henry Henman stepped out on Wimbledon’s hallowed lawns in ‘94, carrying the aspirations of land and nation, history and hope, on his (not exactly Atlas-like) shoulders.

At last, imagined the dreamers, here was the feel-good savior who would lift the weighty Anglo malaise. After all, young Tim brought to court a splendid resume. His mother played junior Wimbledon; his grandfather played Davis Cup; his grandmother was the first woman to serve overhanded at Wimbledon; and his great-grandmother was the last woman to serve underhanded at Wimbledon.

Plus, he was neither dismissed as a gold-digging immigrant (think Greg Rusedski), nor did he drop in from some distant province of the Kingdom, like the suspect Scot Andy Murray. Instead, with great and earnest sincerity, he displayed a demeanor that was (“Pass the crumpets, dear, if it’s not a bother”) quintessential English middle class. Forget that at his first Wimby he was defaulted for bashing a ball at a ballgirl, here was an Eagle Scout with pedigree. Well-mannered, demure, civil and somber, the almost too sincere lad emanated a calm and fighting instinct that empowered him to survive a torrent of storms. And don’t forget that he was the only player in human history who actually skipped about Centre Court as if it were recess.

It’s no wonder that when the Oxford-bred lad orchestrated a splendid run to the ‘96 Wimbledon quarters — Henmania, that singular national frenzy — was hatched. Every June for well more than a decade, giddy Brits — young and old, wise and witless — would simply go bonkers. All traces of sensible reason and levelheaded logic would mindlessly be suspended as the masses gleefully embraced their bizarre collective fantasy: this pleasant unassuming chap (despite his ample limitations) would rekindle the nation’s pride, heal its long-festering wound and show the long-dismissive universe that Britannia could rule something.

Many an athlete has crystallized national aspirations. Americans Joe Louis and Jesse Owens, who countered Hitler’s hatred, immediately come to mind. But the annual outbreak of Henmania was something else. Dub it the English version of boxing’s “Great White Hope,” without the racism; Raider Nation without the viciousness or Duke’s Cameron Crazies without the devilish dimensions. Rarely have realistic expectations been battered with such ritualistic joy. No, these devotees were not lemmings. Still, a curious herd sensibility would kick in as fans blithely flew their flags and painted their faces. Stoked by many a pint they would queue overnight, oblivious to storm and chill. Then, once courtside, for hours on end, they would squeal their plaintive mantra — “C’mon, Tim” — in the vain hope he would go all the way.

He never did. Yes, Tim volleyed brilliantly and stroked 1,001 deadly backhands. He improved his fitness and upgraded his once vulnerable forehand and often battled bravely. But there was always one unspoken, but very imposing foe — British expectations. And always, he suffered a certain Wimbledon fate. After scoring four or five draining wins, inevitably came the tortuous defeat that left his Henmaniacs emotionally disemboweled. Needless to say, Tim’s annual runs were inflated into self-indulgent operatic teases which then were dissected with surgical precision by the (“build ‘em up just to tear ‘em down”) media. The mass pathology assured a ferocious blowback. Floods of self-loathing, a dark sense of gloom, harsh ridicule and harebrained theories were grist for the brutal mill. Rarely have so many loved to hate a single athlete. One wondered whether Henmania was simply the English version of Schadenfreude, the German concept of taking delight in the failure of others.

So one headline warned Tim, “Choke now and we will never forgive you.” “Dim Tim’s defeat to a 20-year-old was criminal,” claimed another. “Wet, wet wet...No, not the weather, just choker Tim,” screamed another. When I asked my cabbie about Henman’s chances in an upcoming match against Sampras, the cockney muttered, “Well, lad, I’ll be serving you breakfast on the moon tomorrow morning if that bloke wins.” Some like Pat Cash said that Tim’s problem related to class. “Tennis needs working-class icons,” the Aussie asserted. “Henman’s a nice guy, but he has that comfortable middle-class look about him. The English middle-class basically doesn’t have the stomach for a fight.” Ever a convenient punching bag, Tim came to be blamed for everything but that wretched weather. His endorsement of washing flakes drew scorn. His (“Where’s the fury?”) fist-pumps were said to be contrived and far too wimpy. Not only was his nickname — “Tiger Tim” — dismissed as lame, he was said to be saddled with a dismal first name. “If Henman ever wants to win Wimbledon,” Martin Amis asserted, “he’ll have to change his name. Henman was the first person named Tim to achieve anything at all...The name lacks gravity...the Tims of the world had all their ambitions crushed by being called ‘Timmy’ during childhood.

The (name’s) association is with “timid” and “timorous” from the Latin “timere: to fear”...”Hello, Timmy” — imagine what that does to you, after the first few thousand times. The real puzzle is that the Tims do as well as they do.”

On-court, Henman’s moves were de-constructed with excruciating detail. “When Henman plays in order not to make a mistake, he has already made one,” suggested the London Times. Even the president of Tim’s fan club demolished him. Asked if she found Tim fascinating, she responded, “No, I find Agassi fascinating.”

Inevitably, Tim never escaped the relentless scrutiny. So we had the spectacle of the usually intelligent fellow, saying, “I am not wild, but I would like to think I am not a robot and a boring idiot.” Even worse, when he was said to be the “the human equivalent of beige,” he responded with that less-than-immortal self-defense: “I’m not the human form of beige...I’m multi-colored.”

Truth be told, Henman was a splendid middleweight who in the end could not bring down the heavyweights. Britain’s best player since Fred Perry in the ‘30s and arguably with Thomas Muster, the best Northern or Central European player since the Becker/Edberg era, he was a consistent top-10er who, despite clear limitations, reached as high as No. 4, got to the Wimbledon quarters or beyond eight times and reached the semis at both Roland Garros and the U.S. Open.

But he just couldn’t capture lightning in a bottle. Yes, he went out on his own terms — scoring a poignant Davis Cup doubles win with Jamie Murray this September against Croatia. Beaming ecstatically, his three-year-old daughter Rosie hoisted in his arms, here was the very image of paternal contentment. Henman viewed it as the perfect ending.

Appropriately enough, Tim’s last win was on Wimbledon sod and it helped prevent England from free-falling into the minor leagues of Davis Cup play. But (dare we be real), this was not the storybook ending Henmaniacs craved. Their man ultimately could not go back in time to rekindle past glories. He just was not the magical wizard who could (whoosh) put the Jewel back on the tattered crown of that long-ago Empire. Like all of us, the man fell short of immortality. He failed to become the first British man to claim the Wimbledon crown in seven decades, a lapse that allowed the critics to sarcastically remind the crestfallen nation that despite the constancy of their sporting losses, “England was still champs at bog snorkeling.”

Nonetheless, as Sue Mott wrote, Henman was “heroic in will if not outcome.” His achievements were singular. After all, unlike the long-standing former Prime Minister Tony Blair, noted Mark Hodgkinson, “[Tim] got the middle classes to willingly sleep rough on the streets of London.”

Okay, Timmy’s name was less than macho and he never reached a Slam final. But considering his enrichment of the game, allow me to make the heretical suggestion that they reserve a seat in the International Hall of Fame for the guy who inspired Henmania — the most passionate and heart-felt emotional rollercoaster that has ever rumbled through our sport.

Plus, the foremost tennis hill station in the entire commonwealth is now not in the shadow of the Himalayas, but is that Wimbledon Mecca they call Henman Hill.

To contact Bill Simons, email him at editorial@insidetennis.com.

 

 

 

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