By Bill Simons

Wimbledon defines refinement: cool and studied, an intimate country fair, subtle and subdued. “Well-played, old chap. Now how about that spot of tea?” Stiff English pomp and propriety frame serve-and-volley grace; mists touch soft green lawns.

The U.S. Open is New York harsh. In your face, a grinding subway, steel on steel — feel the rush of the ecstatic joy, such a straight shot of adrenaline, a gritty city’s high.
In contrast, the French Open is an allusive poem. Here clinging clay yields marathon matches in a weather-worn old bull ring; the subtle beauty of a delicate drop shot speaks truth to power while a seeing eye lob at last decides the battle, a humiliating finality.

Roland Garros is all swirl ’n style: buttery warm croissants, lovely mesdames laden with gold bangles, pinstriped power brokers, hordes of giddy teens, ample shrieks. Here Latin accents sound amidst lilting accordion singsongs and waves of feel good laughter. A joie de vivre spirit breathes a continental delight.

But beware, a slow-death quagmire awaits usually imposing musclemen; that desperate diving volley — match-point down — may only be rewarded with a face full of rusty dirt.

Somehow, the dramas of this stage linger. Roland Garros does not hide its ghosts. One glimpses leaping Lenglen, her naughty arrogance speaks a proud defiance. Here a merry cadre of Musketeers danced like no other ensemble, while more recently Swede Borg and “our Chrissie” exuded a modern calm, such nice ice. One wonders whether the fire that stoked Yannick Noah’s triumphant leap still smolders, or whether some still relish the twitch-in-the-wind pathos that unfolded during that mother of all tennis implosions: poor little rich girl Hingis sobbing with a naked vulnerability as the merciless tribunal unleashed a thousand unforgiving howls, a sad sandbox saga.

But we prefer to recall more joyous times and the memory of two improbable lovers — Andre and Steffi — the distant, inaccessible Fraulein wrestling demons and the wide-eyed Vegas showman hoping to grasp it all — embracing a spring wind, touched by Parisian magic.

Yes, wondrous Wimbledon has emerged so proud, so true — the product of eons of civility, a stand-tall triumph for the ages. And while the U.S. Open throng is informed by a roaring intensity (hot Mac ’n Jimbo and many a cool Heineken), the French Open remains a mystery that Connors, Mac, Boris, Pete, Ashe ‘n Andy could never quite solve.

Here, Costa, Moya and Guga prevail. Here Henri, Mary and Amelie inspire. Here, a revived Spanish Armada proudly sets sail. Here, the power game is muted, cannons are subdued. Topspin explodes, clay has its day.

“Pardonez moi, Monsieur Roddick, your 146 mph serve is trés magnifique. Your forehand impresses. But this is the domain of savvy calculation, n’est pas?” Here patience prevails, the inventive laugh free. The wise do, at times, emerge triumphant. For this is not merely the place of oh-so-curt waiters (Left Bank) and oh-so-cute models (Right Bank), but a land of wine and whimsy, cafes and au laits, insane artists and Seine lovers, Simone and Sartre — an enclave, seasoned by revolution and
ruin that still lives by a singular modus operandi, timeless and informed, an
ancient pulse.

For this is France.

This is Paris.

Allez, let the volleys and follies begin! l