Right arm over the net

I was watching the doubles finals of the 'Tata Tennis Legends Tournament' at the Cricket Club of India last weekend, when my mobile phone rang. It was my mom calling.

"Who is that guy they are showing on TV, playing? The one with the moustache?" Mom asked, sounding excited.

"Masoud Bahrami," I replied, feeling rather bemused.

I mean, this was mom. Who has never watched tennis in her life. Who has often pulled the power plug on the TV set, to keep me from watching sport when I should be studying.

This was mom -- who still maintains that my passion for watching sport is the reason my grades, through school and college, weren't all that they should have been.

Tennis had a new fan that evening.

My mom.

She was not the only one. If you were there at the CCI, you would have realised that the Masters tournament had achieved a quite unexpected result -- and I don't mean Henri Leconte beating Bjorn Borg in the final. Around me, I saw a whole heap of people, young and old, finding their interest in the game rekindled.

I saw people having fun at a tennis match.

That's what has gone missing today -- fun. I can't, for the life of me, list the ten top-ranked players in the world today. Which is a shame, considering that I can still name the winners of the various Slams through the eighties, and even tell you who the losing finalists were. These days, though, rankings are changing faster than the 125mph serves from the 'new balls please' generation -- and one colourless number one replaces another.

In fact, I gasped the other day when I caught the name of the eighteenth ranked player today. 'Pete Sampras', it said, on the ATP list.

For the greats, time is evaporating faster than uncovered turpentine.

All this is why I enjoyed the Masters so much. Masoud Bahrami, the zany Iranian with the handlebar moustance and deep dark eyes, together with his peers injected into tennis a few moments to cherish.

It was difficult to tell who was enjoying the game more -- the crowds, or the players. So tell me -- when last did you see a player ranked in the top 20 actually seem to be enjoying his tennnis, like a Connors, or a Borg, or a McEnroe, or Becker, whoever, did in his prime?

Being at the tennis was a revelation, after the hectic cricket season. The sublime Bjorn Borg, the 'Bull of Pampas' Guillermo Vilas, the elegant Brit John Lloyd, maverick Frenchman Henri Leconte and of course, Bahrami of the thousand antics, all descended on us for a brilliant exhibition.

As a cricket correspondent I had built a little coccoon around myself, these last few months. An insular world, like a bookmark tucked inside the pages of Wisden. A world that was one non-stop scurrying for news and interviews and statistics, analyzing the sport, finding the tears behind the smiles, talking to the defeated in dressing rooms around the country...

When your view is so limited, it is easy enough to throw adjectives like 'great' and 'legendary' around. And then you find yourself, unexpectedly, watching a Bjorn Borg in action -- and realise just what such words mean.

The Swede looks nothing like he did in his heyday. If the mental picture his name conjures up is of flowing locks kept in place by a headband, and a rather embryonic beard, forget it -- Borg, today, is clean-shaven, his hair is neatly cut, the bandana is missing.

"I don't enjoy watching the game anymore," he tells me.

You watch him, and you can understand why he feels that way. The serves weren't flying around at 125 mph. But there was speed. Sureness of shot selection. Artistry. Finesse. Skill. There was no Grand Slam title at stake, but yet the shots were dipped in precision, and sped by purpose.

They brought flair to their game, and colour. And mood and sparkle and magic. A far cry from the six-foot-plenty giants strutting their machismo on today's tennis stage.

Bahrami is funny. All the time. Watching him, you'd think he had never known sorrow, never been on the same planet as disappointment. Yet he is the man who lost the best playing years of his life because Ayatollah Khomeini believed that tennis was a banned substance.

So he lands up in France without knowing a word of the language. He has 8000 francs in his pocket and no idea what a franc is worth. And he makes his maiden ATP appearance as a professional, at the young age of 30. And three years later, actually makes the finals of the doubles event at the French Open.

That is his background. If his moustaches dropped in sorrow over all he has missed out on, we could understand. If he had permanent frown lines and a sorrowful mein, we could empathise. But he laughs. And plays pranks. And has the entire audience laughing with him, having a good time. Because he so very obviously is doing just that -- playing good tennis, and having a good time.

"I love playing, but I love fooling around the court more. I love it when people have fun watching me. I cannot tell you how many matches I lose that I should win, because I am playing to the gallery. Often I win, but I feel people haven't enjoyed the game, so I am upset. But when the crowd laughs, I am the happiest man in the world," says the man who gives a different dimension to the phrase "court jester".

"There was a time you thought that the whole world was yours," says Guillermo Vilas. "You could express yourself. It is not like that anymore."

The 'Wild Bull of the Pampas' is considerably more sober now. But no less outspoken, for all that. "Today's players are not naturals, that's the problem with them. They have nothing to say. They all say the same thing, do the same thing. It is a shame that there is no one to make a statement that is not influenced by the agents or the sponsors.

"One needs to complete himself, try to absorb a lot of things. A sport can't be your life. Life is not about competition; it is about knowing who you are, improving yourself in areas you are lacking. More than the pressures of competition, the pressures of self-improvement are tougher," he tells me.

Then -- to prove a point? or simply to delight in his own multi-faceted personality? -- the two-time (1978, 1979) Australian Open and one time (1977) US and French Open title-holder takes pen and paper in hand, and he scribbles a poem, impromptu, and he hands it to those of us mediamen who were around.

Nothing can be forced
Nothing can be dictated
Nothing can be told
Make them feel
As it is more real
Than the emptiness of the word

They are like that, these legends. Each a personality. Each full of life and colour, and more dimensions than a kaleidoscope. No two of them are alike -- except in their greatness.

"Today, tennis is a business, it is not a sport anymore," says Henri Leconte. "There are no personalities; the new generation is very disappointing."

I listen and I watch and I think, no new balls for me, I'll settle for old.

There were crowds. Not crowds as I have known them on the cricket circuit. But people, enough of them, in the seats. And the whole arena was turned into one homogenous entity -- the players, the officials, the mediapersons, the spectators, all united in a common desire to glory in the game of tennis, and to have a whale of a time while we were about it.

"This is better tennis than I have seen in the past ten years," exclaimed a man with greying hair and glasses thick as a car windshield, after watching Borg fire a brilliant passing shot past Leconte.

Leconte, who went on to win the bout, thought so too. "Jesus Christ", he audibly exclaimed as that shot whizzed by him.

The magic was still alive. Maybe not on the centre court of Wimbledon. And maybe the audience was about one-tenth the number that huddles under umbrellas at the All England Lawn Tennis Association courts to watch the rain come down. But who cares?

Not I. All I had eyes, and thoughts, for was the fact that I was watching shots being played that I hadn't known even existed.

As an obsessive cricket fan, I have mentally played the 'what if Michael Holding were to bowl to Sachin Tendulkar' game. Now I have a new game to play -- what if Bjorn Borg were to go up against Gustavo Kuerten on clay? What if John McEnroe faced off against Pete Sampras on grass? If Jimmy Connors were to slug it out with Andre Agassi on asphalt?

One thing is for sure -- in the game of personalities, of colour and radiance, the 'oldies' win hands down.

In the midst of applauding yet another stroke of beauty, I paused to answer my mobile phone.

It was my mom. Again.

"Get me his autograph."

Illustration: Uttam Ghosh

Faisal Shariff

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