The grass is always greener on the other side
...on the other side of grass court season that is
The grass court season is upon us, friends, and there is no escaping it. No matter who I tried to bribe real high up in the tennis organisations, no matter how much I prayed to the Gods of weather to have a 5-week-washout during the lawn tennis, no matter how many cows and sheep and llamas I let loose at night to rid myself of the most hated surface of mine - nothing helped. I still had to put on those terrible shoes with suggested spikes on the sole that never really held my balance firm or my footing stable and I had to go out and “play tennis” as I would routinely say raising my hands up next to my ears, two fingers upright, bending them twice in the universal language of quotation marks to demonstrate to everyone around that I didn’t consider lawn tennis to be tennis. Lawn tennis? More like yawn tennis, am I right?
Now, hear me out. Of course, I’m absolutely and utterly wrong about this. Maybe more wrong than anyone has ever been on anything. But we are in 2024 and in 2024 the more wrong you are the more stubborn you have to defend your opinion.
As with most things, it all goes back to childhood. The first time I stepped on grass to play tennis, I was about 15 years old. I had just gone through a growth spurt and most of my energy went into understanding the limbs of my body. Why were they there and why didn’t they react when I told them to run? Having knees that wouldn’t bend, ankles that wouldn’t budge and way too small a head in proportion to it all (the head thing is pure aesthetics and has nothing to do with tennis) made playing on grass challenging, to put it mildly.
I have a never ending fascination with how the mind works and my experience on grass is one of the reasons why. Having had a bad experience when I was 15 is one thing but around the time I turned 19 I actually made the final of a WTA grass court event in s’Hertogenbosch und lost in 3 close sets to Justine Henin. Who knows -maybe, possibly, if the wind had blown north - if I had won that match (I was up 3:0 in the third set, too) everything would be different today. If I had won that match I would have probably also won Wimbledon mere weeks later, I would have likely married a royal and this newsletter would come to you straight from a hidden typewriting room at Buckingham Palace. But alas. I didn’t and honestly, it’s the royal family’s loss because I’m known to be a delight.
I am also known to be rigid at times, not really flexible when plans change and I live in constant fear of losing control over my life, my emotions and other people (kind of exactly like the royal family - it truly would’ve been a perfect match). All these character traits disqualify me instantaneously from all grass court events. It’s the one season we have where tennis, surface and nature are one. Every morning begins with a worrying gaze up into the sky, scanning moisture and rain probabilities, measuring temperature and fog attacks from the oceanside in Eastbourne. The humidity, the sky, the sun - all part of lawn tennis. The drier and warmer it is outside the higher the bounce, the firmer the step on grass. The colder and wetter it becomes, the more slippery the running will be, the quicker the tennis ball moves through the court.
There is no slowing down your opponents’ groundstrokes or serves with the help of clay particles or the miraculously steady bounce of hardcourts. Every shot is different, every bounce a surprise, every day misery for somebody like me. I liked to practice a lot. I felt better when I hit the ball a thousand times. It gave me security and peace of mind. On grass, the more you hit, the less rhythm you have. It’s all upside down! Why is it all upside down?
The players that tend to do well on grass are either the ones who are very flexible and have good hands - think Roger Federer, Carlos Alcaraz, Ons Jabeur - or the ones who move on grass the same way they do on all other surfaces - the likes of a Novak Djokovic or a Simona Halep. I couldn’t do either. Serving exceptionally well helps, too, I heard. I moved on grass as if it was spilled milk on a linoleum floor, played on it mindlessly, rigidly, with no regard for the organic nature of its consistency and I served fine but fine is not enough for pasture.
I would do it all differently today if I wasn’t in tennis terms a 100 years old.
And then there are players that are just born to play on grass for the rest of their days. My good friend Angie Kerber for example. The moment she stepped on the green garbage you could see her become lighter right in front of your eyes. The timing impeccable from the first second, every hit point in front of her body, the serve all of a sudden uncomfortable to return, the movement gloriously elegant. Low and gliding, back and forth like the tides. I hated her. It was the only time I had to break up our friendship just to reconcile a few weeks later in Washington DC. Finally back on concrete where tennis is monotonously predictable, when I was back to normal and Angie still one of the best tennis players I had ever known. Some people are just born with it and others (me) somehow inherently know that spreading salt on grass might just kill it.
Things that make me happy:
I know this is very European of me but the Europe Cup in soccer is currently on and I’m absolutely loving it. I hadn’t turned on my TV in months but now it’s just running, running, running. All games, all day, every day. I watch them all. Yes, even England. I was watching one of the Italian games and it reminded me of the time I had my knee checked out at a celebrated doctor’s office only to run into one of their very naked national team players. I won’t reveal who but I do know that he has an interesting tattoo across his lower abdomen. Leave a girl be.
Things that make me unhappy:
I’m reading The Talented Mr. Ripley by Patricia Highsmith at the moment. The book is very good and it’s making me quite happy but it was only a google click away before I found out that Patricia Highsmith was a raging anti-semite. I clearly have a type (in literature): problematic writers. Sigh.
The one thing I’m looking forward to in retirement is rekindling my strained relationship with grass. I think we still have a shot at romance. In a couple of weeks at the legends event at Wimbledon for example. I will see you all next Friday. Freshly cut flowers on your kitchen table might just lift your mood!
Yours truly, Andrea
I think you would make a very good comedy writer.
I have played on green garbage just once, at the Tennis Hall of Fame in Newport, Rhode Island. After an hour, my lower back hurt for the rest of the day from bending, bending, bending for every shot. Where did the bounce go?
It was super pretty though, the courts. Though we had to wait half an hour later than our scheduled time, because there was too much dew on the blades of grass. 🙂