I never thought I’d see it, a beauty winning a major title, at least not since the Williams sisters and the ghastly Maria Sharapova came on the scene. But there she was last weekend, an olive-skinned enchantress winning the French Open and charming everyone with her femininity and grace. If only Ana Ivanovic did not use the word ‘guys’ so much, she’d be perfect. But, what the heck, that’s the price you pay for mixing with Americans on the circuit.
Will her looks last? Not if she keeps playing they won’t, so let’s enjoy her while she still has them aged 21. Nothing kills beauty quicker than sweating and battling under the harsh sun. Mind you, most women athletes are dogs to begin with, and that definitely includes tennis players, but there have been a few exceptions. Annabel Croft for one, but she quit early on and just in time. Gabriella Sabatini was another beauty who quit on time, as did Anna Kournikova, Gussie Moran and one Carol Fageros, ranked in the top ten during the Fifties in the States. But they were the exceptions. Most champions are not blessed with looks, which I suppose is fair enough. How would you like to face a Keira Knightley across the net when you look like Martina Navratilova? The Almighty knows what he’s doing.
My pet hate is that Sharapova woman. She does not grunt, she screams, and she does it in order to put off her opponents. But such is the Gadarene greed of professional sport that no one dares raise the issue. Her sponsors should replace Miss Bovine, all six foot three of her, with Ana Ivanovic, the Belgrade belle who has bewitched me to the extent that I have not thought of The Spectator’s deputy editor since last Saturday.
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