The Oprah-fication of Wimbledon

Now that the weakest Wimbledon since 1973 – the year of the boycott – is over, a few thoughts about Pam Shriver’s recent revelations that her coach Don Candy, deceased, was also her lover. Candy was 50 at the time, while Pam was 17, which in my book made Candy a lucky guy, assuming it was legal. The age of consent varies from place to place, and the only time I had to defend myself was when an irate father, whose 28-year-old daughter I had dated, rang me early in the morning and complained about me being 72. ‘There is no age limit as far as being too old,’ I told him. He rudely hung up on me.

But before I go on about Pam Shriver and her oldie coach, a few comments are in order about how Oprah has taken over tennis and even Wimbledon. Once upon a time Wimbledon was, well, Wimbledon. Players bowed to the royal box, McEnroe’s ‘You cannot be serious?’ was as bad as it got, and Bitsy Grant’s question, ‘Did the chalk get in your eye, buddy?’, to a linesman who had called his ball out, encapsulated the wit of the men and women who competed in SW19. I haven’t set foot in Wimbledon for years because the grounds are now all corporate, and I no longer know anyone there. But watching on the idiot box, some of the players’ entourages are straight out of Hollywood’s Murder, Inc. films. Novak Djokovic’s box in particular could be ‘Lucky Luciano and his gang come to SW19’.

Never mind. What bothers me is all that kissing and embracing between competitors, and the tears. Everyone is always either crying or kissing someone. And the banality of the post-match on-court interviews makes Oprah sound like Lord Clark of Civilisation.