London sojourn

I started off on what was a slightly hastily planned trip to India. Well, the trip to India wasn't really hastily planned, but the stopover in London was.

Montreal to London on Canada Day, three days in London, and off to India on July 5. I hadn't seen the latest scores from Lord's and was hoping for some rain to extend the West Indies-England Test into a fourth day. Maybe, just maybe, I might be able to lay my hands on tickets for Sunday's play.

I hadn't noticed the Eggspectations in Dorval Airport before. Forget all the fancy restaurants. To me, Eggspectations is the place to be in Canada, for a wholesome meal.

I could probably write an entire diary on the food there, but I won't digress here. But, I've got to mention the following to any sports-minded person, well proper sport, you know. Not the arm-twisting, head-banging ones that have their pride of place in N. American sporting society. As I scanned the menu, I happened to look upward at the wall in front of me. Of all the things you could imagine, there were a couple of cricket pads and bat hanging off the wall. There are very few things in Montreal that would put you in the right frame of mind for a cricket-minded trip to Lord's. Or at least so you'd think. For a few minutes, I kept staring at the wall in front of me, like some happy kid who's just been handed a new toy. My honey-and-mustard chicken burger seemed to taste a bit sweeter than usual.

July 2nd: I got into Heathrow an hour or so behind schedule courtesy an Air Canada delay in Montreal. The first thing I did once I got off the plane was to check the newspapers. Champagne Cork screamed the Observer in big bold type. Last I'd heard in Montreal, England was tottering all too familiarly at 140 for 6. After another multiple wicket-taking burst from that man, Courtney. Cork's combative heroics had taken the match away from Adams's men. So that was it. England had won. No live cricket at Lord's. I sort of felt happy for England though. Down in the dumps after their early Portugal-inspired ouster from the Euro Cup, this was something to cheer about at least.

At the Heathrow terminal tube station, someone was shouting "For Wimbledon tennis, take the District line to Southfields from Hammersmith". I'd already begun to like London. I took the tube up to Hampstead. St. John's Wood isn't very far from Hampstead. It was therefore quite logical to be staying there. Perfectly bias-free cricketing logic, that is. I got off at the Hampstead Heath station and walked along nice, cobblestone footpaths to the Langorf Hotel where I'd booked a room for the night.

Suddenly realizing that Langorf was Frognal in reverse (and since the address of the hotel was 20, Frognal), I'd momentary visions of some kind of a shady establishment. But, the hotel turned out to be a nice, cosy bread-and-breakfast place. A couple of paintings hung from the wall next to the stairs. "Dean Jones, Durham, Australia" said one. "Gordon Greenidge, Hampshire, West Indies" said the other. I realized I'd begun to develop a strange liking for walls, in general.

I took a cab to St. John's Wood. "Lord's," I told the cabbie. 'Oh, the cricket ground,' he nodded. He didn't seem to share my enthusiasm, but I let it be. Spotting the huge new media centre, I asked him to pull up. The oddness of this huge, all-aluminium monstrosity is quite striking. As you take the turn around St. John's Wood Road on to Wellington Road, it comes up quite suddenly on you. Modernity raising its ugly head, I thought, a bit cynically. I walked slowly away from it and behind the Mound Stand.

As I walked beside the old brownish grey walls, almost on cue, I began to recall the great innings that they had been witness to. Richards's pasting of England in the '79 World Cup, Border's fighting 196 on that '85 tour which otherwise all of Australia would be glad to forget, Gavaskar's famous bicentennial 188 against the Rest of the World.

Looking to my left, I saw a poster-ad. for the Wisden Cricket Monthly. It said "Shame" in big type and had a taut, pensive Cronje above the caption. He seemed to be looking a bit wistfully at the ground from behind the Mound Stand. The poignance was striking.

A bit further down, there was a set of fixtures. Eton v Harrow, England v W. Indies. It was a bit like a happy combination of a Wodehouse novel and reality.

Stopping myself from possible random reflections on PSmith's leg spin, I exchanged a few cricketing pleasantries with the West Indian steward at the gates on St. John's Wood Road. 'No tours of the ground today maan,' he said. 'Saw the Test yesterday?' I asked. 'Yeah,' he smiled. 'Great match, maan, but we lost.'

At the Grace gates, I was told there would be three tours each on weekdays. I did get a closer look at the ground though from the Tavern stand. I strained my eyes to catch the famous slope. It wasn't the best spot on the ground though to discern it. I commented as much to the stewards there. 'Oh yeah, there is a slope all right,' they smiled knowingly.

I had to grab a bite at the Lord's Tavern. Pasta isn't exactly cricketing food, and there weren't too many people about. I could tell my friends, however, I grinned to myself, that I'd had lunch at the Tavern. There was a plaque hung up in a corner celebrating the South African team's dinner there during the '98 season. Cronje's name seemed to pop up everywhere.

Since there wasn't much else to be done at the grounds, I decided on going to central London. Since this is meant to be something of a sporting diary, I won't bore you with details. It was in a lot of ways like walking on an old Monopoly Board, Bond Street, Oxford Street, Piccadilly, Mayfair. London has character. Almost subconsciously, I compared the newness of big N. American cities to the still existent old world charm of London. I felt an almost instinctive liking for the latter.

July 3rd: Early on Monday, I checked out of the Langorf, and moved into the Windmere close to Victoria Cross. Depositing my bags there, I took the District Line down to Southfields. It was the tennis equivalent of Sabarimala or Amarnath. I could barely contain my kiddish excitement as the train crossed Putney bridge and pulled into Southfields station.

The station was carpetted in green, and there were tonnes of tennis balls bouncing about in glass tubes on the platform. The ten minute walk to the grounds is quite an uplifting experience.

Close to the grounds at SW19, REAL tennis fans were camped, armed with tents and all. Tennis Woodstock, I thought to myself. I got to the grounds, got the ground pass for ten pounds and walked in. Outside the Centre Court building, I looked up the famous board schedule for the day. It was a quarter to twelve and matches were yet to start.

I caught sight of V. Amritraj-A. Amritraj vs F. Stolle-K. Rosewall on Court 9. This was more than I'd bargained for. In some ways, the seniors' tournament is where the real entertainment lies at Wimbledon. I strolled over to Court 9.

Walking between the outside courts, I really began to understand what Wimbledon is all about. I looked at the crowds milling about happily. The ball boys and girls opening up new ball cases, the ones at the net doing the usual routine of rolling the balls to the ones at the baselines. The umpire going up the chair dressed in the famed green. Everyone waiting for the 12 o'clock announcement of play commencing. Sporting theatre at its traditional best.

'Who're Vijay and Anand?', someone asked. 'Oh, they're the Indian brothers,' a more tennis-literate friend of his replied. A greying Australian talked of Rosewall in slightly hushed tones. As I watched Vijay, himself greying at the sideburns walk in with Anand, I found myself grinning vaguely. Rosewall looked extremely fit, amazingly so, or a man of his age. Stolle looked like a man who enjoyed his food and drink. Vijay had a bit of the contented-man-in-his-forties waistline. Smiling as usual. Anand looked just as serious as he did fifteen years back. As they practised, I couldn't but help being amazed at their feel for the ball. The power had gone, but the touch and racquet control remained. Overheads were greeted with loud Aaahs. Some of it was play acting, some of it wasn't.

As they practised, a familiar-looking figure walked on to court 10 to practise. In all white, there was the man himself, Andre Agassi. Crowd heads turned almost automatically to court 10. Vijay peered through the throng to see who it was there that had caught the crowd's attention. The pace off the grass from Agassi was incredible. Dear Brad Gilbert was having a tough time keeping up.

The Indians went up a break quickly. Once Stolle hit a nice backhand down the line. 'Lucky shot,' murmured Vijay. At around 5-3 to the Indians, a bunch of older women were getting up to leave. 'Leaving already ladies?' enquired Vijay to the surprised bunch in between points. 'That's the way to the loo,' he suggested helpfully. Everyone around laughed.

'That's my new coach,' said Vijay, in between points again, pointing at his son. "Are you guys in the US these days?" I asked of his son. 'Yeah,' he smiled, while telling his illustrious dad where to serve. Very much the usual father-son relationship, I thought sagely to myself. "I remember listening on radio when your dad played Connors here in the '80s," I told him, sounding rather like a tennis grandad. 'Oh really?', a sort of happy surprise crossed his face.

Half way through the second set, the Indians having won the first set rather easily, Vijay's cell phone started ringing from inside his racquet bag. 'Vijay, I think it's your phone,' said Stolle. Picking up the earpiece, Vijay said, 'Hello, oh hello dear, I'm on court 14, I'll have to hold serve and call you back." More laughter.

Kenny Rosewall seemed to run out of steam toward the end of the second set. As Rosewall hit a pass down the line to get to 15-0 when they were serving to stay in the match, Stolle shouted out: 'Hey Kenny, now we've got them where we wanted them.' More chuckling.

Vijay and Anand closed out the match after a few match-points. As they signed autographs, I couldn't resist a 'Hey, Vijay, you're playing much better than 15 years ago.' Pat came the reply,'Oh, you're very kind, sir.'

Earlier during Sahara Cup matches in Toronto, I'd thought of taking pictures with Tendulkar. But, thinking I was a self-respecting member of the media, I'd decided on keeping my teenage-ish emotions in check. But, here, all self-restraint took a free fall. I asked Vijay eagerly for a photograph with him. Taken by his son no less. It's nice to feel like a teenager at times.

There was a decent match on, on court 3. The temperamental South African, Wayne Ferreira was up against the promising Belarussian Voltchkov. Voltchkov was already up two sets to love with surprising ease. Ferreira almost habitually was talking to himself and didn't look too happy. Voltchkov holds a lot of promise. I think he'll do even better on hard courts.In between a few typically brilliant points from Ferreira, Voltchkov had taken firm control. Around 4-4 in the third set, I started walking past court 3. The electronic scoreboard on top of Centre Court said Sampras was up a break against Bjorkman in the first set. It must be pretty difficult to concentrate on court 3, I reflected, with rapturous cheering breaking out from Centre Court every other point.

I walked over to the food stands. Strawberries and cream, obviously. Slowly munching on the strawberries, I looked up at the electronic scoreboard again. Sampras had taken the first set against Bjorkman. I walked up St. Mary's Walk, and settled into a nice corner on the hill there. The giant screen outside Centre Court afforded a splendid view of proceedings inside. Sampras was running away with the match.

After a nice, soothing half an hour of Sampras magic, I remembered there was a Rafter match on Court 2. Court 2 has standing room, so after a bit of a wait outside, you can get in for a pretty good view from the higher stands. There were a couple of Aussies in front of me. The distaff side had quite a decent representation as is usual in Rafter matches. The more I see Rafter, the more he reminds me of Pat Cash. I think it is the slow, deliberateness as he prepares to wind up for his serve and the walk.

Rafter's is a remarkably beautiful game amongst the raw power that is the men's game these days. Every winning volley was greeted with a youthful yelp of C'mon Aussie, C'mon. Come on Patreeeck, that was one of the girls at the back. C'mon Meeester Rafter, typical Aussie drawl from in front of me. All of this seemed too much for poor Johansson. Rafter went up two sets to love in seemingly no time, when presumably for bad light, we heard the announcement, "Play suspended". Some Aussie barracking that wouldn't have been too out of place on the old SCG hill followed. 'Hey, they were playing at the Centre, when the Yarra flooded it mayte, what are we waiting for, Ump?'

Players returned in a bit, Johansson seemed to find his second wind and played near-perfect tennis for a bit. "Spiked your tea didn't ya?", shouted the same boisterous Aussie. After a minor hiccup in the third, Meeester Rafter came back to win it in four.

Back outside Centre Court, I scanned the order of play again. Kournikova playing doubles on Court 14. I saw an enormous crowd bunched together courtside. The match was almost over. Kournikova and Zvereva had won. She obviously liked the attention. The crowd was equally obviously there for things other than tennis. Tube stations in London had her sports apparel ad. plastered all over them. 'Only the ball should bounce,' they said rather solemnly. The crowd evidently hoped for something slightly different.

I walked over to the other outside courts again. A lot of junior singles matches were on. A Croatian boy Karanusic, looking for all the world like a young Bobo Zivojinovic, was creaming the ball everywhere. He didn't pretend to possess any other purpose in tennis or in life for that matter. Smash the cover off the ball, that's what I'm here for, he seemed to suggest rather loudly. It wasn't very different on the girls' side. Heidi Farr, copying Graf for every self-encouraging slap on the thigh, didn't possess the same power in the overhead though. She was being made to run for her life, by the depth and power of the Australian Christina Wheeler's groundstrokes. Not one serve and volleyer did I see in either girls' or boys' matches.

It was past seven by now and I took the bus back to Southfields promising myself I'd come back the next day.

Back in my hotel room, I turned on the TV. The Lord's Test highlights were on Sky. Vaughan and Atherton batted like twins almost. Same fighting approach without being Tavaraesque in dourness. Walsh was almost unreal. It's difficult to conceive he will ever stop bowling. Poor Rose looked like he'd lost it a bit. Cork's lofted pull over deep midwicket must surely rank as one of the most defiant shots I've seen in cricket in a long time. It was almost everything test cricket should be. Well, except for the fact that I couldn't see any of it.

July 4th: I was a bit late for the 10 o'clock tour of Lord's, so I hung about chatting with John, the guy who runs the small newspaper stand just outside the Grace gates. "Did you see the last day's play?" I asked. 'No, I didn't, I'm not a big cricket fan,' he said. 'I listen to the scores, but I'm much more of a soccer fan. Cricket's a bit snobbish in these parts, especially at Lord's.'

"Yeah," I said, "I don't see kids playing cricket that much, although I haven't really been outside London."

'Yeah, you see it's not in the blood, you know, it's not like in India or Pakistan. I was watching a programme on TV about cricket there, I saw kids in the streets playing it, here it's different,' he continued with vehemence.

'That's why England doesn't do well any more, before, working class people used to play it, not anymore.'

Every time he mentioned soccer his eyes acquired the extra glow. It was time for the next tour of the grounds, I took leave of him, and went inside with the rest of the tour party.

Inside the ticket counter room, our tour guide did a short introduction.

'Since there're two international matches in juxtaposition with each other here, we won't be able to go to all the stands, but we shall have good views from the Media centre ...,' he started. I suppressed a grin at the Juxtaposition. I mean, this is Lord's, if you weren't verbose here, where else would you be? A video showing the special ceremony at the beginning of the hundredth Test to honour the best performers at Lord's, was playing. Gooch, Lamb, Sobers, Botham, Vengsarkar, Underwood etc. Botham had to get in a 'That was the longest I've ever held an empty cup.'

We were taken on board the Media Centre. On board quite literally, because it was built wholly in aluiminium by ship builders. Grotesque it might look from outside, and it does, the view it gave, was stunning. It would be quite unnatural not to wax lyrical on the game looking across at say, Shoaib Akthar steaming in from the Pavilion End leaving the majesty of the old Pavilion in his wake.

Aah, and I finally saw the slope. Supposedly, said our guide, if a gentleman (sic) in a top hat were to stand at the end on St. John's Wood Road, from the opposite end you could but see the top of his hat. Walsh must have laboured long and hard to bring the ball up that slope. "Why was there a slope in the first place?", I put up my best intellectual front. 'Ah, you see,' said our guide, 'when the commoner Thomas Lord was asked by his lords to find a cricket ground, he found one at Dorset Square, found the rentals too high, moved to North Bank, but then discovered a canal was to be cut through the area, and in a hurry had to find another suitable location. He therefore, did not mind the slope. It's been persisted with because it gives the ground an identity of its own.'

I found a few familiar names on the sign-in sheet at the media centre. Kamran Abbasi, Dicky Rutnagur. We walked down and went toward the famous old pavilion. As we went up the shoe stud-marked staircase, you couldn't help feel a bit overwhelmed by it all. Coming into the visiting team's dressing room, our guide paused for effect. 'This,' he said pointing at where one of our group was sitting, 'this is where Courtney Walsh sits, you young lady are Sachin Tendulkar, you are Steve Waugh.'

Stepping out on the players' balcony capped it all off nicely. This was where Kapil Dev and his triumphant band of men had stood. I leaned on the railing and took a deep breath.

We continued on to the famous Long Room. 'This is where the members sit, this is where they applaud from, or in Mark Ramprakash's case, this is where it is all silent when he walks back not too long after he has walked out.'

Poor Ramprakash, he's the butt of jokes even in the Long Room. We walked to the Lord's Museum, where the original World Cups are kept. And, as the guide pointed out to the Aussies in the party, 'I have a lot of admiration for Australia, but I don't know why you still want to keep our queen, and let us keep the original Ashes' urn" - the Ashes' Urn.'

I got a couple of nice books at the Lord's store. "Yakking around the world" by Simon Hughes is definitely worth a buy.

I left Lord's and took the tube back to Southfields and Wimbledon. Unfortunately, by now, it was getting a bit overcast. I did catch a couple of decent matches though. Another seniors' match. Ramesh Krishnan looking even chubbier than before and the not-so old Mikael Pernfors sporting a protruding stubble and still looking a bit like he's walked out of a '70s band. They were playing the hometown boy, well, the hometown 45-year-old maybe, John Lloyd and Christo Van Rensburg. Ramesh, still tugging away at his extra-wide pair of shorts, has lost none of his exquisite touch. Service returns found the middle of his racquet and then were at the shoelaces of the volleyer as if by instinct. It must have been a treat watching Ramesh live at Wimledon in his younger days. The consistency of his not-so fast serves was also striking. Ramesh and Pernfors won in three. I caught sight of his wife and two daughters courtside. "Hey, I remember you from this picture in the Sportstar in the '80s, you leaning on Ramesh and dozing off on some flight," I said. 'Oh my,' she smiled, 'thanks for coming [for the match].'

Nicholas Lapentti's younger brother was playing a juniors' doubles match close by, not aware of the heroics he was to perform in a few weeks' time against England in Davis Cup play on these same courts. I walked by and to the top of St. Mary's walk one last time for the Philippoussis-Henman match. It was packed and you could barely find proper standing room. A combination of a lapse in concentration and Philippoussis' raw power seemed to be taking its toll on Henman as he lost the fourth set after being two sets to one up. Philippoussis pounded home a few more aces serving for the match in the fifth and yet again, there was no Britisher in the quarters.

I'd to get back to my hotel since my flight was early next day. As I walked out of Victoria Station, I was trying to decide what the best moment of my little London sojourn was. It had to be when I called one of my friends in Delhi, and said, "Hey, guess where I'm right now?" (he had no idea I was stopping over in London), and then dropped my self-assumed trump card: "Just behind the Mound Stand at Lord's." He was still at work and his hushed, 'Wow,' as they say, made my day. We're after all, but children at heart, I reflected sagely. Sport is more than anything else, a throwback to our childhoods.

Mail Krishna Kumar