Day One, Evening.
The boy sprinted in short steps, pounding the manicured turf in his oversized white trainers. His green shirt was not doing a good job hiding the hideous amount of perspiration coming out of every pore in his body. The look on his face was reminiscent of the concentration shown by Gary Kasparov in the middle of an epic chess duel with the super computer Deep Blue.
He looks across at his colleague who looks identical in every way, shape and size. They both run around like Nazi soldiers in a World War Two movie made pre-1965, panicked yet purposeful. There is no doubt that they are almost as well trained as the Wehrmacht too.
He looks at his shoes, gathers his focus, exhales one more time then looks up. BOOM. The serve thuds into the back of the court with such power that the linesman practically falls over in shock. The ball-boy doesn’t flinch – just another day at Wimbledon gathering balls for the world’s best tennis payers.
This time it was the big serving John Isner throwing down fireballs from the far end. BOOM. There he goes again. The speed gun clocks 135mph. Childs play for Isner. He has been hitting 143mph. However, it also seems childs play for Nicholas Mahut, his game opponent.
The Frenchmen Mahut stretches his Wilson out to his far right. He manages to just get enough on it to make Isner work to keep the rally going. A tidy forehand to the deep left has Mahut on the run but his typically cultured slice keeps the ball in play. What does Isner have in his locker? He needs this, it’s 30-30 and Isner is struggling to win points of former Queen’s finalist Mahut’s serve. A sweetly struck double-fisted backhand flicks the top of the net and again, has Mahut at full stretch. This time his return lacks bite but Isner’s winner certainly doesn’t as it hurtles towards yet another sidestepping lineswoman.
The crowd seem to respond to this rare rally win for the American as they cheer him back to the service line. But it’s back to basics for Isner as he fires down his umpteenth ace to wrap up the game and make the third set all-square.
John Isner demonstrates his power against Nicolas Mahut
Wimbledon seems like the most perfect place in the world at that moment. The sun gently beats down on Court 18. The shadows lengthen over the most famous lawns in England. The crowd applaud knowledgeably.
It is 7:30pm and I am watching these scenes unfold live with my brother. There is some competitive and high quality tennis going on yards away from our seats. We are so close to the action that we may as well be in deck chairs in the tramlines.
A heavily French accented voice in front of us calls out, ‘Allez Nico.’ He is soon drowned out by the Californian twang behind us, ‘Finish him off John.’ ‘Big’ John Isner has caught the imagination of the English crowds as well as the Californian who is soon himself drowned out by English voices, ‘Come on John,’ ‘Go John,’ ‘Keep it up John.’
Isner slowly stomps back to his mark after the break. Despite having the support of the crowd he seems to be a surly individual with drooping shoulders and a bit of a scowl. His body language is similar to that of a teenager in a Harry Enfield sketch. His serve however has more presence than Nelson Mandela if you are on the other side of the net and the crowd seem to be loving it.
However, it is the minority who stand and cheer at the end of the set as the Frenchman secures the tie-break with some well controlled serve and volley tennis. The fourth goes the distance as well. The tie-break is fraught with nerves but Isner shows hidden mental strength to keep the baying Mahut at bay and take this one the distance.
The cries go up once more, ‘Good job John,’ ‘It’s yours John.’ Mahut seems to have won some admirers too though with his classic one handed backhand. He has one hell of a cannon himself and he is not afraid to use it either. ‘Hang in there Nicolas,’ ‘Lets do it Nico,’ followed by the inevitable, ‘Allez Nico’ from the front row.
Nicolas Mahut times another classic forehand against John Isner
The crowd seem to be revelling in both players’ efforts. We are all getting comfortable when a rather official looking man in a blazer glides on to the court menacingly. I, and I imagine a host of others, had completely lost track of the time and the blazer was here to remind us. The call goes up, ‘play suspended.’
The groans echo around the compact yet sizeable Court 18. They don’t last long though as everyone blasts out their support. Both players acknowledge the generous applause as they gather their belongings and wave to their fans. Before disappearing behind the stands.
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