The doors to Centre Court swung open and sunlight suddenly flooded the small waiting room.
Claire called, “Fiona?”
I turned to look at her. “Yes?”
“Let’s give them a final they’ll never forget.”
“Definitely, Claire.”
I walked out into the brilliant sunshine on Centre Court. Two people – Mother and Father – cheered for me. Even the Australians were waiting for Claire. When she walked out on the grass, the crowd roared and stood to applaud her. We turned together and dipped our knees for the Royal Box.
Minutes later, Mr Watson, the chair umpire, pulled the microphone over, turned to Claire, and said, “Mrs Kershaw, are you ready?”
Claire, confident and relaxed, called back, “Ready.”
He turned to me. “Miss Hodgkin, are you ready?”
My heart was in my throat. “Ready.”
Mr Watson picked up his stopwatch. “Mrs Kershaw to serve. Play.”
PART THREE –
CENTRE COURT
SATURDAY, 7 JULY 1962
TWO O’CLOCK IN THE AFTERNOON PRECISELY
CENTRE COURT – FIRST SET
Traditionally, the spectators on Centre Court tend to cheer for the older player, especially when the older player is popular. The younger player will have plenty of chances to win. The older player? Perhaps no more chances.
And Claire wasn’t just popular. She was beautiful, and her face might as well have had ‘Made In England’ stamped on it. She was a perfect sport: whenever her opponent made a remarkable shot, Claire would raise the face of her racket into the air and tap the strings lightly with her fingertips in appreciation. Claire could make this simple gesture elegant. She never challenged line calls, but if her opponent challenged and there was even the slightest question about the correctness of the call, Claire would simply raise her racket in the air – meaning that she conceded the point.
The loss of even an important point was nothing compared to the roar of approval Claire would get from an English crowd. People would turn to one another and say, “That’s our Claire!”
Before she was married, Claire had the incredible knack of saying to the press things that were just outrageous enough to make everyone chuckle and say, “That Claire!” but never outrageous enough to make anyone say, “Our Claire shouldn’t have said that.”
And then she married Richard at St. Margaret’s in Westminster. The wedding photograph that was in all the newspapers showed Claire, stunning in Teddy Tinling’s offthe-shoulder white gown with her silver hair swept up, pale blue eyes looking straight at the camera, and her usual impish grin, as though she’d just pulled off a piece of mischief. Richard, handsome in a morning coat, his head cocked to one side, holding an empty Waterford champagne flute in one hand, had her hand in his. Once she was married, she stopped talking to the press.
Popular? The English crowds loved her.
Her first serve went straight past me.
Claire held her serve in the first game; I won only a single point. Worse, in the second game, she broke my service at 15-game. In two games, I had won only two points. I was terrified. Probably Claire would defeat me in just 30 minutes. Claire was relaxed and in her element. She was hitting perfect passing shots effortlessly. After breaking me, she held her service again in the third game, although at least I made it to game-30.
I served in the fourth game with Claire ahead 3-love. I began to steady myself, just a bit, and got the score to 30-15. I served and headed for the net. Claire returned my serve straight down the line. I lunged with my backhand but only managed to get the top rim of my racket on the ball, making it ricochet off into the stands. I was too far out over my feet, and I fell to the grass.
Claire came up to the net as I was getting up. “Are you all right?”
“I’m fine. Thanks.”
Then Claire held up her racket as though she was straightening a string. Her racket then happened to cover her face. Quietly, so that no one but me could hear, she said, “Slow down. Take more time before you serve.”
“I know, I know,” I said, equally quietly. I kept telling myself, ‘slow down, slow down.’
The game was even at 30-all. We went to deuce, but I got the advantage. My serve into her ad service court was sharply angled and drew her wide. Claire’s only sensible option was to go crosscourt, which she did, but I was there and cut off the shot with a backhand volley for a winner. I had held my serve, so Claire was to serve the fifth game, ahead 3-1. But at least I was on the scoreboard. Gradually, I was calming down, and my volley was beginning to work for me. Just a bit.
It was Claire’s advantage in the fifth game. She served, I chipped my return to her feet, and she hit a hard shot down the line. I split stepped well inside the service line and just managed to catch her shot on my racket. I sent the ball back crosscourt but not hard or deep. Claire had no difficulty reaching it, and she hit a hard forehand to my backhand side. I raced across the court and volleyed her shot back into her ad service court. Again, I didn’t manage to hit the ball hard, but my shot was sharply angled.
This time Claire had to run hard to get my ball, but she did, and she threw up a perfect lob over my head. I couldn’t get it with an overhead, and I had to turn and run back to my baseline. I got there, barely, without time to turn around, so I swung at the ball while I was still facing away from the net.
The crowd gasped in surprise that I even got to Claire’s lob.
My ball fell softly right in the middle of Claire’s service court. She could do anything she wanted with it. I ran toward the net, which was a stupid thing to have done just then. She came up to the ball and hit a forehand viciously hard to my backhand side. I lunged for it and got the ball back across the net.
Now Claire and I were facing one another across the net, less than two meters apart. She volleyed my shot at the level of her waist; the ball didn’t get anywhere near the grass.
I volleyed back.
The ball went across the net twice in a split second. The crowd held its breath.
Claire volleyed crosscourt, and I volleyed back. The ball had been across the net four times in, maybe, two seconds – THOCK! THOCK! THOCK! THOCK!
With the crowd silent, the sound of our rackets colliding with the ball echoed back and forth under the low roof of Centre Court.
Claire then lobbed far over my head, and I had to turn and run for my baseline. I got to the lob only by leaping out over my feet, and my only option was to hit the ball up as high as I could and hope it would land somewhere in Claire’s court. Then I fell flat on my face and slid across the grass.
Claire probably thought the point was over. Now my high lob forced her to run back to her own baseline. The ball bounced right on the line. The crowd gasped again because I had gotten off the grass and, like a fool, run to the net, when I should have remained on the baseline to have any chance of staying in the point. My tennis dress had grass stains on it from sliding along the grass.
Claire set up for an overhead, but my lob took a bad bounce on the line and didn’t come up as high as Claire expected. She had to adjust in a fraction of a second and hit a weak shot at her shoulder level. I volleyed it back with my backhand. It was hard and deep to Claire’s backhand. Claire hit another lob, but her skill failed her for once. Her lob was high but not deep.
Claire, me, the crowd, Rachel, everyone knew this incredible point was about to end.
I had all the time in the world to set up. Living dangerously, I didn’t wait for the lob to fall far. I jumped so that I was well off the grass when my racket made contact with the ball, with my left leg out in the air for balance – a skyhook. I put every single ounce of me behind the racket. I’ve probably never hit a tennis ball that hard before or since. THOCK! The ball smashed into the sideline of Claire’s ad court so hard the chalk puffed up and hung in the air for seconds. Claire wasn’t anywhere close.
The crowd was on its feet, cheering. I looked over at the players’ box. M
other had forgotten herself. She was standing and yelling, “FIONA! FIONA!” Then I turned to look at Claire. She was facing away from me, walking back to her baseline. But she was holding her racket face in the air and tapping her finger tips against the strings.
Deuce. Claire got back to ad and then held her serve. But I was feeling far more confident, and my volleys were clicking into place. I held my service easily in the sixth game, so the games were 4-2 in Claire’s favor.
Mr Watson said, “New balls, please.”
The ball boys who had been kneeling at the centre posts stood and went to the small Lightfoot refrigerator on Centre Court, removed two cans of new balls and rolled the new balls along the grass to the ball boys at the ends of the court.
On my serve in the eighth game, Claire took me to deuce twice, but I got the advantage and volleyed the ball crosscourt, just out of her reach. The games were 5-3 in Claire’s favor, and she was to serve for the first set.
She held her service, and Mr Watson said, “First set to Mrs Kershaw, six games to three. Second set, Miss Hodgkin to serve.”
SATURDAY, 7 JULY 1962
TWO THIRTY FIVE O’CLOCK IN THE AFTERNOON
CENTRE COURT – SECOND SET
One thing that makes tennis so fascinating to me is advantage scoring – meaning that a player must be two points ahead to win a game, and two games ahead to win a set. Some points are much more important than others. Take the first set in the final I played against Claire, for example. The most important point in the set was in the second game, on my serve, when Claire went ahead of me in the score and then broke my serve.
Now, this was before the advent of the tie-break at Wimbledon in 1971. In 1962, having been broken once by Claire, I would have to break Claire twice to win the set. I’d have to get Claire’s break of my serve back and then break her again to win. And the server has such a large advantage. Neither player could win without breaking the other’s serve.
I was down a set to Claire. I had to win the second set. I couldn’t allow Claire to break my service. If she did, I’d probably lose the championship. I might be able to break Claire once, but could I break her twice? Doubtful. So I had to hold my service.
I served to Claire and followed my serve in to the net. Claire was a master of slyly waiting just that fraction of a second to force her opponent to commit to one side or the other and then firing the ball back to the side the opponent didn’t pick. She could be diabolical. I came to the net in my ad service court. Claire smashed her return crosscourt to my deuce sideline. The instant I saw her begin her swing, I guessed what she would do, and I moved to my deuce side. Her return was perfect and would have bounced exactly on the deuce sideline, except that I was standing at the net to cut it off and send it back straight down the sideline. Claire ran hard, but she couldn’t reach my shot. I held my service easily in the first game of the second set.
Then Claire and I traded games, one after another, 1-1, 2-1, 2-2, 3-2. In the sixth game, I took Claire to deuce four times and got the advantage twice. But both times, she won the point. Finally, she got the advantage and hit a perfect stop volley that fooled me. I gave it a try and ran for it, but it bounced twice before I arrived on the scene. Her game.
4-3, 4-4, 5-4, 5-5, 6-5, 6-6, 7-6, 7-7, 8-7. Just when I thought to myself that this could go on all afternoon, I looked at the scoreboard clock. Almost four o’clock. It had gone on most of the afternoon.
Then Claire served with the games at 8-9 in my favor. Her first serve was straight down the line, and I hit back a clear winner. She served again. She chipped my return directly to my feet as I came in. I half volleyed back – I was so low that my right knee and the bottom rim of my racket face were both touching the grass. Claire ran, caught my volley, and sent it right back. I volleyed to her deuce court, deep. Claire ran. I volleyed to her ad court, deep. Claire ran. But she didn’t get to my volley. love-30. I was two points away from taking the second set.
Claire served. She could usually serve an ace when she needed to and that’s what she did. I didn’t get my racket on her serve. 15-30. I won the next point, but she won the two points after that. Deuce. I was furious at myself for losing those two points. Claire got the advantage twice, lost it twice, but then won on her third advantage. The games were tied at 9 apiece.
Then she broke my serve. 9-10 in her favor. The crowd was completely silent. Claire had her third Wimbledon singles championship in the palm of her hand. I was exhausted and on the verge of tears. I looked at Rachel and my parents. All three of them looked grim.
Serving for the match, Claire quickly got the score to 40-15. She had two championship points. Our match was almost over. I was falling apart.
I returned her serve and came in. Claire hit a passing shot straight down the line on my backhand side. I lunged for it and hit one of the best volleys I’ve ever hit – although I fell and hit the grass just after I struck the ball. Claire raced for the ball but got only the rim of her racket on it. The ball shot off into the row of photographers on the side of Centre Court.
My parents were standing and yelling, and – finally! – the Australians decided I needed some encouragement: “AUSSIE! AUSSIE! AUSSIE! FI! FI! FI!” Claire tapped her racket face with her fingers. Mr Watson turned and glared at the Australians and they slowly quieted down.
Ad in. Second championship point. Claire served hard, straight at me. I returned wide to Claire’s backhand, trying to push her off the court. I came in behind my return. Claire was pulling her racket back for a passing shot.
“Fault!”
Claire looked up in surprise and, instead of swinging her racket, caught my ball in her left hand. I stopped and turned to the linesman who had called Claire’s serve out. He was pointing to the service line, meaning that he had called the serve long.
I turned back and called to Claire over the net. “It looked well in to me, Claire. I returned it. Let’s play a let.”
She motioned to me to meet her at the net. She put her hand on my shoulder and her head beside mine so that she could talk quietly.
“You don’t want to play a let on championship point,” she said. “It’s never been done on Centre Court.”
“Well, I don’t know what else to do. Your serve was good. The call was late.”
Mr Watson turned off his microphone, leaned over, and said to us, “Might I participate in your conversation?”
The spectators closest to the umpire’s chair overheard him, chuckled, and turned to tell those further up in the stands what he had said.
Claire said, loudly enough for everyone to hear, “Just girl talk, Mr Watson. Party frocks and babies.”
The crowd roared with laughter.
I backed away from Claire and said to Mr Watson, “Claire and I have decided to play a let. Her serve was clearly in. Claire has the advantage and first service.”
“I call the score, Miss Hodgkin, not you,” he said stiffly.
Claire said, “Well, call it then.”
Mr Watson hesitated. “Advantage Mrs Kershaw, first service.”
The crowd stood, applauded, and cheered.
Maybe everyone there realized that Claire and I didn’t need a chair umpire. We were opponents, but we were best friends. We were going to be sisters-in-law. This match was just between us, and we were going to see it through by ourselves.
Mr Watson, as far as we cared, could have gotten up, gone home, and let us decide which of us would be the Wimbledon champion.
Claire served, again straight at me. I stepped back and ripped my forehand down the line into her deuce court. She got to the ball, barely – and hit it into the net.
Deuce. Both Claire’s championship points gone.
I looked over the net and saw why Claire was such a great champion: she was relaxed and calm as she set up to serve to me at deuce. No looking back. It’s just another tennis game at deuce. She was serving; she could pull it out.
But for once, she didn’t. I won the deuce point, and then, on ad out,
I won the game. The games were 10 apiece. We were back on serve.
I had never seen, or rather heard, staid Centre Court like this. Everyone was standing and cheering loudly; today, my granddaughters would say the place was rocking. The Australians were the loudest – they were taking full credit for getting me out of the deep hole I had dug for myself. Maybe they deserved it.
I held my serve. On the changeover, as we were drinking cups of water, Claire said quietly, “Well played, Fiona.” As I was walking to my baseline, I glanced at the scoreboard just to the left and below the Royal Box.
PREVIOUS
SETS
6 Mrs R – 1 10
Kershaw
1 2 3 4 SERVER SETS GAMES POINTS
3 Miss F 0 11
Hodgkin
At two o’clock, when we had walked out onto Centre Court, the sky had been brilliantly clear, but gradually clouds had appeared, and now rain threatened. I knew I had to get this set into the bag before it rained. If Claire had a chance to rest, she would come back and win the championship in straight sets.
Claire took her time setting up to serve. Another ace. I walked across to my ad court. I was tired. I needed to put this set behind me. Claire served – and it went into the net. Second service.
“Fault!”
Claire had double-faulted. 15-all.
I won the next two points on volleys. 15-40.
Centre Court was dead silent. My lips were parched; I licked them.
Claire served, I returned and came in. She hit a passing shot, and the ball nicked the net cord and dropped on my side of the net. I lunged, hit the grass, just barely got my racket under the ball, and flipped it back over the net. I was face down on the grass. Claire ran but couldn’t reach my stop volley.
The crowd roared.
Mr Watson said, “Second set to Miss Hodgkin, 12 games to 10. The sets are one all.”
Then, as though we were in a theatre where everything happened on cue, torrents of rain came down. Richard Hawkins didn’t give Mr Watson a chance to declare that play was suspended. He immediately signaled to his groundskeepers, and they leaped onto the court, tore down the net, and unfurled the huge tarp over Centre Court.
The Tennis Player from Bermuda Page 23
