Claire grabbed my arm, and we ran to the players’ entrance. In the dressing room, we slumped down on the bench together. We didn’t say anything. Mrs Ward wheeled in a tea cart, and she poured cups of tea for us.
Claire took one or two sips. “This is beyond doubt the best cup of tea I’ve ever tasted.” I agreed.
Mrs Ward said that, if either of us wanted to bathe or have a massage, we had to do so now. Colonel Legg had told her he expected the rain to last only a few minutes. Claire shook her head. Mrs Ward looked at me.
I said, “Mrs Ward, if I got into the bath now, I wouldn’t get out until tomorrow.”
I needed to change my tennis dress, but I could barely reach around to my back to reach the zipper. Mrs Ward helped me. I stepped out of the dress and handed it to her. I was embarrassed; my dress was soaked with sweat and covered in grass stains. Claire’s white Tinling dress was immaculate. She didn’t spend any time spread out on the grass. I found a clean dress in my kit.
I had forgotten that I had one white tennis ball tucked under my knickers. I dropped it out onto the floor.
Claire said, “I was wondering why the ball boys could find only five of the balls.”
We sat in the dressing room for 15 minutes. We spoke a couple of times, but we mostly left one another alone. I was thinking about John; she probably was as well.
SATURDAY, 7 JULY 1962
FIVE O’CLOCK IN THE AFTERNOON
CENTRE COURT – FINAL SET
The rain stopped.
When we walked back out onto Centre Court, I turned and looked at the scoreboard.
PREVIOUS
SETS
6 10 Mrs R 1 1
Kershaw
1 2 3 4 SERVER SETS GAMES POINTS
3 12 Miss F – 0 11
Hodgkin
“Final set. Miss Hodgkin to serve. Resume play,” Mr Watson said into his microphone.
I served and quickly went up 30-love. On my next serve, Claire chipped to my feet. It wasn’t a difficult half volley, but I carelessly hit it too low. The ball hit the net cord and fell back into my court. 30-15. I served and faulted on my first serve. I saw Claire take one step into the court, even though she knew I usually wouldn’t take anything off my second serve. I decided to teach her a lesson for stepping in, and I hit a hard second serve. But it went long.
My first double fault today. So much for trying to teach Claire a lesson.
The crowd gasped. Claire was at 30-30 on my serve.
I served, came in, and volleyed Claire’s return for a winner. My advantage. I served and followed my serve in. Claire had been chipping her returns, but now she hit an incredibly hard return down the line. I watched the ball go past me from about a meter away. Deuce.
The crowd had gone completely silent. Everyone knew what was at stake: the next two points might well decide the championship. If Claire broke my serve, all she had to do was hold her own serve, and in a few games she’d be serving for the championship.
I lost the deuce point and then, on Claire’s ad, I tried a risky stop volley that backfired on me. It landed too deep into the service court. Claire raced to the drop shot, made it, and passed me at the net.
The crowd was cheering for Claire; she’d broken my serve; they thought she just about had her third straight championship wrapped up.
Claire held her service, and then I served with the games love-2 in her favor. I held my service, Claire held her service, and so it went. In what seemed like no time, Claire was to serve for the championship, with the games at 5-3.
The crowd was silent. This was almost over. Claire had told me once how quickly things happened on Centre Court; now I knew what she meant.
I was scared. I looked over at Rachel, but she was impassive. I looked at Mother.
Suddenly, Mother jumped to her feet and yelled as loudly as she could, “FIONA! BREAK HER SERVE!”
The crowd all laughed, but in a good-natured way, and then, all at once, they stood and cheered. Mr Watson looked around to make sure that Rachel wasn’t saying anything.
Mother wasn’t my coach and so was free, like any other spectator, to yell anything polite she wanted between points. Claire looked at Mother, lifted the face of her racket, and then, still looking at Mother, Claire smiled and lightly tapped the strings with her fingertips.
I thought, ‘I am not going to lose this match.’
Claire served, and in few minutes we were at deuce. It went to her advantage, which was championship point, but I won the point, and we went back to deuce. Claire hit her first serve into the net, and then set up for her second serve. I returned it, hard, down the line, and came in. Claire hit crosscourt, but I cut it off for a winner. My advantage.
Claire served down the middle, a classic, beautiful Claire serve. I got my racket on it, just barely, at about my shoulder level, and hit it crosscourt into her ad court. But it wasn’t a strong return. Any sane player would have stayed on the baseline, but I went to the net. Claire had plenty of time to decide what to do, and she had plenty of good options. She went down the line on my forehand side, trying to thread the needle between the sideline and my racket.
I caught her shot and volleyed it back crosscourt, so Claire had to chase it down, which she did, but I cut off her return with my backhand. She raced for the ball, but she was too late.
I had broken Claire’s serve.
The games were now 4-5, with me to serve. If I held my serve, this set would be tied at five games apiece.
Claire had turned her back to me. She was looking at the strings on her racket and shaking her head. She had three championship points, two in the second set and the third just now, and she had lost all three.
I looked over at my parents; Mother and Father both gave me two thumbs up and huge smiles.
I held my serve. The games were tied 5 all. Claire held her serve, so the games were 6-5 in her favor, with me to serve. Claire and I changed ends and stopped for cups of water from the tank under the umpire’s chair. Claire smiled and whispered, “Long afternoon.” We usually weren’t given much time on the changeover, and you could forget sitting down to rest. It would be 1975 before there were chairs for the players on the changeover.
But this changeover was one of those moments in a long tennis match where the crowd thinks, ‘This isn’t ending anytime soon. Best visit the tea lawn, stretch our legs, and get a cup of tea or a pint’. Many of the spectators took advantage of the changeover to leave their seats. Mr Watson recognized this fact of tennis life and allowed a bit of extra time for the changeover and the partial clearing of the stands.
I held and tied the games again 6-all.
It was past six o’clock. The first evening shadows were approaching Centre Court. Our match had started longer than four hours ago. I gave myself one moment to think about John while I pretended to look at the strings on my racket.
Then I put him out of my mind. I would think about John after I defeated his sister – or she defeated me. But not just yet.
Claire held her serve, and then I held my serve. The games were 7 apiece. Then the games became 8 apiece. Then 9 apiece.
I sensed that Claire’s serves were slowing down just slightly. To win, I had to break her again. It was Claire’s service. I knew that this was probably my only chance; I was exhausted. If I let this match last longer than a few more games, I would begin to crumble.
I knew the only way to break Claire, at this stage, was to make her run from one side of the court to the other. Over and over. If I could break her serve now, then I would be serving at 10-9. Then, if I held my serve, the match would be finished, and I would win.
Claire served. Yes, I had been right; her serve was slowing down. Not much, but maybe just enough. Claire was tired too.
I returned her serve to her ad court and charged the net. Claire ran to catch my return and, again, she made a safe crosscourt shot, which I volleyed back for a winner.
We went to deuce twice before I got the advantage. I set up to receive an
d looked across the court at Claire. She served, and I hit a solid return and came to the net. Claire hit a beautiful, sharply angled crosscourt shot that went under my forehand before bouncing on the sideline.
So back to deuce again. I had thrown away my ad point.
“Out!” A way late call.
There was a dull roar from the crowd; everyone knew the ball had landed in – except apparently the line judge. I looked at Mr Watson. “That was a late call. Did you see the shot?”
“Miss Hodgkin, I cannot overrule.” In those days, the chair umpire wasn’t authorized to overrule, although sometimes an umpire would give a line judge such a withering stare that the judge would change the call.
I held my racket in the air. “I concede the point.” I looked back pointedly at the line judge. “Claire’s shot was well in.”
The crowd roared its approval.
I looked at Claire. She had already moved back to her deuce court before I had conceded. She had known I would concede the point. Then she served an ace; I wasn’t even close to it.
Ad in. She was about to escape one more time.
Then, suddenly, I felt a cramp in my right thigh. I rubbed it and looked at Rachel. She shrugged. Nothing to be done. I was finished if I began cramping badly.
I returned Claire’s service, took the net and volleyed deep. She just got to my volley, but her shot was weak, and I simply put the ball away for a winner. My advantage again. I worried about the cramp in my thigh. It hurt, and I couldn’t move well.
Claire served, and I hit my best return of the afternoon. A winner. I had broken her serve. The games were 10-9 in my favor. I would be serving for the championship.
But my cramp was getting worse. I looked at the scoreboard clock. Coming up on seven o’clock.
We had been on the court for hours. We had played 50 games of tennis. We were exhausted.
SATURDAY, 7 JULY 1962
SEVEN O’CLOCK IN THE EVENING
CENTRE COURT – THE CHAMPIONSHIP
I hadn’t thought for years about the end of my match with Claire – or, more accurately, I hadn’t recognized that I have little recollection of it. I know the final score, and I remember playing the first two sets, and most of the third set, but I can’t recall the end.
I wrote to the Committee of Management to ask if there was a film of the final that day and, if so, might I have a copy. The Committee graciously replied that there was indeed a black and white film made by the BBC of its live television broadcast, and they enclosed a copy of the film on a DVD.
After I watched the DVD, I knew why I couldn’t recall the ending. My head had hit the court twice within seconds, and hard both times. I probably suffered a slight concussion. It reminded me that, after I had finally gone to sleep that evening at Claridge’s, Mother had woken me to ask if I felt at all nauseous. She had held my head in her hands and shined the bed table light into my eyes. Now I realize she was making certain my pupils hadn’t dilated, which might indicate a serious concussion. But I was fine, except that I couldn’t recall much about few, dramatic moments in my life.
I watched the DVD in our living room. My granddaughters watched with me. One of them asked, “Bermuda Grandmother, why was your racket so small? It looks like it’s made of wood or something.” Remarkably, I see myself on Centre Court, barely aged 19, in the third set. I’m serving for the championship.
On the film, I look confused. I push my hair out of my face – somehow my ponytail has come undone, and for some reason I haven’t put it back in order. How could I even see to hit the ball? I reach down to rub my thigh. When the television camera focuses on me bending over my thigh, there’s sweat dripping from my forehead.
Mr Watson is speaking into his microphone. “Deuce.”
I serve. It goes over the net and into the service court, but that’s about every good thing you could say about it. Claire, though, doesn’t put it away. She makes a good return but not a winner. I’m out of position and off balance, and I hit my return shot into the net.
Mr Watson says, “Advantage, Mrs Kershaw.”
Break point. If Claire breaks me now, I’m done for.
The film is grainy. I rub my thigh. I look as though I’m in pain from the cramp. I serve. Again, it isn’t much of a serve, but at least it’s in play. Claire is determined to win this point. She blasts her return down my deuce court sideline. I just get to her return and send it back down the same line. This time, Claire goes crosscourt. I’m on the centerline of my service courts, and with my backhand I catch her shot on my racket face and drop it into her deuce service court.
Mr Watson says, “Deuce.”
On my first service, I fault. The crowd gasps. Giving Claire Kershaw a second serve is never a good idea. I set up. I serve a wide, sharply angled serve to Claire’s forehand. My serve pulls her off the court. I’m in my ad service court when her return comes over the net, and I volley it deep into her ad court. She runs but can’t make it.
Mr Watson says, “Advantage, Miss Hodgkin.”
Championship point. Centre Court is silent.
My serve is weak and poorly placed. It bounces in the center of her ad service court. She can do anything she wants with it. Still, I rush the net. Claire waits a fraction of a second for me to commit, and I drift slightly to my right, betting she’ll go down my deuce sideline. Then she blasts the ball crosscourt.
I lunge wildly for the ball with my backhand and hit it back, barely. I get my ankles tangled together, and I fall on my back, outside the sideline. The back of my head hits the ground so hard it bounces off the grass.
My backhand shot goes over the net but it’s a sitting duck for Claire. On the film, I see Claire set up perfectly: she has all the time in the world. She split-steps, takes a short, precise backswing, and hits the ball softly into my deuce service court. She’s taking no chances. Just hit the ball far away from me. I’m flat on the grass off the court. I can tell what she’s thinking: take away the championship point, get back to deuce, and then win this game.
I watch this part of the film over and over. I push up with my left hand; I still have my racket in my right hand. I’m on my feet as Claire’s shot crosses over the net, but I’m so far off the court that I could chat with the spectators in the first row of seats – and her ball is heading to the other side of the court.
On the film, I see myself shifting my racket to my left hand. It’s my only chance. I switch hands by instinct.
When Claire’s ball bounces, it barely lifts off the grass into the air. I’m sprinting across Centre Court, and my right foot lands on the centerline just as the ball begins its downward trajectory.
I’m a meter away from the ball. There’s nothing else I can do.
I launch myself into the air, push out my racket in my left hand and barely get it under the ball. I whip my left arm up, just as my forehead slams into the grass. The racket flies out of my hand.
My face skids on the grass, and now, watching it 50 years later, I can almost taste the grass, dirt, and blood. My nose is bleeding.
Claire has already turned away, heading back to the baseline. She thinks she’s saved championship point; now she’s at deuce; she’s back in this game.
My shot goes over the net by a centimeter and falls onto Claire’s court. The spectators jump to their feet with a huge roar. She hears the cheering, looks down, and sees the ball rolling past her across the grass. Her mouth is open. I know she’s thinking, how? It’s impossible that I could have gotten to her shot.
Looking at Claire’s face on the film, I can see that she’s devastated. But she drops her racket, jumps across the net, comes over to me, and kneels on the grass. I slowly get up onto my hands and knees, but I’m dazed, with blood dripping from my nose. Claire puts her arm over my shoulders, she says something into my ear, makes me sit up on my knees, and helps me stand up. She’s pinching my nose with her fingers to stanch the bleeding, and she’s saying something to me, but it’s inaudible on the soundtrack, and I can’t r
ecall anything she said.
I’ve never asked Claire about this moment; it must have been terrible for her.
Mr Watson on the film begins the traditional recitation of the score: “3-6, 12-10, 11-9, Miss Hodgkin wins game, set, match, and” – here there’s a slight pause for effect – “championship.”
Claire leads me to Mr Watson’s chair, where I reach up to shake his hand, tentatively, as if I’m still not sure where I am, and then Claire walks me to the water tank under the umpire’s chair and pours me a cup of water.
Watching the film, I see I never shook hands with Claire, which, I’m sure, is unique in Wimbledon finals – although maybe it counts for a handshake when you would never have made it off Centre Court without your opponent’s arm holding your shoulders tightly.
Claire finds a towel to hold against her face. It’s not audible on the soundtrack, but now I can recall the sound of Claire crying softly, covered by the towel.
A ball boy hesitantly comes up and offers me a bottle of Robinson’s Barley Water and a towel. I take both, sip some Robinson’s, wipe off my face, and pinch my nose with the towel.
The film shows the players’ box, with my parents and Rachel standing and applauding – they look so young! Then the camera pans down to me, and I suddenly use the remote control to freeze the film.
A news photographer had taken a shot of exactly this scene, and the photo was on the front pages of all the London Sunday papers the next morning. The photographer, later that summer, sent me a print of the photo, which I’ve kept on my dressing table ever since. It’s still in a cheap, plastic frame I bought in Hamilton just before I returned to Smith that September. I’ve glanced at it most mornings of my adult life.
In the photo, my tennis dress, with its small Bermuda flag, is streaked with grass stains, dirt, and sweat. There are smears of blood and dirt still on my face; my hair is a tangled mess. I’m standing there holding the Robinson’s bottle in the air pointed toward the players’ box. I have a huge gamine smile on my face, and I’m looking straight at my parents and Rachel. It had been the greatest ladies’ singles final ever.
The Tennis Player from Bermuda Page 24
