Tennis' Symphonic Era

The time of the Big Four was a glorious medley of classical styles

With the extraordinary events in SW19 this week, one senses the end of an era. This is not to say that Federer is finished, or that Rafa’s career is on the downward slide. They are still competitors and I would be unsurprised if they added to their trophy hauls. The indicator that things have changed at the top of the men’s game is this: the final we want to see in any given tournament (on a purely unpatriotic, non-partisan, neutral level) no longer involves Federer or Nadal. We want to see Djokovic vs Murray. In short, the tennis world seems to be changing, and it is perhaps time to reflect upon the era which seems to have drawn to a close.

Of late, John McEnroe has been talking of his era – what he calls the era of “Personalities”, about which Martin Amis has written so vehemently. At any rate, the era of Connors, McEnroe and Borg was a time of rock stars. Connors was a maverick who screamed rock-and-roll; Borg could have easily been in ABBA, and McEnroe, whiny, self-involved but brilliant, would have been very successful as an Art Garfunkel impersonator.

If that was the tone of the era between the 70s and 80s, then what we have just experienced has been nothing short of classical, symphonic delight. First there was Federer, who was Mozart, effortlessly producing super-human works of artistry and driving Andy Roddick (his Salieri) to distraction. Then came Beethoven, in the form of Rafael Nadal – brutish, bold, loud, brilliant, and almost certainly doomed to have his career hampered by a debilitating injury. His comeback this year from injury to win 43 of his 45 matches, and claim an historic 8^th French Open crown had something of the 9^th Symphony about it – joyous, magnificent, and created in defiance of his body failing him.

The antidote to all of this is the violence and bombast of a Wagner - a man whose work is brutal and often stirring, and carries on at tremendous length. Enter Novak Djokovic, the Serb whose abilities in defence are unbelievable. I have seen players hit a ball that has forced Djokovic into full stretch on his backhand just to return it, leaving his opponent, the court at his mercy, to send the ball to the same extreme on the opposite side, and Djokovic gets it back every time. Watching Djokovic play tennis is like watching Mike Hussey bat. You begin to lose any belief that you can get anything past him, and then, as your frustration is reaching fever pitch, he unleashes a violent blast that scorches its way past you.

This leaves us with Andy Murray. 2012 was his breakthrough year, but he has not yet really found his tone as a champion. A second Grand Slam title will see a character more clearly develop, but he seems to have something of Dvorak about him. Thrilling and strong, he shows flashes of Wagner’s fire and brimstone, but tempers it with an edge of elegant splendour.

Murray and Djokovic have hitherto been defined by Federer and Nadal’s pre-existing rivalry. It seems that Federer’s star is waning and, regrettably, Nadal is going to struggle with injuries. The next era is going to be defined by Djokovic and Murray. One wonders how they will be changed by what will follow them.

The Trouble with Writing

The trouble with writing is that from the first stroke of a letter you have limited yourself. The blank page is a screen upon which your mind’s eye can project the infinite possibilities that your head can conjure. Any given blank page can end up containing anything.

“She exhaled a cloud of smoke that caught the blue light as it rose away from her perfectly imperfect face, whilst the sound of the music swirled between them, conjuring all manner of fantasies of what might be; of common joy and exquisite despair in equal measure.”

Or:

“The Gredunkadunk was a miserable creature. Long and fat in form, and stood upon four squat legs, riddled with humps and bumps and warts, this twisted, sweaty monster, stared at the boy, snarling its aggression at him with all the venom of its own self-loathing, but the boy stood still, fearlessly deflecting the nastiness of this beast with a simple kind-heartedness that did not admit to any instantaneous negative reaction.”

Or:

“His feet flew across the cobbled streets, the intermittent pain of the stones jabbing through the soles of his shoes only spurring him on and on, never once looking round at his pursuers, or ever letting his grip on the briefcase loosen as he sped into the night, white lights casting his flailing shadow onto the wall.”

Or:

“She fell, and Emily watched her. Her: Emily never knew the woman’s name, but Emily never forgot her curled brown hair float around her head as the air rushed past her, as that youthful body executed its terminal dance with gravity with increasing speed and terrible beauty.”

Or:

“ ‘One more, vicar?’

James had never cared for Antony’s humour. Studying Theology at university was a decision he had made from a misguided valuation of what was expedient to him at the time (all petty estimations taken from half-considered snapshots of what-was-what), but merely on the level of enquires as to his career ambitions, it had not been worth it. If he’d had a penny for every time some wag had asked him whether he was seeking a life in the cloth, any eventual vow of poverty would have proved rather difficulty to take.”

In short, the possibilities are endless, as is the desire to compose and to share. It is thus very hard just to pick one.

Likeable

“Archie, you colossal shit! You’ve drunk all the Blue Label.”

Martin was not happy. This was his general state. He did once crack a genuine smile of contentment, but that was in Amsterdam and he soon forgot why he had done so. It was his considered opinion that, as mistresses go, happiness was the most fickle and that he would be better off letting it go on its merry way, rather than wasting his time constantly chasing it. On this particular occasion though, Martin was actively unhappy.

His brother, the aforementioned Archie – a man as affably diminutive as that name might imply – had consumed (through blissful ignorance) his sibling’s most treasured scotch. He had only had one glass (though it should be noted that it was a large one), and, in the process, had finished off the bottle of Johnnie Walker Blue. The mitigating fact that there had only been a glass (and a dribble) left was totally negated for Martin by the undeniable truth that Archie was not even a scotch drinker, as was made evident by his decision to put water in with the whisky. It was, from Martin’s perspective, a tale of several solecisms, and his raging sense of injustice was made all the worse, because, as is so often the way in these incidents, the object of his anger was beyond the reach of his wrath, Archie having left the night before for Swansea.

Martin poured himself a double Famous Grouse, a blend which he only kept strictly for use in hot toddies, but in this case he was willing to make an exception, so much so that, having stared mournfully into the glass, he made it a triple.

He sat, ponderously. Martin did ponderously very well. It was how he maintained his air of detached intelligence, which filled him with a melancholy which he hoped might make him mysteriously attractive, but actually made him look like a slapped St. Bernard. He continued to sip, quickly realising that, as he was loathed to let a single drop go to waste, the decision to make it a triple merely meant that he was a glutton for punishment. Suddenly the thought occurred to him that he really should not get so upset. He was young. He was affluent. There would be other bottles of Blue Label.

Surely, he should brighten up a little. It would help him, make him more approachable. People might actually listen to his jokes. If he was having a very good night, they might even laugh. Perhaps by pretending to be cheerful, he might actually happen to really become cheerful, much as in a story he had once heard about a young man who had pretended to be an airline pilot so successfully that he was accepted as such by airline workers (he did not recall how the story ended, but he could only assume that the consequences were amusing at first, but ultimately disastrous).

This was an intriguing idea. If he just put on the same sort of fake smile that he saw countless others do on an hourly basis, it was perfectly possible that he might become more likeable.

And at the thought of the word “likeable”, he instantaneously lost all interest in the idea. He had never cared for the word “likeable”. It seemed so tinny and inconsequential. Think of it when it’s used: “Oh, Jeremy’s so likeable.” Certainly, Jeremy sounds borderline bearable, but he also sounds like the sort of person who consistently loses drinking games and humiliates himself afterwards, gets overwhelmed in group conversations, and is so utterly inconsequential that his acquanitances, not wishing to offend anyone, simply call him “likeable” in order to safely indicate that they did not have any dislike toward Jeremy, and to successfully hide the fact that they might struggle to pick the wretch out from an identity parade.

“Best drop the whole idea,” muttered Jeremy, after another regrettable intake of Grouse. “If I continue to be an inexpungible spot of grey, at least people will be glad to see the back of me.” With that he downed the rest of the tumbler, winced a little, and returned to bed.

It was 4 am, and the June light was all but dawned. This made it hard to regain unconsciousness, and when Martin got to work later in the morning he was, if anything, worse than usual.

Farewell Sir Alex

As a Manchester United fan, I look back on the numbing shock of the sudden end of Sir Alex Ferguson's 26 year reign.

Aside from the Queen, Sir Alex Ferguson has been the only constant during my life. I have lived through 12 England managers, nine Italian Prime Ministers, five British Prime Ministers, four US Presidents, four Archbishops of Canterbury, three Popes, but only one manager of Manchester United Football Club. On a more personal level, he's been at the helm of the club for almost as long as my elder brother has been alive, and that guy's old. He can remember when the Tories last won an election.

I and millions of other United supporters are going into uncharted territory. We know that we are hated. No matter what any of us do, we will be despised. One of the most treasured compliments I have ever received was from a Liverpool supporting friend of mine who said: “You’re the only United fan I like.” The roots of this antagonism are many and varied, but one of them is undoubtedly Sir Alex Ferguson.

If we are frank, Sir Alex was what made us different from other clubs, not just because of his success, but because of his longevity and durability. Since his appointment in 1986, Real Madrid have had 24 managers, Inter Milan have had 19, Chelsea 18, Bayern Munich and Juventus 14 and AC Milan 13. The managerial merry-go-round was something that happened to other clubs.

A trophy-less season was no disaster: Sir Alex would set it right. Three seasons without a Premier League title (a difficulty that brings whole new meaning to the phrase “first world problems”) was troubling, but we knew Sir Alex would set it right. Our biggest player was threatening to leave: Sir Alex would set it right. With perhaps the exception of the continental challenge of the supreme Barcelona side, there was no problem to which Sir Alex did not have the answer. In terms of longevity, Arsenal have their own version of Ferguson in Arsène Wenger, and despite having now been trophy-less for eight seasons, they still say “In Arsène We Trust”. It wasn’t trust with Sir Alex: it was blind but justified faith.

We have known that this day has been coming, and we all know that we’ll never see anything like him again. There will not be another era of 13 league titles in 21 years, and when you have become accustomed to such incredible success, the comedown from the high is going to be difficult. In fact, Sir Alex’s retirement is nothing short of terrifying, and everybody knows it. The news hadn’t been known for a few minutes before friends started telling me that United are doomed to plummet, and the final twist in the Matt Busby comparisons came home to roost: not too long after that great man’s retirement, we were relegated to the second tier. In this modern era, it strikes me as unlikely that a club of such resources as United could descend so low and so quickly again, but a new era is upon us. We have lost the object of our unquestioning faith, and there is no replacement.

But, we have always known this was going to come, and we always knew this age wouldn’t last. We have been beyond blessed by a genius and now it is for us to know what it is to be like other clubs. That sounds arrogant and it probably is, but there can be no denying that Ferguson’s United has been unlike any other era for any club in the history of English football. He and his reign have been genuinely exceptional, and he will be missed by many of his rivals too, as the competition was so greatly valued. Indeed, for many fans of football, when next season comes, it will be a very strange beast. What will English football be like without its Godfather?

At the end of it all, there’s but one thing for this United fan to say: thank you Sir Alex.

This Present Moment

Under soft sunshine and sweet songs,

The cares of day disappear,

And all the worries of past and future,

Give way to present glories.

There is no sorrow in the springtime heat.

The white snows are beaten,

And summer’s reign is heralded

By the white of blossom.

Peace is all that the noon allows.

The sun is early to rise

And late to depart,

And its generous time with us,

Lends we beings an immortal illusion –

A faith that the sunlit seconds will roll on

And on, one to another without cease,

Until the sunset comes at our bidding,

Giving way to clear, beautiful, lyrical night.

Farewell care and farewell fear.

Let the birds be as sirens to you,

The budding flowers as rocks in your sea.

Run your fearsome ship of yesterday

Onto the coast of beauty,

And never into a tomorrow sail again.

© Jack Blackburn, 23rd April 2013

After the Thaw - Original Version

This poem was composed after an exercise at drama school, where I performed a character in a long-term improvisation for three days. The improvisation was set in 1649, and my character's name was Emmanuel, a veteran of the English Civil War. This poem went through many different versions as the writing was subsequently incorporated into a performance piece in a play. This is the Emmanuel version.

_________________________

After the thaw, the sun was shining,

And the warmth had returned.

He had been alone, and he was happy alone.

But then he was changed.

He sipped from a sweetly poisoned cup.

And thirsted forever more.

Before, he would briefly encounter

And then release without regret.

Now,

Her stillness. Her intensity.

This was not mere satisfaction.

It was a joy he did not understand.

It grew in him,

Beautiful and cruel.

When he woke, it was night.

And the heat of the day,

Had been flooded by the cool of the moon.

And he was alone.

And in his solitude he felt

A feeling from the heat of battle.

He was afraid.

© Jack Blackburn, 21st April 2013

My ever-skipping heart

My ever-skipping heart,

That flirts with pain on every beat,

That urges me to foolishness,

That turns the merest glance received

Into an oasis of illusory delight,

That seeks out joy in the most hopeless of places,

That twists and turns from day to day,

And risks fearful misery in every waking hour:

May you never be stilled.

For every pain you dare to endure,

Is as nought to the joy that you dare to find.

© Jack Blackburn, 19th April 2013