Bone In The Fan

Wimbledon is broadcast live in the mornings as I learned this very morning, drinking coffee and waiting for my back to loosen up.  Serena Williams was playing Bethanie Mattek in the quarterfinals, and I was sucked in immediately for two reasons:

First, I was fascinated by the people around the court.  There was a woman behind Mattek that I suppose was a line judge but looked more like an overweight British nurse from a World War II film.  Same skirt, same blindingly pale chubby legs, same “I’ll take no guff from you” look in her eye.  She stood behind the baseline, hunched over, hands parked on her pudgy knees, staring at the action on court.  Better than her though were the, well I don’t know what to call them; I think we used to call them ballboys, but now they’re girls too, so collectively maybe ballhandlers?  At any rate, there are at least five: I saw two behind each baseline at the corners and one squatting at the foot of the umpire chair.  I suppose there may have been another on the far side of the chair, but if there was they didn’t do the mirror thing together (like Lucy Ricardo and Harpo Marx did), which is too bad because that would have rocked.

So after each point, the one squatting next to the chair springs up into position between the chair and the end of the net, and stands at attention facing the non-service court, waiting for any balls that need to be shuttled back to the service court. Simultaneously, the two ballhandlers (which is still funny to me, even after typing it this many times… “ball handlers”) behind the baseline each raise one arm to an approximately 75 degree angle and stand stock still, like soldiers in front of Buckingham Palace. At (I suppose) a nod from the player, the ballhandler swings that one arm down (keeping it locked at the elbow) and bounces her a single ball, then puts both arms behind his or her back and stands perfectly still - unless the mid-court ballhandler has been rolled a ball from the other court. If that’s the case, the mid-court handler will have already spun 180 degrees and rolled the ball directly at the baseline ballhandler (thereby completing the ball’s end-to-end journey), and forcing them to jump into position, squat down and scoop it up.  All handlers then return to their ready positions. Someone, probably a committee, hammered out all those procedures and must have detailed the whole process in some sort of ballhandling manual.  A copy of which I want, as my personal ballhandling manual consists of only a single instruction: handle balls.

The second thing that sucked me in was Mattek.  You know how a lot of tennis players grunt when they hit the ball?  Well during a long volley with Williams, Mattek grunted well after she hit the ball. As in pretty much after the ball had already crossed the net. Except it wasn’t really a grunt. More of a squeal, or a groan, or a moan. OK, it sounded like she was having sex.  Exactly like she was having sex. Really pretty good sex, too.  So I call Joanna in to listen to it, and she starts to laugh.  Then she turns to me still laughing and goes “you think that’s sexy, don’t you” and I go “yeah, it’s kinda hot.”

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