WIMBLEDON ’87 : And He’s Not the Only One Having Fun

WIMBLEDON, England — The player out on Centre Court is putting on a good show. Playing some thumping good tennis, for a first-round match, and also working the crowd, which is most appreciative of the attention.

The player tries a forehand placement down the line, but the ball kicks the net and drops just wide. Having fallen to the grass, the player mocks his own disappointment by shuffling five or six paces on his knees, a move combining elements of Romeo, Al Jolson and Chuck Berry.

When the linesman makes a questionable call against the player, he doesn’t explode. He playfully places the ball down on the spot where he thought it had fallen.

Along with the shtick, he’s playing with gusto and skill. He wins the match.

So who’s the player? New kid?

No, old kid. Age 34, almost old enough to be two Boris Beckers. Someone named Jimbo Connors.

Jimmy Connors, eh? So it’s come to this, has it? Jimmy Connors, once king of the tennis world, reduced to providing comic relief for an event that is constantly on the brink of taking itself too seriously?

Jimmy Connors has become the tennis equivalent of a Las Vegas lounge comedian?

So it seems to some fans and tennis fanciers. They don’t understand why Connors keeps on playing when he no longer has a very good chance of winning the big ones.

They resent it when Jimbo drags his fading greatness onto the court time after time, like an old man pulling out his album of dog-eared snapshots of his brilliant career.

How dare he?

Easy.

Boys just wanna have fu-un. Jimbo is still one of the boys, and he’s having more fun than ever.

“I’m loose and relaxed,” he said after his first-round victory over Marty Davis. “I’m enjoying the atmosphere, and enjoying a vacation in which I’m out there playing a little tennis along the way.”

The burden of being Jimmy Connors these days, although he doesn’t seem to sag under it, is that he must constantly explain his presence.

So he does. Comparing himself to the boy wonders who retire early, when their games slip a notch, Connors said, “My whole career’s been a roller-coaster ride. In ‘79, ’80 and ’81 I didn’t win a Grand Slam event. If you show a little guts and fight through it, you can come back and play even better.

“I enjoy the game. Maybe that’s the difference. It’s healthy, it’s wealthy and it’s wise, for me.”

Healthy, sure. Given your choice of a conditioning program would you rather jog a few miles, sucking in auto fumes, or play two hours of bracing tennis on a beautiful lawn, cheered on by thousands of adoring and appreciative fans who applaud your every shot and laugh in delight each time you shrug your shoulders or invent a little knee walk?

Tough decision, isn’t it? Maybe this will help: The tennis pays better than the jogging. Connors earned $257,000 last year in tournament tennis, and a ton more in exhibitions and endorsements.

This year, he’s seventh in the computer rankings, one place up from last year’s final standings. The money rolls in.

That explains the healthy and the wealthy. How about the wise?

With age and experience has come the wisdom. And the fun.

“Now I don’t drag tennis around like I used to,” he said. “I used to eat, sleep and breathe tennis. I have three roles to play now. I play tennis, I’m a family man, and a businessman.”

With tennis he can combine all three. The circuit is a pretty nice gig. Take Wimbledon, for example. They send a limo to pick you up each morning, you don’t have to stand in line for tickets, and the strawberries are comped.

If part of the deal is putting up with a few critics, and enduring the insolence of a few young players who openly scoff at your chances of winning here, well, you can handle it.

When the media start writing off Chris Evert and Martina Navratilova, they bristle.

“Of all the players, Martina and I are probably the angriest; we have more to prove,” Evert said here. “We’re both champions and we have a lot of pride.”

When the media start writing Connors off, he dismisses them with a smile and a polite explanation.

“As long as I can play the kind of tennis I’m playing now, why (retire)?” he said. “Why not do something when I can still do it very well.”

Understand, Connors is not the Arnold Palmer of tennis. Even though he is 16 years on the circuit, 13 years removed from his first Wimbledon win, he can still play some. He’s more like the Kareem Abdul-Jabbar of tennis, able to rise to the heights only on occasion, but often enough to provide some excitement for the spectators and for himself.

“I’ve had my share of the spotlight,” he said. “Probably more than my share. But you never know, there might be a bright spotlight somewhere in the rainbow.”

A spotlight in the rainbow? You get the idea. Connors still wants to win. Although he sometimes plays the court jester, the image he prefers to project is something a little more romantic.

“I still go on the court to kill or be killed,” he told a London reporter. “That’s what I’d like to be remembered as--a warrior.”

That’s why at Wimbledon, along with the funny stuff, you’ll see the Connors swagger, the trademark rocking while waiting to return serve, the hitching of pants and shirt, the blowing on his racket hand.

Gradually, the wink will be replaced by the famed smirk; the good humor will give way to the hard-edged intensity.

The lounge comedian will become the warrior.

Jimmy Connors will be doing some serious vacationing.