WHITEWATER! with Joe Procopio
BigLeaguers.com
Ask Evel!
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First, a quick quiz: Which fast-paced sport is played by millions around
the globe and combines strategic positioning and precision with
lightning-quick reflexes, boundless stamina, and shrewd opportunism? If you
guessed "Elbow Wrestling," you're right! (Two points for you.) I became a
pro at this game after a nine-hour flight to the U.K. For most of this
grueling trudge I sat cramped and cross-armed while the guy next to — practically on top of — me prayed constantly and dominated the arm-rest with Rodman-like precision. All the while I'm pounding back merlot and jockeying for position. With elbows bruised and tattered we arrived at Heathrow around noon.
| "There's a spicy-posh hangout for the Queen and her ritzy pals to get bagged on Pimms." |
Lessons Learned, Part 1:
- Airlines serve a "Moslem Meal" (It says so on the package).
- You get much more tanked at 33,000 feet.
- Air Canada sucks.
Jacked and disoriented, we hot-footed it to Wimbledon by way of the London
underground. Efficient subway system they got there. We arrived just in
time to catch the quarter-final match between America's sweetheart — the
young Venus Williams, and perennial loser — yet fan favorite — Jana Novotna. Gobbling the trademark strawberries 'n' cream with a Pimms in each hand, we witness the time-honored tradition of the whining American contentiously arguing each close call against them until they've lost all concentration. Apparently Miss Williams has been taking lessons from John McEnroe in courtside courtesy. Naturally, she made an ass of herself.
As a show of solidarity, my lovely assistant and I did the same. Downing another round of Pimms (the sponsoring beverage), we began the chant:
"Veeee-nuuuus!" (a variation of the old Darryl Strawberry jab). Quicker
than you can say "bollocks!", a decayed-smiling usher quickly showed us to the
gate. And what a nice gate... black wrought-iron, very snappy. Strolling
past the palatial estates back to downtown Wimbledon, we crept into a pub
to catch the rest of the match.
By now you're asking yourself:
- Who won? Novotna, in straight sets.
- What the hell is "Pimms"?
Good question. Pimms is a traditional Wimbledon beverage. My only guess is that's it's some type of liqueur that's based with either gin, vodka, or whiskey, mixed with what appears to be unsweetened lemonade, topped with mint, a slice of lemon, and a slice of cucumber. I am certain of only one thing: it's bloody awful.
Now here's the mood at the Wimbledon All-England Lawn Tennis Club. In a
picturesque upscale hamlet just South of London, one traipses about a mile
from the "tube" stop past lush properties and small-town shops to the
massive complex. Unbeknownst to myself, this place is about as big as Rhode
Island... if R.I. was really small. Housing 20 courts of varying dimensions,
from the stadium-sized Centre Court to the miniscule (barely enough
spectator space for 50 people) higher numbers, there's still room for
numerous food courts, restaurants, merch stands, and an enormous grassy knoll
which overlooks a fifty-foot video screen, showing the E-ticket matches for
the cheapo proles — like myself — to relax and enjoy. Oh yeah, there's also a spicy-posh hangout for the Queen and her ritzy pals to get bagged on Pimms.
Day Two: So there we are on said knoll, knocking back Kronenbourg (the Old Milwaukee of Germany) and choking down bangers 'n' mash. After watching some Frenchy bounce Natasha "The Belarussian Riot-Grrrl" Zvereva, we decide that after four hours in the British sunshine (read: gloomy, cloudy, and
overcast) we've absorbed more than enough UV-rays to give our
grand-children cancer. Now here's the coolest part of the event: Since
there are still — even at this late stage in the tournament — so many matches going on at once, one can catch quality players on the smaller venues up close. Such was the case when we ambled past court 15 and chanced upon
America's Sweetheart's sister — Serena Williams — mixed-doubling with some gawky kid, playing a team fronted by the same Frenchy who had just beat the riot-grrrl. And here's the kicker: we were standing right on the side of the court, no more than 20 feet from the action!
Here's where I was transformed from tennis-hater and overall Ugly American
into rabid fan, hooting, and hollering after each point, hanging on every
serve, foaming at the mouth and biting the postman. This match was a thing
of beauty. The spritely Serena, only 16 years old, battling the
seasoned-vet Nathalie Tauziat (I'll refrain from calling her Frenchy)... oh
yeah, they had a couple of guys in tow as well. But for the most part, it
was an intense and sweaty grunt-match between the two women; one filled
with stunning athleticism, incredible saves, and lengthy volleys.
This was everything that I had come here for; the tiny arena was
electric with the shouts of the British fans (one clearly yelling "I
love you, Serena!"). In the opposing bleacher seats a batch of prepubescent
English boys held up handmade signs and banners in support of Williams. By
far the most impressive part was that with every hard-won point, Serena
seemed to relax and enjoy the gripping drama with the excitement of a child
on a rollercoaster. Showing no tension, the two women brought this ride to
its furthest point, with the team of Williams and Mirnyi prevailing. The
audience, which by now had crammed several hundred people around every wall
and crevice, cheered overwhelmingly; Miss Williams acknowledging their
support with the time-honored "raise-the-roof" gesture.
Lessons Learned, Part 2:
- Always wear sunblock. I can't stress this enough. Even if it's cloudy.
Hell, even if you're indoors. That, or wear a lead suit. You won't get burned
and it makes it easier to get stuff through metal-detectors.
- Do not eat bangers 'n' mash under any circumstances. You'll find it
floating amongst mint-leaves and cucumber slices in a pool of Pimms-induced
puke later that evening.
As for the rest of the tournament, it was pretty dull. Yeah, Sampras won
his usual string of matches in straight sets until Britain's Great Pasty
Hope, Tim Henman, finally got a set in edgewise... before being clobbered
into submission. The men's final? — what else — Sampras Sampras Sampras. This cast a general pall over the UK, as their World Cup team had been
eliminated by Argentina just a day or so before. For some reason they
thought Henman actually had a chance. And for a few minutes he did
look pretty good. But hey, this is Sampras.
I admit, I wasn't necessarily looking forward to this assignment. Never
quite had that burning desire to try British cooking or taste Guinness
up close and personal. But after copious amounts of Indian food and local
ales ("don't drink the lager," chimed many a homey), I escaped a changed
man. As a result I went out and purchased every Jam and Slade album I could
lay my hands on. Broke and stomach-cramped, I popped on the elbow-pads and
hopped the Air Canada jet back home.
Kevin Chanel is the editor of ChinMusic!, a digest of baseball and Bigrockaction.
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