And then Wimbledon was gone too. Even the Championships, which from their 1877 onset (won by Spencer Gore) had only suffered extended hiatuses during the two World Wars, skipping the 1915-1918 and 1940-1945 editions (in 1940 the Lutwaffe released a bomb that destroyed Centre Court almost entirely). The Championships, which from 1946, when the 6-foot-5 Frenchman Ivan Petra triumphed, had taken place 74 times in a row, had to give way to the Coronavirus, in a third World War against an invisible enemy that isn’t involving just a few nations like the previous two, but rather the whole planet.
I’m fully aware that there are far worse predicaments than the cancellation of the Championship on Church Road. I’m fully aware that health is the most important thing in life, and that too many have had to relinquish it forever. I’m fully aware that too many families have lost their loved ones without even getting a chance to say goodbye or to bury them, without even getting a chance to know where their bodies were taken. I’m fully aware that these are the real tragedies. I’m fully aware that many families will keep suffering the consequences of this terrible virus, torn between the excruciating memory of the departed and the financial hardship of the present, which threaten to erase entire companies along with their employees.
I’m fully aware that I can call myself very lucky for having a home that is spacious enough to allow for seven members of my family to share the quarantine together without enduring the hardships that have gnawed at those who happen to live in narrower quarters and who have perhaps been plagued by a lack of food and medicine supplies.
I’m fully aware that so many of us, millions of us, still don’t know whether we have contracted the virus or not, or whether we have been, because we haven’t had the chance to get tested, nor do we know when we will.
I’m fully aware that just the fact of not experiencing any symptoms – so far – is a stroke of luck.
I’m also fully aware that not having lost any of my closest friends or relatives is also a stroke of luck, and an immeasurable one.
Therefore, it wouldn’t make any sense, while the pandemic is still raging and no one knows when it will be eradicated from our lives – I fear it won’t be until the science will provide us with a vaccine able to suppress potential relapses – it wouldn’t make any sense to show too much grief over the cancellation of sports in the midst of all of this, or for the disappearance of tennis from clubs and tournaments, taking away a chance for escapism from tragic daily updates.
I’m fully aware that the survival of UbiTennis isn’t a priority during this emergency, even though over 20 people risk losing a source of income.
As a matter of fact, I’m not going to complain that the about 12 years of hard work poured into making this website journalistically credible and financially self-sufficient are now slated for a major setback. I accept it, and I’m aware that many others are going to suffer a lot more – we remain optimistic, even if we were to lose the whole season, and, with it, a whole year of advertising.
I’ve fought for all the young people who have contributed with their greatest effort for the development of UbiTennis.com, UbiTennis.net, and UbiTennis.es, I’ve fought to create a future for them rather than for an aged man such as myself, especially considered that my children have taken different career paths. I’ve launched into this, and my collaborators have too, with a full awareness of the bumps we would have met on the road, without deluding ourselves too much. Now that we were about to catch a breath, with 5 million of unique users on the Italian version of the website and a more and more competent staff, this virus pretty darn wrong-footed us like a Federer tweener.
I have to say that, to my utter surprise, the website held up amazingly well in March, as we kept receiving between 30,000 and 40,000 visits per day, despite the lack of tournament play. This is why I need to thank once again those who are still contributing to the website, as we still have a stash of 30 unpublished material – I’m not talking about archive stuff, but rather of interviews to important figures of the game, a series of featured videos on all-time champions complete with data and anecdotes, didactic material, podcast plans, statistics, and feel-good tennis tales.
After this long preamble, allow me to say that yours truly – I’m so jealous of Gianni Clerici for co-opting the “Scribe” moniker for himself, I hate calling myself “yours truly” or emplying periphrases like “the author of this article” – while aware of everything that might have happened to me, is quite unsettled by the idea of staying home-bound and not going to Wimbledon after having done so for 46 editions in a row – almost a lifetime. Since 1974, from Connors’ steamrolling of Ken Rosewall to Djokovic saving two match points against Federer, I had never missed a single day, let alone an edition.
Two weeks multiplied per 46 years means 92 weeks, and when early arrivals, late departures, and rain delays to a third Monday are factored in (let’s not forget about the 2012 Olympics either), it means that two years of my life have been spent at SW19, from daylight to dusk. I can’t quite explain why, but this cancellation hit me harder than those of Monte Carlo (46 consecutive editions), Rome (48), and Roland Garros (44).
Perhaps it has to do with the fact that, when those three vanished, I was still looking ahead to Wimbledon, the tournament that takes place in the bona fide temple of tennis, the only one whose every final I recollect with no effort, and of which I treasure so many stories, so many details, so many anecdotes, so many people, so much life. I will miss it deeply. On first thought, I’d written “terribly” rather than “deeply”, but I immediately corrected myself, because, as I said, there are far more terrible things (and privations), but the fact remains that for over half of my life going to Wimbledon was just a hair below a pilgrimage for a devotee. Actually, a pilgrimage feels like an apt analogy to end on, because I would gladly get to Church Road on foot just to see it happen once more.
Translated from Italian by Tommaso Villa