Roland Garros Diaries:
I went to the Roland Garros for the first time in many years on Wednesday. It was the same train to Porte d’Auteile, then a five minute walk in a straight line, with no turns, right up to Gate Number One. A walk so easy, even a topographic cretin such as myself, has done it twice—alone—without having to ask directions.
But that is about all I recognized from my previous three visits there. I can go on a tangent about how everything has gone— changed, ruined— but that is not why I started writing this.
Because nothing ever is as it was.
But we still remember stories and in remembering how things once were, I am not mourning its loss, but celebrating its once presence.
Perhaps I will write about Wednesday’s experience one day with a dash of spirit which has not yet been conceived in me. Perhaps one day I will tell M’s son what a glorious past his country had— in a sport that he himself contemplated on taking up professionally. He is an above intelligent boy for his age, academically and emotionally. He studies in the bibliotheque till midnight for his exams to get into the ENS. He is no ignorant Gen (whatever alphabet he falls into). And yet he is completely oblivious to anything about France’s tennis glory before the last twenty years. I find that stunning in the most unstunningest of way.
France has been one of the most important of all nations in the history of the sport starting with the very beginning of its modern era in the early 20th century. It has given the world the Four Musketeers, Henri Leconte, and Susanne Lenglen, who was as pioneering in her time as the Williams Sisters were in their’s. It had given the world at least six of the top twenty players in the 1990’s, none of whose names the tennis playing twenty and thirty year olds of France today know of. The French Tennis Federation has one of the best junior development programs in the world; How could this be? How could he not know these names as synonymous as Hollywood actors?
Was it just us Indians who polished our scant trophies every week in news articles and hall of fames? Or, was it because they have Paris St. Germain, so who cares about tennis?
But I don’t even write in lament of this fact.
I write to say just this: that I, raised in distant Calcutta where champions are strangers, once stood close enough to touch what, made up my entire world.
It's the year Aranxta Sanchez and Michael Chang win the finals. I've never been very good with dates. I am about 8 or 9 years old. I've outgrown my first wooden racquet and receive a graphite- a Wilson Chris Evert for juniors. There are whispers of a new rising star- a young German with a killer forehand. Steffi Graf is her name. I secretly swear that if she ever comes anywhere near my Martina Navratilova, I'd seek vengeance. I had it all figured out. When I turned 18, she would be 28. Two more years at least before she hit retirement age.
Anyway, it's the year Aranxta Sanchez and Michael Chang win the French Open. My family is in Paris on holiday. My father takes me to watch my first Grand Slam tournament while my mother and sister are shopping. You must watch the great if you want to be like them, he used to say. It's Round Two. Lots of people are playing that day- all the big names. Lendl, Wilander, McEnroe. Jimmy Connors threatens to unzip his shorts if the crowd doesn't quieten down. But I am waiting all scorching morning to see Martina. She is on late afternoon. My father is dubious about staying so long but I refuse to take no for an answer. My poor father has endured a lot for the sake of his daughter's foolish obsession.
As luck would have it, it starts to rain by midday. Now my father really wants to leave. But I call the shots yet again. We wait for hours, it feels like . I had the most delicious hot dogs with mustard. Two of them. I didn't know this then but I'd never have a hot dog so incredible ever again. I should have had three.
Finally, just before sunset, Martina comes on. She is playing a Belgian named Bettina Fulco. I'm shivering with anticipation as we hustle for seats. They serve one game each. Then. Ms Feltus decides to get sick from the heat. She vomits. At the baseline. I remember this so clearly. Martina, about to serve, catches the ball midair. She runs over to the sidelines, grabs a towel, and jumps over the net to her opponent. The crowd cheer at her heroism. She is wearing a white skirt with a thin navy blue trimming. Gabriela Sabatini, the Amazon warrior, wore the same outfit. I used to call it the Mother Teresa skirt.
The year Sanchez and Chang, two young, unknown tennis stars create a huge upset in the tennis world by winning the women's and men's titles respectively. Somewhere in the crowd, there's me , never more cruelly cheated of my own glory.
