Wimbledon is now an event of bish and bash and little else

We are approaching that time of year again when for two weeks the British become interested in tennis, when the fortunes of a wan, rather uncharismatic young man from Oxfordshire become so much part of the national conversation - until, that is, he loses. The appeal of Wimbledon, we are led to believe, is inseparable from its traditions - strawberries and cream, champagne lunches, white clothing, long queues outside the All England Club, grass courts, BBC commentators murmuring "I say" as a winning cross-court volley flashes past a hapless British qualifier, the odd appearance or two from minor royalty, the inevitable failure of the home entrants and the even more inevitable rain. It all makes for a lovely occasion, one of the most romantic events of the English summer season, along with the Lord's Test (oh, what a fun occasion the recent match was between England and the Mugabe-ravaged Zimbabwean tourists), the Henley Regatta, the Derby and glorious Goodwood.

Except that there is really nothing romantic about Wimbledon. Behind the veneer of charm and civility, something rather unpleasant seethes. For Wimbledon is about nothing so much as the remorseless acquisition of money (the winner alone of the men's singles this year will receive £575,000), which is why so little changes and why the All England Club clings so stubbornly to its venerable traditions when tradition is, in fact, killing Wimbledon as an event and as a televisual spectacle. The refusal to tear up those grass courts and replace them with something more conducive to balanced, competitive tennis, the failure to have the show courts fitted with retractable roofs, the continued exclusion of the plebeian herd from the Centre Court, the grim preponderance of corporate hospitality suites, and the reactionary nature of the All England Club itself, with its penchant for drawing its administrators from the ranks of the retired military, have conspired to turn the Wimbledon fortnight into one of the most predictable events of the entire sporting calendar.

Wimbledon is today dominated by pace and power, never by subtlety, grace or elegance. It is an event of bish and bash and little else, which will surely be won this summer by the man and woman with the hardest serve and the most physically intimidating on-court presence. Rallies are almost a thing of the past. You don't watch Wimbledon to be entertained. How can you, when so many of the games are little more than abrupt demonstrations of the monotonous art of serve and volley?

Asked recently what he thought could be done to improve the modern game of tennis, John McEnroe called for the immediate reintroduction of wooden rackets. He is right, but it will never happen - too much has been invested in the technology and science of sports equipment.

It's more than 20 years since McEnroe contested those epic finals against Bjorn Borg, the one player he feared most and longed to beat. When Borg prematurely retired, at the age of 26, soon after his defeat by McEnroe in the 1981 Wimbledon final, something disappeared with him from the game of tennis - charm, mystery, sophistication, surprise, the wooden racket. (The Williams sisters are wonderful role models, but their dominance and power are scarcely good for the game.)

If you liked tennis, as I once did, you liked Borg because here was a player who could win not only on the slow clay courts of Paris, but also on the grass of Wimbledon. He did not rely on the power of his serve or the force of his first volley. It was rather through artistry and craft that he was able to beat even fearsome bullies such as Roscoe Tanner.

It would be interesting to know what Borg thinks about the pseudo-event that Wimbledon has become. But since his suicide attempt in 1989, very little has been heard from him. Perhaps he is in mourning not only for his life, but also for the game he once played so well.

Jason Cowley is editor of the Observer Sport Monthly. Hunter Davies returns in the autumn

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