Tennis: The Week-After Blues

A general view of Rod Laver Arena

I look hard at the life-sized bust of a man in front of me. He has a large nose, a receding hairline and smiles back at me, and I think to myself  - ‘this is someone I should be knowing really well’. I turn my head skywards in a frown of concentration, and my eyes rest on the large blue letters on top of the building complex in front of me, announcing it as the Rod Laver Arena. But of course! Who else could it be?

I arrive in Melbourne exactly a week after the Open ends, and I am distraught at the sheer unfairness of it all. I feel like a cricket fan who arrives home too late to watch Dhoni score the World Cup winning runs, like a man who reaches the lift lobby just in time to see the doors close, like a father stuck in traffic during the birth of his child. I console myself with thoughts of touring the tennis facilities at Melbourne Park, get behind the scenes of what goes on in the first Major of the year, maybe even get a first-hand whiff of the events that transpired a week earlier.

It doesn’t begin well. The Rod Laver arena has the feel of a heavy hangover after a wild party. The place is deserted. The only people around are cleaners who are busy whitewashing the walls and taking down the last posters from the Open last week. The couple of billboards that remain don’t do much to inspire. Djokovic, Azarenka and Tomic grin down at me, asking if I am ‘Ready to Play?’ I know they don’t really mean it, that they’ve had their fill last week, and that leaves me vaguely depressed.

I join a group of stragglers hanging around uncertainly near the Players’ Café, waiting for the guided tour to begin. We smile at each other apologetically, united in sympathy for our shared unfortunate fate. A young female employee of the Melbourne Park soon comes over to our group and introduces herself as our guide for the day. She looks toned and fit, with the air of someone who uses the tennis facilities here extensively, but her smile is tinged with weariness and her comments are slightly forced, in the manner of one who has had a tough but exciting last fortnight, and who believes that getting back to her normal routine for the rest of the year isn’t going to be easy. In spite of it all, our spirits are upbeat as she leads us into the heart of the Rod Laver arena.

The men’s locker room is the first stop. Row upon row of lockers fill one half of the large room, and a row of showers and toilets line the other side. The smell of fresh woodwork and hospital hygiene mingle to give a distinctive fragrance. A gaggle of teenagers excitedly take photos of Federer’s larger-than-average personal locker. We pass through the Walk of Champions, and my heart leaps in recognition. This is the curved passageway, lined on both sides with posters of past champions, which the players must pass through to enter Rod Laver. The walls are running out of space though. They must have been glad to have no first-time winners this year, I think to myself. We reach the end of the Walk of Champions, but are turned back. We will not be entering the actual court, we are told. Preparations are on for a music concert scheduled later that day at the Rod Laver arena. It feels odd to hear about the various non-sporting events that are scheduled to take place on the exact piece of tennis property where Nadal, Federer, Murray et al have waged so many glorious battles, shed so much of sweat and tears. Neil Young, Paul Simon, even Russell Peters, will perform here over the next month, we are told, and my thoughts wander with nostalgia to the time-bound traditions of Wimbledon.

We are taken to a Superbox at the top of the stadium, which gives a bird’s-eye view of the action in the centre while providing all possible exclusive amenities that the super-rich at the event might crave for. From the Superbox, the court in the middle takes on the feel of a gladiatorial arena, especially with the roof closed at the moment. The familiar green and yellow chairs seem to crowd in on top of the court from every side, giving it a very claustrophobic air. I realize this atmosphere is not really representative of the Australian Open, since half the seats are hidden now and the distinctively blue centre-court is under a grey tarpaulin at present. It looks and feels more like an indoor rock-concert venue than an outdoor tennis stadium. And I realize this is pretty close to the truth.

We enter the press conference room, where the players, during the tournament, are subjected to a grilling from reporters immediately after their efforts on court. It is a relatively small room with a suffocating feel to it even when empty, and my respect rises for those unfortunate sportsmen who need to come up with thoughtful answers to the most inane questions in this atmosphere after every match. Right now, we take turns at conducting mock post-match interviews under the spotlight. The mood in the group is cheerful and the cameras click away merrily.

We are led to a showcase with the original trophies of all the events that take place during the fortnight. The winners only get to take the replicas. I can see that the Men’s and Women’s Singles trophies are quite ancient, and already inscribed with this year’s winners at the bottom of the list of champions. Our guide is now rambling about current developments underway at Melbourne Park. A roof is coming up for Margaret Court Arena, she says, which would make the Australian Open the only Major with three covered courts – Rod Laver and Hisense already have roofs. A set of Italian clay courts have also been inaugurated in the complex. The concept of red clay in hard-court Australia seems incongruous to me, till I observe that the Norman Brookes trophy is sponsored by the Australian Lawn Tennis Association, harkening to a past when grass court tennis was ubiquitous, including at the Australian Open. Random thoughts on the state of tennis – past, current and future meander through my mind as I follow our guide around.

We find ourselves at the Players’ Café again, and just like that, the tour is over. We are invited to experience the food that the players themselves tuck into over the fortnight at the Café, but I am not tempted. I walk back into the bright sunlight, with the satisfied feeling of having experienced something unique, tempered by a vague mood of what I have missed. I wander aimlessly across the main square under the watchful eyes of a row of Aussie tennis veterans’ statues. I head towards where I can hear some tennis balls being hit. Some of the outside courts are open for practice, and there are people there, making the most of the long summer days. As I climb the steps into the court, I see it at last. The brilliant blue which so captivated on TV. The brightness takes some getting used to. I take a seat on the top row of the stands and settle down to watch two athletic young men engage in a few friendly jokes and rallies. As the sun begins to seep into me, the sight of the sparkling court and the rhythmic sound of racket making contact with ball lulls me into a sense of warmth and contentment. At a time like this, everything must be right with the world. I sink back into my seat with a sigh of happiness. In the end, it only takes some Blue to get rid of the blues.