Back in the days when we wrestled ice cubes from funny metal trays stacked precariously in refrigerator freezers and Microsoft Windows was just a gleam in the eye of Bill Gates—Bjorn Borg walked away from tennis, taking with him his wanton white shorts, his cat-like prowling along the baseline and his amazing game.
He vanished. Living in my provincial hometown in rural USA, there was no information about Borg—he disappeared into a media black hole after the 1981 U.S. Open.
Sounding sublimely sinister, rumors surfaced about a threat on his life. More than likely, after failing to capture his sixth Wimbledon championship and after losing his fourth US Open final, Borg had enough…
As a huge Borg fan, I was numb with loss. No blogs, no fan sites, no websites existed, and no news surfaced—therefore no communal commiseration.
Not another tennis fan lived within 50 miles, let alone one who worshiped at the altar of the adroit and unendingly appealing Borg.
For a long time, I actually hated John McEnroe because I blamed him for driving Borg away from tennis and into oblivion…
In the absence of Borg, and after a brief panicky hiatus, I found myself leaning toward another Swede, Mats Wilander—who won the French Open at age 17 in 1982.
With long blond hair—and what self-respecting, tennis-playing Swede didn’t sport such tresses—Mats wasn’t rock-star magnetic like Borg but he was cute and terrier-tough—a real fighter. His tenacious game soon diluted my sorrow, and I could freely love again.
After six years of gut-wrenching, grueling tennis, Wilander became the No. 1 player in the world in 1988. Then, he too, blinked out like a bad bulb…probably burnt out from the extreme effort involved in securing the No. 1 ranking. Another sinkhole swallowed my second tennis phenom.
Understandably, I had to spurn Stefan Edberg, afraid to love a Swede again… My tennis tank stuck on empty.
Eventually I found myself living the life of a sub-species—a slug, because I could only root against Ivan Lendl. Out of deep-set desperation and lingering depression, I had deteriorated into an anti-Lendl fan. There was no passion, no thrill—just retribution.
Somehow it was less fulfilling because a tennis fan’s true joy comes from positive emotions like winning. Also Lendl didn’t lose that often…
I tried to move on, flirting with the Aussies: first Cash, then Rafter. I was quite fond of Rafter’s aggressive serve and volley game. Becker was intriguing and Edberg—well, I explained about Edberg.
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