London Calling (Not) 6.23

Mornin' folks. I'm auto-posting this while I'm up at the farm in game-rich Andes, prepping for Wimbledon and my meeting next week in Los Angeles with Pete Sampras. Actually, I'm probably up at the pond, swimming with Cowboy Luke, or enjoying a GE on the deck, looking out over a field of hay as tall as I am. It's so tall that I keep losing the little shaver in it, which isn't a good idea, given the number of coyotes we've got running around. . .

Anyway, this will by your match-calling and WImbledon tune-up post for the day, and I'll have one tomorrow as well. We will have a Crisis Center post up for the start of play on Monday, and I'll have some thoughts to add throughout the day. If you're wondering why I've posted an image of John McEnroe, it's because I miss that pain-in-the-butt at Wimbledon. He was - by far - the most radical and intriguing stylist of the Open era. And his style was unique but - and this is the real key to his distinction - effective. Remember that rolling, backhand approach shot, hit with his chubby thighs together and knees all locked up? How about the forehand stop volley, played at waist level, practically with a thumb hooked in a belt-loop? And don't even mention that corkscrew service motion. Who said you can't do pretty well playing with your back to the net?

I miss McEnroe at Wimbledon. I used to enjoy watching the faces he made, he was like an infant with gas. It's easy to forget all that, what with his earrings and godawful rock-and-roll wannabe pretentions. I say bring back the Isro hairdo, the baby fat, the press conferences that seemed more like the mumbled, confused confessions of a serial killer in the sweat-room at a police station than the glib observations of  a TV personality. I prefer a pain in the butt to a pain in the brain.