The Tournament

by John Clarke

  Lardner has been the underdog in every match he has played and has attracted only passing attention from the media—he used to be a sportswriter ‘until I found out how it worked’—but his results tell their own story. No one has taken him to five sets. He has a gift for picking a flaw in an opponent’s game and there is a cruel streak in the way he exploits it. If Duchamp reveals a weakness, he will never hear the end of it.

  Duchamp himself has had a tough campaign: Milne, a match he said privately he thought he might winnie in threeie, Isherwood, Mandelstam in what was probably the match of the third round, and Ernie Hemingway in the fourth. His undermining of fourth-seeded Einstein was a study in planning and execution and was replayed around the world.

  Nevertheless, the Lardner–Duchamp quarter-final featured the two players least known to the broader sporting public.

  In the first set they tested one another. Lardner served powerfully and hit drives deep to both corners. Duchamp watched like a hawk and probed the sidelines, stretching the American and punching away the volley. Lardner 6–4.

  The second set was all Lardner. The high-octane serve was screaming in and Duchamp sliced the returns to slow the game down. This was just what the doctor ordered as far as Lardner was concerned and he was there like a cat, hitting winner after winner. Lardner 6–4, 6–3.

  The crowd could see the writing on the wall and paid no particular attention when Duchamp eased his way into the third set and won it in a tie-break with three superb lobs which had Lardner out of position and going the wrong way. Lardner 6–4, 6–3, 6–7.

  The fourth set also went to a tie-break. Lardner jogged on the spot, took a couple of deep breaths and went for the kill. He stepped the serve up another notch and was deadly at the net. But Duchamp got everything back and stood his ground, winning the tie-break once again, again with three superb lobs. Lardner could only stand and watch as they drifted into the unguarded back court. All square, Lardner v. Duchamp 6–4, 6–3, 6–7, 6–7. The crowd lifted. Duchamp allowed himself a wry smile but knew there was work still to do.

  Twenty-seven minutes later that work was done. Game, set and match Duchamp, 4–6, 3–6, 7–6, 7–6, 6–2.

  The Mann–Eliot encounter was a different affair altogether. Both players expected to be in the quarters and each knows the other’s game. They are strong and uncompromising men and had taken some bruising to get here. Mann was lucky to get past Kandinsky, Eisenstein, Satie and Mayakovsky but then had surprisingly little trouble with Stravinsky. SuperTom began with routine wins against Capek and Crosby but then ran into Shaw in a grudge match which nearly upset the applecart. Tagore and then Wittgenstein took more out of the Eliot legs and it was a battle-hardened SuperTom who stepped out on Centre Court today.

  This would be big, powerful stuff. There would be a lot of noise and one man would not get up. The gods were angry.

  Mann blinked in the first set and lost it 6–4. SuperTom blinked in the second and lost it 7–5. The Mann service quickened in the third and he took it 6–3. Mann had set his sail and was heading for open sea.

  SuperTom pretended it was all in a day’s work but he looked like a country vicar who’d found himself in charge at Passchendaele. He hadn’t done much wrong, but here he was in full retreat in a battle controlled by someone else. He needed to break out. Could he do it? Did he dare?

  ‘It was time,’ he said later. ‘I decided to fight the fact that fire was being fought with fire, with fire.’

  There was extra bite in the SuperTom serve in the fourth quartet. His ground strokes were low and hard, and anything Mann lobbed was murdered. Mann defended his lead and slowed the game down but this simply highlighted SuperTom’s gift for setting up well-constructed points. He broke Mann twice and took the match to a fifth set.

  SuperTom was back in town. When Eliot is running hot he can do anything; the power game is huge, he disguises his intentions well and even scraps of shots become part of a seamless cloth.

  It was well known that Auden planned to leave town as soon as possible but today he and MacNeice played as if they wanted to stay here forever, and at times had this match at their mercy. Chandler and Hammett, however, were not about to lie down.

  ‘Can’t afford to lie down in this business,’ said Chandler. ‘Down the other end were two guys. Same as last time. Different guys. Same deal. Big one looked like a hangover with the lot but the other one was slick, like a fish with a good barber. Maybe he deals a little insurance to widows and maybe a little something else besides.

  ‘I opened the court-side fridge and got a message from my nerves demanding to know where they kept the whisky and could we go home soon. A flatfoot sitting up a ladder somewhere said, “Play.” I thought of looking up but my eyes had been on strike for better pay and conditions and I didn’t want to inflame the issue.

  ‘Dash and I lost the first set. The hangover was packing plenty of punch and the insurance man was picking up work all over town.

  ‘“Do these guys know something we don’t?” asked Dash as we sat down.

  ‘“My feet hurt,” I said.

  ‘“They’re just a couple of punks,” said Dash.

  ‘“I think my arm is broken.”

  ‘“Something doesn’t fit,” said Dash. “Couple of punks beating tough guys like us.”

  ‘“There’s got to be an easier way to get a thirst.”

  ‘Dash took a long pull on his drink, threw his towel down and we went back out there. Dash isn’t a big guy and he only trains nights. But don’t get him angry. He fights above his weight.’

  The second set saw Hammett unleash himself and Auden’s habit of coming across MacNeice at the net began to open gaps behind them, gaps which the intelligent Chandler saw and used. Chandler and Hammett had survived. From there, it was a short ride home.

  In the first set against Anthony Wilding and Maxine Elliott in a mixed quarter-final on Court 2, Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers were tentative, but as light rain fell and everyone scampered under umbrellas, they seemed to get things together. When they came back out again they were superb; Astaire very much the ideas man, with Rogers moving backwards a lot to cover him. If they carry on as they did today, Fred and Ginger are going to be hard to stop.

  ‘Isn’t it a lovely day,’ said Astaire, ‘to be caught in a storm.’

  In the other mixed quarter today, the Austrian pairing of Freud and Melanie Klein took out Beckett and Peggy Guggenheim. Freud developed the idea that Guggenheim’s habit of buying works of art by other players in the tournament was a response to having seen her parents in the act of congress.

  ‘Oh dear,’ said Guggenheim. ‘Can we just get on with the match?’

  ‘It’s obvious,’ said the Doc. ‘The paintings are on canvas. They cover the canvas just as our conscious masks our subconscious. But the canvas they hide is white, the colour of sperm.’

  ‘You could make anything fit that argument,’ said Guggenheim. ‘Canvas isn’t white, incidentally, it’s a hessian colour which has gesso-ground put on it and is then painted white.’

  ‘What colour is it after it’s been painted white?’ trumpeted Freud.

  ‘Furthermore, I had a very unsuccessful nose-job so I appreciate beauty which is outside myself, my father was lost on the Titanic so I’m keen on things that will last, and I’m rich, so if I don’t buy paintings from other players, who will?’

  ‘This breast is on my forehand side and is good,’ Klein announced. ‘This other breast is on my backhand side and is not good.’

  Beckett said nothing but clearly wished the matter could be over at the earliest available opportunity and made every effort to ensure that it was.

  Day 33

  * * *

  Waller v. Orwell • Chekhov v. Joyce • Lenya and Dietrich v. Gonne-MacBride and Markievicz • Elliott and Draper v. Sackville-West and Stephen-Woolf • Keller and Sullivan v. Akhmatova and Arendt

  * * *

  The Fats Waller bandwagon, which began as a hit and a giggle
and became a juggernaut, came off the rails this afternoon. Orwell was just too good and those who had not witnessed his earlier matches on outside courts saw a player who quickly recognises what he is up against and steps up his play as required. Waller gave it the works today, but he made no impression on Orwell.

  ‘Had a great time here,’ said Fats. ‘Want to thank you. You’ve been a wonderful audience.’

  ‘I love the way that guy plays,’ said Orwell. ‘I wish I could play like that. That is the way I would like to play.’

  ‘But you must be happy,’ opined Plimpton of the Paris Review. ‘You won. You’re into the semi-final.’

  ‘Happy? I beat a guy in Burma once, in the All-of-England-Burma-Colonial-Police-White-People-Must-Win Tennis Tournament. I don’t know who was more humiliated, him or me.’

  There was not an empty seat at the Chekhov–Joyce quarterfinal. The two heavyweights, seeded one and five, have met twice before, with honours being shared. Joyce has made no secret of his admiration for the brilliant Russian, referring to him as ‘the blessed St Anton’ and attributing his own early successes to the playing of Chekhov.

  Just watching these two hit up was exciting. There was the Chekhov forehand, easy and strong and so variable it almost has a volume-knob. And Joyce’s backhand, assured, deep and with plenty of action on it.

  The first set was towering stuff from the Russian. His service didn’t look like being broken and he left nothing in the bag with the ground strokes. Joyce was having trouble with his glasses and before the second set he paced out the distance between the side-edge of the court and the stands, because, he said, he couldn’t see it properly and was going to have to remember it.

  The second set saw Chekhov consolidating his position, breaking Joyce at 3-all and holding on to the break. When the set finished Joyce asked for the wind velocity to be measured. He could feel a breeze, he said, but he couldn’t see the flags clearly and he needed to know what it was doing so he could remember it. Chekhov was well in front but Joyce had moved him around a lot and in the third set the Russian started to tire. Loose shots began to creep in. Easy volleys were netted. He took longer to serve and he walked around behind the baseline between points. By the time Joyce had taken the third set it was obvious Chekhov was in trouble. Joyce asked if he was OK. He was fine, he replied, although he was considering the possibility of going to Moscow.

  In the fourth set Joyce produced one of the most remarkable passages of the tournament. He played to the Chekhov forehand he knows so well, and began hitting cross-court winners from outside the sidelines and creating angles the crowd sometimes didn’t believe. What we were seeing wasn’t just powerful. It was new and perfect.

  By the end of the set Chekhov was run ragged and his doctor came on court. Although he waved the doctor away and insisted on continuing, it wasn’t surprising to hear later that he had been nursing a serious respiratory problem. Joyce took the fifth set and the match but concern was all for Chekhov. There was sustained applause as he gathered his racquets. He smiled, shook hands with Joyce and patted him on the shoulder.

  ‘I didn’t lose today because I wasn’t fit,’ said Chekhov later. ‘I lost because Jim played so brilliantly. I didn’t have breathing troubles in my earlier matches and I didn’t have them in the first two sets today. In my view Jim’s going to rewrite the book.’

  ‘What is it,’ inquired Barthes, ‘that makes Joyce different from the others?’

  ‘He’s got music,’ said Chekhov.

  Joyce went to see an ophthalmologist after the match and was unavailable for comment.

  Lenya and Dietrich beat Gonne-MacBride and Markievicz in a women’s doubles match, although just beforehand it was revealed that Gonne-MacBride’s husband had recently been shot ‘as a result of an incident involving a post office’, and Markievicz acknowleged she was to be arrested as soon as she returned to Dublin. Asked if they would like the match to be postponed, the Irish women said, ‘No. The tennis is great. At least it has an element of chance.’

  Dietrich has a huge following among young American men and photographs of her are in constant circulation on the internet even though she has never won an individual event of any kind. She was signing autographs long after everyone else had left.

  Maxine Elliott was back on court again today with Ruth Draper, up against Sackville-West and Stephen-Woolf in their quarter-final match. ‘It’s OK,’ said Elliott, ‘I’m used to playing in the afternoon and then again at night, and so is Ruth. This is what we do.’

  Sackville-West and Stephen-Woolf arrived late and instructed a doorman to bring their racquets in and place them near their chairs. ‘Within reasonable reach,’ said Sackville-West, ‘like tools in a garden shed.’ They acknowledged their friends in the crowd, did a few deep knee-bends and gave the signal to the umpire that the hit-up could commence. They were mightily affronted when they lost the first set, flew about like caped crusaders to win the second and, even though Sackville-West went off the boil in the third, Draper and Elliott could not stop laughing at some private joke and the English pairing took it 7–5.

  There were surprises ranging from mild to extreme in the other women’s doubles matches. The New Zealanders Mansfield and Hodgkins took out de Valois and Pavlova and, in an upset that must rank with the fate of Mr Dumpty, Helen Keller and Annie Sullivan beat Akhmatova and Arendt. The two Europeans made no attempt to conserve energy before their women’s singles semi-final tomorrow. They gave it everything and were in strife all the way. Part of their problem was working out who was in charge at the other end. Keller and Sullivan communicate like no one else, using words, signs and anything else they can find. With Sullivan yelling, ‘Helen. Backhand. Topspin. Now!’ to Keller who couldn’t see where the ball had landed, and Keller pointing to Sullivan to go down the tramlines, it was impossible to assess their match plan. Keller was even cautioned for calling ‘Yours!’ to the umpire as an unplayable Akhmatova serve scorched by.

  ‘It was a shambles,’ said Sullivan. ‘We didn’t really have a plan. We just wanted to see if we could do it, I suppose.’

  Semi-finals

  Day 34

  * * *

  Duchamp v. Orwell • Joyce v. Eliot • Beckett and Duchamp v. Braque and Derain • Magritte and Dali v. Chaplin and O’Neill • Chekhov and Miller v. Cocteau and Picasso

  * * *

  The first man through to the singles final would be French or English. It was a battle sanctioned by history. Neither Duchamp nor Orwell is a big powerful player, neither has a huge serve and neither is a dominator.

  If this were happening at a velodrome they would both sit high up on the bank, immobile, balancing on the pedals, each watching, waiting for the other to make a move, and then pouncing. This is sprinter behaviour, but it also entails a capacity for endurance, for patience, and for being right in the long run.

  Duchamp had more patience in the first set. He waited and he planned and he thought. Orwell bolted at 5–5 and Duchamp smiled slightly, knowing the set was lost but the trap was in place. In the second, Orwell sprinted earlier, winning it 6–3. Duchamp had a twinkle in his eye as he sat down and he took no drink. He was on court waiting for Orwell to begin the third and now he played like a mind-reader. Wherever Orwell went, he found it covered. Whatever he tried to set up, he found it blocked. Whenever he took a risk, he was punished.

  In the fourth set Duchamp built an attack designed to neutralise Orwell and stop him from creating opportunities. Part of Duchamp’s strategy was to take the sting out of Orwell by getting him to accept the possibility of a draw. The Frenchman made no effort to win some points and took others easily. When he ‘accidentally’ broke serve to take the set, Orwell realised he had been duped. Furious, he served faster in the fifth than at any time in the tournament. Although this heightened the likelihood of what he called ‘Doublefault’ (the idea that a player who is serving a lot of aces can convince himself he is winning a match he is, in fact, losing), he controlled it admirably and D
uchamp’s endgame began to come apart in his hands. The attack was mounted faster than it could be dismantled and Orwell went through to the final, with a chance to be the last man in Europe.

  Joyce and Eliot arrived on court for their match at 2.15 pm. Three hours later they were still out there. It was clear from the start that Eliot had never encountered anything like Joyce before, and that he didn’t much like what he saw—a man whose playing gear was old and faded, whose glasses were held together with gaffer-tape and who was wearing borrowed shoes.

  Joyce took the first before Eliot worked out quite what he was doing. As the players sat between ends, Eliot drew the umpire’s attention to ‘a number of crude remarks’ Joyce made to friends in the crowd, which SuperTom thought ‘brought the game into disrepute’.

  ‘Disrepute, is it?’ said Joyce. ‘Disrepute? Do you think arseholes shooting their own players is bringing the game into repute? Do you think that, Tom? You think not letting Robeson back into Americky is good for the game, do you? Bessie Smith dying in an ambulance? That’s a good result is it, Tom?’

  ‘Joyce, please,’ admonished the umpire. ‘Not today. On this of all days.’

  The Irishman continued, ‘I’ll tell you something for nothing, Tom—’

  ‘Please, no,’ said the umpire. ‘Can we just this once not have any unpleasantness.’

  ‘You’re an alleycat, Joyce,’ snapped SuperTom. ‘Rough and dirty and spraying your stink everywhere.’

  ‘Christ, you’re elegant,’ smiled Joyce. ‘So fucking intelligent.’

  ‘Have you any awareness whatever of what constitutes acceptable on-court language?’ asked Eliot.

  ‘You’re a great man for the pomp and circuspants, Tom. Have you had a woman lately?’

  ‘Really,’ insisted the umpire. ‘Joyce, can you just play the game?’