A game of political tennis

A word of special gratitude to Amélie Mauresmo, who risked her life (well, career) by inadvertently letting the truth slip out.

I now have for her that special feeling I reserve for those who helpfully illustrate the central theme of my work: modernity as an advanced form of schizophrenia. This psychiatric disorder comes in many forms, but they all have one thing in common: divorce from reality.

Amélie’s reality is circumscribed by tennis. A top player in the past, she is now the director of the French Open. In that capacity, Amélie is responsible for scheduling matches, and, as far as our woke schizophrenics are concerned, she shirked that responsibility.

Only one women’s match featured in the night sessions, when both live attendance and TV viewing are at their peak. Since Amélie’s remit includes, among other challenges, maximising the commercial potential of the tournament, she packed the night sessions with men’s matches.

When asked point-blank why, she gave the answer blindingly obvious to anyone who has ever struck a tennis ball in anger: “I don’t feel bad or unfair saying that – you have more attraction… for the men’s matches”.

Amélie, it has to be said, is in an ideal position to judge the comparative qualities of the two sexes because… Because she once coached Andy Murray, and what did you think I meant?

All hell broke loose, and not because her detractors had a substantive argument against Amélie’s statement. She was attacked for the same reason Nabokov’s Cincinnatus C. was sentenced to death: in a world where everyone was transparent, he alone was opaque.

Amélie refused to succumb to the pandemic of schizophrenia, and there’s no excuse for such obduracy. When a mania attacks, sanity must retreat.

The other day I was at my TV set, watching a men’s match on one of the outside courts, to be followed by a women’s match. Those who have general-admission tickets for Roland Garros are free to go to any court, except the two central ones that require a different ticket.

Hence the size of the crowd is a reliable measure of how attractive the match is. In this case, the moment the men struck the last ball, the stands emptied out – much to the commentators’ chagrin. Don’t those ignoramuses appreciate great tennis when they see it? They do. That’s why they left.

Those commentators, most of whom are former professional players, know what’s what better than anyone. They know that any decent male college player in the US or a county player in Britain would wipe the court with every one of the top women.

As to the male pros, they’d have to double-fault four times in a row for any woman to get even a game from them. And that’s not just because the men are bigger and stronger.

Some women players top someone like Diego Schwartzman, Number 16 in men’s rankings, by a head, and my money would be on them in a fist fight with the diminutive Argentine. And yet none of those Amazons would get a game from him.

The top women can hit hard or consistently, but, unlike men, they can’t hit hard and consistently. In her quarterfinal match, the world Number 1, Iga Świątek, couldn’t connect with two backhands in a row – her male counterpart Djokovic only ever misses one under extreme duress.

Nor does the women’s game have the variety that makes the men’s game so easy on the eye. Tennis audiences, unlike those of most other sports, are largely made up of people who play the game themselves. They know it well enough to appreciate not just brute power, but also creativity and touch.

One of the men’s quarters, played between Alcaraz and Zverev, would have pleased even the sternest critic. Not only did it feature a barrage of 130mph serves and huge hitting from the baseline, but the two players also treated the gasping audience to delicate drop shots, unexpected lobs, precious few unforced errors – and the kind of defence that would have put those Thermopylae Spartans to shame.

Show me a chap who’d rather watch two women play, and I’ll show you someone who prefers the sight of sweaty, scantily clothed female flesh to tennis played to the highest standard. Amélie, while not immune to female attractions herself, correctly identified their game as not being attractive enough for prime time TV.

When attacked by all and sundry, Amélie had to tender profuse apologies for her sanity. She doesn’t suffer from schizophrenia, but she can simulate the condition with the best of them.

“ I think the people who know me,” she grovelled, “who’ve known me on and off the court, throughout my career, throughout everything that I’ve done, know that I’m a big fighter for equal rights and women’s tennis, women in general.”

Allow me to translate from the schizophrenic to English. In this context, as in most others, the term “equal rights” means entitlement out of proportion to achievement (equal prize money for women is a prime example). Glad to have been of service.

P.S. Speaking of schizophrenia, which Russian dissident, aka traitor, said this? “Constantly blaming the West for all our troubles is wrong, wrong in essence. All our troubles are of our own making. Everything is caused by our own fecklessness and weakness. Wherever you look here, it’s Chechnya all around, figuratively speaking. Look at our economy, and it’s nothing but gloom and doom. Or look at our relations with countries on our borders. Nothing but gaping holes and problems everywhere…” Answer: V.V. Putin, 1999. Don’t tempora bloody well mutantur?