Off the ball: Grand Slam - grand stuff

By DAVID LEGGAT

Here are two of my favourite true Grand Slam tennis stories.

In his long-haired days, Andre Agassi was asked a particularly dopey question by an American journalist - which, to the unitiated, is not that unusual - at a US Open press conference. The question began: "Why did you ... "

Agassi looked his questioner up and down, then replied: "Why are you wearing a brown shirt with yellow pants."

At an Australian Open several years ago, the laid-back Swede Mats Wilander was asked by one bright spark: "Mats, how do you pronounce your name?"

"Vee-lander," came the reply. A pause, then: "So how should we pronounce it?"

Each of the Grand Slams has its distinct, individual appeal. The Australian Open, the youngest of the four, offers blazing Melbourne heat, and a strong start to the sporting year. Yet although ideal in terms of viewing time for the New Zealand audience, it is probably still finding its niche.

May brings a fortnight in Paris, and Roland Garros. The French Open is the most draining test of physical fitness of the four, with its slow, red clay surface.

But from the spectator viewpoint it is perhaps the best to watch. You unquestionably get value for money, with rallies long enough to pop out to the kitchen get a drink and return to your seat before the point is won. Try it.

June-July means Wimbledon, with its pomp and splendour in the grass. Strawberries and cream at outrageous prices, the strong whiff of superiority the British bring to certain sports, even those they can't play for toffee.

However, grass is dying in the international game; some of the world's best can't be bothered even turning up, and the gripping Ivanisevic-Rafter final this year notwithstanding, it rarely offers games of sufficient length and variety to maintain televisual interest for all but the set and deuced.

Now we are in brash New York, at Flushing Meadow, with its raucous crowds, planes roaring overhead, the smell of the hot dogs almost seeping through the television.

They love a scrapper here, especially if he is American, and the floodlit sessions can turn into pure theatre, with all the gentility of a gladiator's arena.

You know a major is upon us when the headlines scream of more cattiness among the big names.

This time, Martina Hingis got the ball rolling in a Time magazine interview, claiming Venus and Serena Williams, aided by father Richard, exploited their colour for financial gain and played the race card to allege discrimination.

Remember the Australian Open a couple of years ago when Frenchwoman Amelie Mauresmo overpowered Lindsay Davenport and almost beat Hingis in the final?

The openly gay Mauresmo was subjected to snide "half a man" and "she hits it like a man" comments. Close your eyes and you can just imagine the sweetly smiling assassins wiping the blood off their blades in the changing-rooms around the globe.

We shouldn't be surprised at the behavior of the game's leading women - or some players at the extremeties of the men's game. You have a group of highly skilled, cosseted, pampered young people travelling the world in something akin to a circus. The chance of developing real personalities in a normal environment? Slim.

And finally a word for John McEnroe. As a player he appalled and thrilled as he roared through a game as arguably the most gifted allround player of them all. Now he is behind a microphone, but don't be fooled that he has succumbed to television mumble. He will never be accused of having splinters in his backside. McEnroe calls it as he sees it, and has a crisp, cut-to-the-chase turn of phrase, which makes him among the more compelling commentators on the sporting stage.