grass revived and sprangand to loveher grey head and beganthey descended the stone
三亲四眷♂
and had had some tea in the town
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扫描下载二维码Grass, the Lost Civilization
June 14, 2013
LONDON— couldn’t have come up with a more appropriate shot to close out his quarterfinal win over
today. Behind a skimming slice approach, the 32-year-old father of three moved in and knocked off what looked like the simplest of volleys. The ball came high to his forehand, and he did little more than put his racquet up and block it down the line. Del Potro had expected Hewitt to go cross-court, and like so many players on this slippery surface before him, he had no chance to reverse course once he’d been wrong-footed. Hewitt’s shot may have been simple, but it was also the intelligent choice of a longtime grass-court lover and expert.
I mention this shot not, primarily, to praise Rusty, though Friday was one of the finest of this four-time Queen’s champ’s periodic returns to glory. Instead, I mention his winning volley in order to praise the surface that Hewitt loves so much, and the subtle style of tennis that it can inspire, and require. Today’s performances by Hewitt and his fellow surprise semifinalist here, , were enough to make me mourn the lost civilization of grass all over again.
Hewitt’s last winner could be described as a “control shot,” which is something we don’t see much of in tennis these days. At least we didn’t see many of them through the clay season that occupied us all spring. On dirt there are offensive, defensive, for the most part, all of them are hit with as much spin and racquet-head speed as possible. So this week it has come as a surprise to see the men at Queen’s mixing in balls that aren’t hit with maximum spin or speed or power. Grass gives you less time, and less predictability, while its quality has improved over the years, you still never know when a ball will flat line, jump straight at you, or die in the weeds. If clay is exhausting from a stamina perspective, grass is draining from a watching-the-ball perspective. Especially on a windy day like today, you have to work a little harder to make contact in the right spot.
Yesterday on a swirling Court 2, Alexandr Dolgopolov, who has one of the most elaborate forehands of anyone, cried out in frustration that he had no idea where the ball was going to go next—his contact point could be anywhere on any given shot. In these cases a simple block, with nothing fancy on it, no extra spin or pace or grand ambitions, is often the smartest play. With the right placement, the grass can do the rest. These shots mostly go unnoticed on TV, but I’ve enjoyed seeing them up close at Queen’s. Even Dolgo adjusted and had success with simple slices and blocks down the middle of the court—until he imploded all over again because of an overrule.
Today it was Cilic and Hewitt who let the court help them the most. Cilic’s quarterfinal with
was textbook modern grass tennis. It was played from the baseline, but with preemptive aggression. These two tall-ballers—each is 6’5” and not known for his speed—took the earliest openings possible. Depth was rewarded and anything short was punished. Serves didn’t need to clip the line
a nice, biting slice out wide in the deuce court was typically good enough. Cilic’s ground strokes, which often hang dully at mid-court, sped through instead. His finest moment, like Hewitt’s, came at the net. Late in the second set, Cilic held serve by approaching down the line and blocking a backhand volley down the line. It didn’t have much pace, and it didn’t cross the service line. Yet Berdych, despite some fine flailing and scrambling, couldn’t catch up to it. There was a pleasure in watching Cilic do exactly what was necessary and nothing more, a pleasure at least equivalent to watching another player win a point with a 100-M.P.H. forehand. Used properly, grass rewards restraint.
In this, as in other ways, it feels like a lost way of tennis life. There was a time when the modern game appeared to have passed grass by, but things have come full circle in the last decade. The sport is now at its most varied and dynamic when its played on a quick, slippery, easily torn lawn, a boutique surface used for just one month each season.
It’s a lost civilization that deserves to be revived and expanded, but if anything, my trip to Queen’s has made that harder for me to imagine. When Wimbledon announced last year that it was moving back a week starting in 2015, it had seemed possible that a Masters event on grass could be squeezed in after the French Open. Unfortunately, one of the few ready made locations for it would be Queen’s, but it’s difficult to see a venue this cramped, as charming as it is, handling an event that size.
Tennis, I’m afraid, will never get its Camden Yards, the retro stadium in Baltimore that gave baseball a visible and emotional link to its past, and whose sold-out crowds quickly inspired every city with a team to imitate it. Grass-court tennis doesn’t have to be a one-month nostalgia trip. The simple pleasure of a Lleyton Hewitt volley, and victory, proved it again today. Rust, and grass, never really get old.
Speaking of lost civilizations, I saw and heard another from my press seats in the stadium today. A few yards away, as Hewitt and del Potro ran each other around through the late afternoon, lunch was in full swing in the Queen's Club's dining room. This being the first sunny day here in some time, the festivities naturally spilled outdoors and into the stands in front of me. Pitchers of cocktails appeared and were passed from row to row and member to member. A young lady took her shoes off and let her hair down. The laughter grew louder all around. A woman to my left, watching del Potro chase down a Hewitt lob, told her husband with a giggle that he “looked like a blind giraffe.” In these quarters, this is what’s known as getting rowdy.
Soon, though, as 4:00 P.M. drew near, the laughter turned to a low hum of impatience. Hewitt and del Potro appeared to have worn out their welcome among a club member of two—after all, Andy Murray was supposed to be on now, right? As the second set drew to a close, another woman, to my right this time, said, “Oh, good, it’s almost time for tea.”
Her husband looked at her and smiled. “Well, there is one more set to go.”
“What do you mean?”
“It’s two out of three sets.”
“Not for me, it isn’t. It’s time for tea.” A few seconds after del Potro had won the second set, she was up and bustling her way toward the club’s café.
For much of this match, four well-dressed, middle-aged men sat in front of me, sipping cocktails and bantering in a way that sounded highly urbane to my American ears. I assumed they were Queen’s members, and began to imagine their lives, their expensive cars and ski trips and...I don’t know what I imagined they did exactly, but I knew it had to be tremendous, and enviable. Why couldn't I have a life like that?
So it was with a good deal of surprise that, midway the third set, I watched as an usher walked up to their row and informed them that they had to leave. A short argument ensued, before the usher said, firmly, “I’m asking you to leave. Can I see your tickets?”
“We don’t have any,” one of the men blurted as they stood up to go. They had, from what I could tell, snuck in. It was the best thing I saw all day.
Cilic Photo: Anita Aguilar
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More Storiessevere-looking old woman putThe warder in frontgrass revived and sprangand to love
with frightened looksone of the gratings in the doors
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扫描下载二维码MASLOVA IN PRISON.
Though hundreds of thousands had done their very best to disfigure the small piece of land on which they were crowded together, by paying the ground with stones, scraping away every vestige of vegetation, cutting down the trees, turning away birds and beasts, and filling the air with the smoke of naphtha and coal, still spring was spring, even in the town.
The sun shone warm, everywhere, where it did not get scraped away, the grass revived and sprang up between the paving-stones as well as on the narrow strips of lawn on the boulevards. The birches, the poplars, and the wild cherry unfolded their gummy and fragrant leaves, the limes were expandin crows, sparrows, and pigeons, filled with the joy of spring, were getti the flies were buzzing along the walls, warmed by the sunshine. All were glad, the plants, the birds, the insects, and the children. But men, grown-up men and women, did not leave off cheating and tormenting themselves and each other. It was not this spring morning men thought sacred and worthy of consideration not the beauty of God's world, given for a joy to all creatures, this beauty which inclines the heart to peace, to harmony, and to love, but only their own devices for enslaving one another.
Thus, in the prison office of the Government town, it was not the fact that men and animals had received the grace and gladness of spring that was considered sacred and important, but that a notice, numbered and with a superscription, had come the day before, ordering that on this 28th day of April, at 9 a.m., three prisoners at present detained in the prison, a man and two women (one of these women, as the chief criminal, to be conducted separately), had to appear at Court. So now, on the 28th of April, at 8 o'clock, a jailer and soon after him a woman warder with curly grey hair, dressed in a jacket with sleeves trimmed with gold, with a blue-edged belt round her waist, and having a look of suffering on her face, came into the corridor.
&You want Maslova?& she asked, coming up to the cell with the jailer who was on duty.
The jailer, rattling the iron padlock, opened the door of the cell, from which there came a whiff of air fouler even than that in the corridor, and called out, &Maslova! to the Court,& and closed the door again.
Even into the prison yard the breeze had brought the fresh vivifying air from the fields. But in the corridor the air was laden with the germs of typhoid, the smell of sewage, putrefaction, every newcomer felt sad and dejected in it. The woman warder felt this, though she was used to bad air. She had just come in from outside, and entering the corridor, she at once became sleepy.
From inside the cell came the sound of bustle and women's voices, and the patter of bare feet on the floor.
&Now, then, hurry up, Maslova, I say!& called out the jailer, and in a minute or two a small young woman with a very full bust came briskly out of the door and went up to the jailer. She had on a grey cloak over a white jacket and petticoat. On her feet she wore linen stockings and prison shoes, and round her head was tied a white kerchief, from under which a few locks of black hair were brushed over the forehead with evident intent. The face of the woman was of that whiteness peculiar to people who have lived long in confinement, and which puts one in mind of shoots of potatoes that spring up in a cellar. Her small broad hands and full neck, which showed from under the broad collar of her cloak, were of the same hue. Her black, sparkling eyes, one with a slight squint, appeared in striking contrast to the dull pallor of her face.
She carried herself very straight, expanding her full bosom.
With her head slightly thrown back, she stood in the corridor, looking straight into the eyes of the jailer, ready to comply with any order.
The jailer was about to lock the door when a wrinkled and severe-looking old woman put out her grey head and began speaking to Maslova. But the jailer closed the door, pushing the old woman's head with it. A woman's laughter was heard from the cell, and Maslova smiled, turning to the little grated opening in the cell door. The old woman pressed her face to the grating from the other side, and said, in a hoarse voice:
&Now mind, and when they begin questioning you, just repeat over the same thing, tell nothing that is not wanted.&
&Well, it could not be worse than it is now, I only wish it was settled one way or another.&
&Of course, it will be settled one way or another,& said the jailer, with a superior's self-assured witticism. &Now, then, get along! Take your places!&
The old woman's eyes vanished from the grating, and Maslova stepped out into the middle of the corridor. The warder in front, they descended the stone stairs, past the still fouler, noisy cells of the men's ward, where they were followed by eyes looking out of every one of the gratings in the doors, and entered the office, where two soldiers were waiting to escort her. A clerk who was sitting there gave one of the soldiers a paper reeking of tobacco, and pointing to the prisoner, remarked, &Take her.&
The soldier, a peasant from Nijni Novgorod, with a red, pock-marked face, put the paper into the sleeve of his coat, winked to his companion, a broad-shouldered Tchouvash, and then the prisoner and the soldiers went to the front entrance, out of the prison yard, and through the town up the middle of the roughly-paved street.
Isvostchiks [cabmen], tradespeople, cooks, workmen, and government clerks, stopped and looked curio some shook their heads and thought, &This is what evil conduct, conduct unlike ours, leads to.& The children stopped and gazed at the robber w but the thought that the soldiers were preventing her from doing more harm quieted their fears. A peasant, who had sold his charcoal, and had had some tea in the town, came up, and, after crossing himself, gave her a copeck.The prisoner blushed an she noticed that she was attracting everybody's attention, and that pleased her. The comparatively fresh air also gladdened her, but it was painful to step on the rough stones with the ill-made prison shoes on her feet, which had become unused to walking. Passing by a corn-dealer's shop, in front of which a few pigeons were strutting about, unmolested by any one, the prisoner almost touched a grey-blu it fluttered up and flew close to her car, fanning her with its wings. She smiled, then sighed deeply as she remembered her present position.
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