Read Online Murder on the Short List by Peter Lovesey - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Peter Lovesey
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great tournament is over and the best of you line up on the Centre Court to be presented to Her Royal Highness before she meets the Champion, my pulses will beat faster and my heart will swell with pride, as will each of yours. And one of you, of course, will get a special award as best ball boy â or girl. Thatâs the Championship that counts, you know. Never mind Mr Borg and Miss Navratilova. The real winner will be one of you. The decision will be mine, and you all start tomorrow as equals. In the second week I will draw up a short list. The pick of you, my elite squad, will stand in the finals. I will nominate the winner only when the tournament is over.â
I suppose it had been the severity of the build-up; to me those words were as thrilling and inspiring as King Henryâs before the Battle of Agincourt. I wanted to be on Centre Court on that final day. I wanted to be best ball boy. I could see that all the others felt like me, and had the same gleam in their eyes.
I âve never felt so nervous as I did at noon that first day, approaching the tall, creeper-covered walls of the All England Club, and passing inside and finding it was already busy with people on the terraces and promenades chatting loudly in accents that would have got you past any security guard in the world. Wimbledon twenty years ago was part of the social season, a blazer and tie occasion, entirely alien to a kid like me from a working class family.
My first match was on an outside court, thanks be to the Brigadier. Menâs singles, between a tall Californian and a wiry Frenchman. I marched on court with the other five ball boys and mysteriously my nerves ended the moment the umpire called âPlay.â We were so well-drilled that the training took over. My concentration was absolute. I knew precisely what I had to do. I was a small, invisible part of a well-oiled, perfectly tuned machine, the Rolls Royce of tennis tournaments. Six-three, six-three, six-three to the Californian, and we lined up and marched off again.
I stood in two more matches that first day, and they were equally straightforward in spite of some racquet abuse by one unhappy player whose service wouldnât go in. A ball boy is above all that. At home, exhausted, I slept better than I had for a week.
Day Two was Ladiesâ Day, when most of the womenâs first round matches were played. At the end of my second match I lined up for an ice-cream and heard a familiar voice, âGot overheated in that last one, Richards?â
I turned to face the Brigadier, expecting a rollicking. I wasnât sure if ball boys in uniform were allowed to consume ice cream.
But the scar twitched into a grin. âI watched you at work. Youâre doing a decent job, lad. Not invisible yet, but getting there. Keep it up and you might make Centre Court.â
I can tell you exactly what happened in the Stanski-Voronin match because I was one of the ball boys and my buddy Eddie Pringle was another, and has recently reminded me of it. Neither player was seeded. Stanski had won a five-setter in the first round against a little-known Englishman, and Voronin had been lucky enough to get a bye.
Court Eleven is hardly one of the show courts, and these two werenât well known players, but we still had plenty of swivelling heads following the action.
Iâm sure some of the crowd understood that the players were at opposite extremes politically, but I doubt if anyone foresaw the terrible outcome of this clash. They may have noticed the coolness between the players, but thatâs one of the conventions of sport, particularly in a Grand Slam tournament. You shake hands at the end, but you psych yourself up to beat hell out of your rival first. Back to the tennis. The first set went narrowly to Voronin, seven-five. I was so absorbed in my ball boy duties that the score almost passed me by. I retrieved the balls and passed them to the players when they needed them.
I suppose it had been the severity of the build-up; to me those words were as thrilling and inspiring as King Henryâs before the Battle of Agincourt. I wanted to be on Centre Court on that final day. I wanted to be best ball boy. I could see that all the others felt like me, and had the same gleam in their eyes.
I âve never felt so nervous as I did at noon that first day, approaching the tall, creeper-covered walls of the All England Club, and passing inside and finding it was already busy with people on the terraces and promenades chatting loudly in accents that would have got you past any security guard in the world. Wimbledon twenty years ago was part of the social season, a blazer and tie occasion, entirely alien to a kid like me from a working class family.
My first match was on an outside court, thanks be to the Brigadier. Menâs singles, between a tall Californian and a wiry Frenchman. I marched on court with the other five ball boys and mysteriously my nerves ended the moment the umpire called âPlay.â We were so well-drilled that the training took over. My concentration was absolute. I knew precisely what I had to do. I was a small, invisible part of a well-oiled, perfectly tuned machine, the Rolls Royce of tennis tournaments. Six-three, six-three, six-three to the Californian, and we lined up and marched off again.
I stood in two more matches that first day, and they were equally straightforward in spite of some racquet abuse by one unhappy player whose service wouldnât go in. A ball boy is above all that. At home, exhausted, I slept better than I had for a week.
Day Two was Ladiesâ Day, when most of the womenâs first round matches were played. At the end of my second match I lined up for an ice-cream and heard a familiar voice, âGot overheated in that last one, Richards?â
I turned to face the Brigadier, expecting a rollicking. I wasnât sure if ball boys in uniform were allowed to consume ice cream.
But the scar twitched into a grin. âI watched you at work. Youâre doing a decent job, lad. Not invisible yet, but getting there. Keep it up and you might make Centre Court.â
I can tell you exactly what happened in the Stanski-Voronin match because I was one of the ball boys and my buddy Eddie Pringle was another, and has recently reminded me of it. Neither player was seeded. Stanski had won a five-setter in the first round against a little-known Englishman, and Voronin had been lucky enough to get a bye.
Court Eleven is hardly one of the show courts, and these two werenât well known players, but we still had plenty of swivelling heads following the action.
Iâm sure some of the crowd understood that the players were at opposite extremes politically, but I doubt if anyone foresaw the terrible outcome of this clash. They may have noticed the coolness between the players, but thatâs one of the conventions of sport, particularly in a Grand Slam tournament. You shake hands at the end, but you psych yourself up to beat hell out of your rival first. Back to the tennis. The first set went narrowly to Voronin, seven-five. I was so absorbed in my ball boy duties that the score almost passed me by. I retrieved the balls and passed them to the players when they needed them.
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