Britain's Andy Murray celebrates after defeating Britain's Ryan Peniston in the first round men's singles match on day two of the Wimbledon tennis championships in London, on July 4.Alberto Pezzali/The Associated Press
It is axiomatic that a great cricket scandal should be difficult to understand, more difficult to parse ethically and absolutely meaningless.
By that standard, the current rage enveloping the Ashes – that biennial meeting between England and Australia – is a real beaut.
As best I – a non-cricket person – understand it, an Englishman who should not have stepped over a line stepped over that line, and an Australian who might have chosen not to take advantage of that gaffe took advantage of it.
The resulting out didn’t change the course of the test. Australia was already running away with it. But the Aussies celebrated too loudly, and having their nosed rubbed in it by the colonies was too much for the English.
Discussion of the out has dominated front pages in both countries. All that free attention has coaxed the leaders of both countries out to play their own cynical game.
Asked if Australia’s play was “in the spirit of cricket,” a spokesperson for British Prime Minister Rishi Sunak said it was not.
“[The PM] said he simply wouldn’t want to win a game in the manner Australia did,” the spokesperson said.
Did he really say “simply?” Because if so, that is a master-class in pompous provocations.
Australia rose to the bait. It could have put that bait in orbit and Australia would have rented a Chinese rocket to get to it.
Asked if he cared what the spokesperson of the English PM thought about the spirit of cricket or anything else, Australian leader Anthony Albanese advised, “Stay in your crease!”
Then he got on social media and bellowed: “Same old Aussies – always winning!”
It has reached the level where the Guardian has reminded fellow Britons that saying something ‘isn’t cricket’ is no longer cricket in modern England. In a world beset by as many challenges as our own, there is no place for self-satisfied cricket talk, says the Guardian (in the midst of its double-truck coverage of the cricket).
Is this ridiculous? Yes.
Is it understandable? That, too.
On a scale of bathroom infrastructure (inexplicably terrible) to Zadie Smith (global best), how many cultural Zadie Smiths does Britain have these days? Not many. Harry Potter seems a long time ago. That’s why they need sports. Plus, there is the pressure of having invented half of them.
Things were going so well just a couple of years ago. Championships galore. A still vibrant memory of the last great Olympics. But now is the time of ebb.
No new soccer or rugby championships, and none imminent. No very recent golf or cricket glory. Not even one lousy baseball phenomenon.
Tennis has been a semi-reliable local source of patriotic jet fuel, but it is prone to blockages.
Tuesday was meant to be a big day for Britain at Wimbledon. So much so that the only royal anyone really likes any more – Kate Middleton – was on hand to wave the flag(s).
In the early going, she was on one of the exterior, uncovered courts rooting for Emma Raducanu’s understudy, Katie Boulter.
Just as Boulter was digging into her match, a steady, miserable rain began. That would end the day’s tennis everywhere but at the main (covered) courts.
It is a mark of where British tennis is in this precise moment that its great hope here is Andy Murray. On the one hand, he is a multiple major champion. On the other, he is 36 years old and essentially bionic. It’s must have taken a lot more than six million dollars to patch this guy together again.
In the early going, there were wistful reminders of Murray’s vintage. The cameras caught him in the hallway outside the tunnel in one of the iconic poses of middle age – bent over, bald spot glistening, attempting to wedge orthopedic insoles into his shoes.
Murray had to share the day with one of his old comrades. Roger Federer was there to be honoured. He got an endless roar upon arrival and took a seat beside Kate in the royal box. Throughout the day, the pair had their heads together frequently, amusing the hell out of one another. It’s difficult to say whose personal brand was being burnished more.
A few seats over, former prime minister David Cameron – the architect of the Brexit vote – did not rate a greeting in the BBC pregame.
When Murray arrived, he got a big cheer, but it was nervy. His opponent was another Brit, Ryan Peniston.
Peniston, ranked 268th in the world, was granted wild-card entry. “A good, solid, honest left-hander,” was how play-by-play man Andrew Castle described him. That’s British for ‘human sacrifice.’
Both men played their roles. Murray was solid. Peniston was porous. The result was so obvious that within a half-hour the crowd had ceased to care. It finished 6-3, 6-0, 6-1.
Despite the ease of victory, Murray was even more crotchety than we remember. And that was pretty crotchety. When the ballboys didn’t supply him quickly enough, courtside mics caught the Scot grumbling, “C’mon, c’mon.” In his dotage, Murray has become the guy who’s visibly counting what you’ve put down in the ‘8 Items or less’ checkout line.
During the postmatch love-in, the interviewer tried to get some call and response going between Murray and Federer. It didn’t work. Murray asked Federer to pass on his best to his wife, Mirka – though she was sitting right beside him – in a way that very clearly suggested they are not late-night text buddies.
But the crowd was back into it now. The proles are invested in the idea that all the famous people live together on a compound somewhere, and are best friends. It reassures them that there is a point to all this striving aside from stockpiling money.
Murray, a Scot long before he’s a Brit, played along.
“It was amazing to have some royalty here, and some tennis royalty as well.”
Awwwww.
Now comes the hard part. Britain needs a win. How far would Murray have to go to provide it? The semis? A final? Winning this thing is so tall an order, Murray couldn’t get up there with a ladder, but some sort of run would give this thing some national juice.
Up next – the winner of Dominic Thiem vs. Stefanos Tsitsipas. Both players are so unlike Peniston they might as well be a different sporting species.
It’s a tough ask. A lot tougher than remembering to keep your feet in the right spot and then having the cheek to complain about it afterward. But probably not as much fun.