By Bill Simons
There was a lot I knew about Australia.
I understood all the catchphrases. Australia is obviously Down Under, and—no kidding—the Australian Open is “The Happy Slam.”
I was up to speed on my share of slang, from phrases like “fair dinkum” (a swell fellow) and “good onya,” to “G’day,” and my fave, “spit the dummy” (losing your cool).
And I was a quick study when it came to assorted Aussie factoids. Alas, I morphed into a tedious Aussie nerd, telling all who would listen that the land that gave us Errol Flynn and Mel Gibson was also the world’s biggest island, the world’s sixth-biggest country, the only country that began as a prison, the only continent that is a country, and the home of the world’s largest living thing—the Great Barrier Reef. Australia is a famously benign place, but it has more things that can kill you than anywhere else and is home to all ten of the top ten poisonous snakes in the world.
Plus, there was one other little-known fact.
I had a dirty little secret: I had never been to the Aussie Open. While for four decades I had traveled the world—howdy, Fiji! how you doing, Zimbabwe?—covering tennis, I had never been Down Under. I had ample excuses. The tournament comes at a bad time, just after Inside Tennis prints our Yearbook, plus others on our staff were more than happy to go.
But even with all my Aussie knowledge (for someone who had never been there), there was one key thing I didn’t know. Once I checked early Saturday morning for my 10:35 a.m. flight to Melbourne via Sydney, the United attendant rather rudely asked me, “How are you getting to Melbourne?” How odd, I thought, and replied with some bravado, “By a connector with my 10:35 flight to Sydney.”
Then, without even a giggle or even a wry smile, she cruelly informed me, “That’s 10:35 p.m. tonight sir, not 10:35 this morning.”
Ouch! Fortunately, I didn’t spit the dummy, Still, I muttered to myself, “What a wally (idiot).”
The first thirteen-and-a-half hours of my journey over the Pacific—which I hoped would shake up my universe just a bit—ended with a couple of curious messages. Just as we were about to touch down in Australia, United’s on-board audio station started blaring the old American hippie anthem that tells you, “When you are going toSan Francisco, wear some flowers in your hair).” How absurd. Could anything else possibly make less sense? We were just coming from San Francisco. Then, next up on my audio was “Across the Universe,” John Lennon’s ode to detachment, which claims that “Nothing’s gonna change my world,” another idea didn’t at aal ring true, well except for the exquisite lyric which explained that “Waves of joy are drifting through my open mind.”
Exactly. I couldn’t have said it better myself.
Once inside the Sydney airport, not surprisingly, life delightfully became an all-Aussie happening. Here, the souvenir shop pushed stylish outback hats, hard-to-play didgeridoos, and of course, obligatory boomerangs. Nearby, hassled mothers, reflecting their culture’s British roots, disciplined their antsy kids by chiding them, “Children, you are making it most unpleasant, indeed.” Meanwhile women in saris and fully-tattooed blokes in flip-flops strolled by. Many an announcement in Chinese reminded me this ain’t exactly O’Hare airport, and a symphony of chatter in clipped Aussie tones seemed to say, “Get used to it, mate.”
Next, a brief glance at the papers revealed heated debates on the return of the long-retired Aussie icon Patrick Rafter, and the problematic draw of home hero Bernie Tomic, who has the unenviable task of facing Rafa Nadal in the first round. Meanwhile, under the headline “Tide of Idiots,” one paper chided foolhardy thrill seekers who risked being swept away by huge waves as they watched a recent big storm.
Yes, it was all a blur of new images and tones, including the Emirates Airlines announcement of their flight 0221 to Auckland, New Zealand. The sound of it immediately brought to mind my favorite airport tennis tale. Back in the early ’80s, the young Czechoslovakian Ivan Lendl understood precious few English words, and as a result, almost boarded a plane headed to Auckland, New Zealand, rather than Oakland, California.
More than anything, my mind raced through memories of all my encounters with dinkum Aussies. After I launched Inside Tennis in 1981, the first player I was pictured with was the only Aborigine to ever became a WTA star (and have her own line of apparel at Sears), Evonne Goolagong. I recalled being drop-shotted by the inimitable Roy “Emmo” Emerson during an impromptu lesson at the Silverado resort in Napa. I flashed back to Wimbledon conversations with John Newcombe, and could still hear the New York taxi driver who told me his US Open fare wasn’t Mark Philippoussis, but rather, Mark Phil-a-poop-us. I could still picture a skinny young firebrand, Lleyton Hewitt, ruining America’s hopes for a Davis Cup Championship in the ’99 final at Longwood near Boston. I remembered Patrick Rafter losing the most raucous Wimbledon final ever to Goran Ivanisivic when, in the soggy summer of 2000, regular unwashed fans invaded Centre Court to watch a rain-delayed Monday final. And I remembered how Rafter responded when I asked him if winning his first Slam, the 1997 US Open, would change him. He simply muttered, “No, I still am the same old sack of s—.”
Most of all, I remembered interviews with the quiet, classy redhead who personifies Australian tennis, the singular Rod Laver.
But alas, after all these years, it was now—at last—time to put aside memories of Rod Laver, and take the tram across Melbourne to the Grand Slam I had never been to before, and enter one of our great venues: Rod Laver Arena.
