The ‘pock, pock’, of Wimbledon is like the ‘ping, ping’ of a submarine film; a unique soundtrack from my childhood. I got into tennis in the late 1960s, the era of John Newcombe, Rod Laver, and Billie Jean King. It was always good, and things got better in the 1970s with Martina Navratilova, and Jimmy Connors until, for me, the first superstar; Bjorn Borg. Between him and Abba, Sweden ruled the world. Naturally, I hated Borg because young women found him attractive and I wanted them to fancy me. I burned with jealousy as they screamed through his Wimbledon matches. Okay, he was champion several times but, as an apprentice telephone engineer in 1976, I felt I had the upper hand. He’s only a few years older than me and I view our lives as being
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