It was as if the commentators covering the world of tennis had banded together in a conspiracy. For months they'd been complaining about how interchangeable the players were, how monotonous the padded-out event calendar was, how the power players were lacking in finesse, and how the child prodigies were burning out. The American magazine Sports Illustrated asked in worried tones, "Is Tennis Dying?"

Not at Wimbledon. Like a fresh blood transfusion, the two weeks at the All England Lawn Tennis & Croquet Club brought the lethargic tennis scene back to life again - and back to the headlines. On the grass court close-cropped to a height of eight millimeters and surrounded by ad-free windscreens, Wimbledon evokes a world of tennis where time seems to have stood still.

The prestigious traditional event in southwest London offers a perfect entertainment spectacle: here it's not just about hitting tennis serves, it's about putting on a tennis show. As Wimbledon hero Boris Becker once observed, the spectators "don't just want to see a good forehand, they want to see a performance."

While the countless tournaments from Tokyo to Indian Wells give off a kind of humdrum haphazardness, the dutiful curtsey of a player like Martina Navratilova before the Royal Box stands out as a unique, distinctive ritual. And when the event organizers call out the names of the worthies in the Royal Box every morning with an almost religious solemnity, this spectacle is not just a courteous tribute to the Duchess of Kent or the Earl of Harewood, but rather a clever marketing tool as well.

Nowhere else but Wimbledon can a sports underdog morph so easily into an ubermensch. Thus the British took only passing notice of the stunning elimination of Steffi Graf in an upset win by Lori McNeil, instantly discovering the raw material for a sentimental heroic saga in the life story of the 30-year-old African-American woman player, whose father, a former professional football player himself, had ended his life by committing suicide. As Lori McNeil went on to battle her way to the semi-finals, the newspapers celebrated her as a "role model" (Daily Telegraph) for a frustrated generation who were using sports as a way to escape from the ghetto.

Even the first-round thrashing of Michael Stich was forgotten the same day it happened. Instead, London was all abuzz over Andre Agassi's physique: the American player with rock-star-length hair had taken off his sweat-soaked tennis shirt and flung it into the crowd after the game. Teenyboppers screamed and photographers shot through yards and yards of film while Agassi bared his shaved chest.

Agassi's hair, McNeil's hardships, Becker's baby or Navratilova's girlfriends: England paints a unique picture of the spectacle of tennis. Chronicles and characters, scandals and screwiness get mixed together into a multimedia synthesis of the arts - in which serve-and-volley is but a side show.

It was as if tennis commentators had been in the thrall of a common conspiracy. For months they had been bemoaning the sameness of the faces, the monotony of the fixtures, the drabness of the competitions and the burn-out of child prodigies. In the US, Sports Illustrated voiced these fears with the headline: "Is this the end of tennis?"

Not in Wimbledon. The two weeks at the All England Lawn Tennis & Croquet Club were like the kiss of life for the flagging world of tennis, restoring its vitality and und putting it back in the headlines. Here on the grass, trimmed to eight millimetres and unencumbered with advertising placards, we witness a world of tennis in which time seems to stand still.

This revered and venerable event in the south west of London offers a perfect spectacle: here tennis is not only served but carefully stage managed. The spectators, according to Wimbledon hero Boris Becker, "don’t just want to see a good forehand, but a show".

Whilst innumerable tournaments from Tokyo to Indian Wells emanate sheer boredom, Martina Navratilova’s prim curtsy to the Royal Box has the air of a unique and unmistakeable ritual. And every morning when the organisers announce the names of the celebrities in the Royal Box with an almost religious solemnity, the ceremony is not only a gracious tribute to the Duchess of Kent or the Earl of Harewood, but also a clever marketing device.

Wimbledon is unparalleled in its ability to turn a sporting megabore into a megahit. The local fans took Steffi Graf’s sensational defeat in their stride. Her vanquisher, Lori McNiel (30), however, quickly provided fuel for sentimental tales of heroism: the dark-skinned American’s father, a former American football star, had committed suicide. And now as Lori McNeil battled her way through to the semi-final, the press held her up as a "role model" (Daily Telegraph) for a frustrated generation who could turn to sport as a way of fleeing from the ghetto.

Even Michael Stich’s collapse in the first round was forgotten on very the same day. London was buzzing with talk of Andre Agassi’s physique. The long-haired American had stripped off his sweat-drenched top and hurled it into the crowd. Teenagers screamed and photographers clicked madly away as Agassi bared his half shaved chest.

Agassi’s locks, McNeil’s suffering, Becker’s baby or Navratilova’s girlfriends: England paints its own picture of the game of tennis. Stories and personalities, scandals and sensations are woven into a complex tapestry in which serves and volleys are of only marginal interest.

It was as if the scribes of our “white sport” had conspired: Over months they lamented the lack of uniqueness amongst players, the monotony of their bloated event calendars, the unattractiveness of power play, and the wearing-out of child stars. The U.S. magazine Sports Illustrated asked worryingly: “Is tennis dying?”

Well - in Wimbledon it isn’t. Two weeks in the All England Lawn Tennis & Croquet Club have rejuvenated the fatigued tennis scene with a boost of vitality and big headlines. The famous green, cut down to 8 millimetres and kept free of perimeter advertising, provides for a tennis world in which time seems to come to a stand-still.

Dignified and traditional, the event in London’s Southwest presents perfect entertainment: Here, they don’t serve – here they stage. The spectators, says Wimbledon hero Boris Becker, don’t just come to see a good forehand – they want to see a show.

Whereas the countless tournaments from Tokyo to Indian Wells appear quite boring and unspectacular, Martina Navratilova performs a one-of-kind ritual when dutifully curtsying before the Royal Box. And when, each morning, the organisers announce the royal highnesses’ names to the audience almost as if they were holding a religious ceremony, then this is not only a courteous tribute to the Duchess of Kent or the Earl of Harewood - it is a very cleverly placed marketing instrument.

Turning a sporting yawnfest into a big hit is nowhere as easy as it is in Wimbledon. The sensational elimination of Steffi Graf, for instance, was only casually noted by the English. However her conqueror, African American Lori McNeil (30), provided plenty of material for soppy headlines: Her father, a former professional football player, had committed suicide. So when Lori McNeil fought her way through to the semi-finals, the press celebrated her as a “role model” (Daily Telegraph) of a frustrated generation that uses sport as a means to escape the ghetto.

Also Michael Stich’s debacle in the first round was quickly forgotten about. It was Andre Agassi’s body that was the talk of London that day. After his match, the long-haired American had taken his sweaty shirt off and thrown it to the fans. Teenagers were screaming and photographers going through meters of film as Agassi bared his partly shaven chest.

Agassi’s hair, McNeil’s life ordeal, Becker’s baby or Navratilova’s girlfriends: England draws its own picture of the tennis spectacle. Stories and figures, scandals and scurrilities are mixed together to a piece of art that leaves only little room for interest in serve and volley.

There seemed to have been a conspiracy amongst those writing tennis annals. For months they had been complaining about the players' lack of individuality, the uniformity of the swollen tournament calendar, charmless power play and signs of exhaustion among the child stars. The US paper "Sports Illustrated" demonstrated its concern with the headline "Is tennis dying?"

Not in Wimbledon. The All England Lawn Tennis & Croquet Club may not be a health farm, but the international tennis scene's two-week stay there certainly had a rejuvenating effect, injecting a new vitality and lively headlines. On the carefully trimmed 8-mm lawns, refreshingly free from advertising, the world was shown a world of tennis where time has stood still.

The honourable and very traditional event in London's South-West offers perfect entertainment: the stars don't just serve aces, they serve up a tennis show. As Wimbledon hero Boris Becker said: "The spectators don't just want good forehands, they come to see a performance."

Whereas countless tournaments from Tokyo to Indian Wells exhibit nothing more than a dry monotony, Wimbledon offers the chance to see Martina Navratilova performing the unique, timeless ritual of a well-mannered curtsey to the Royal Box. And when the organisers adopt an air of almost religious solemnity during their daily announcement of the VIP guests in the "Royal Box", this is not just a polite courtesy to the Duchess of Kent or the Earl of Harewood: it's also a clever marketing tool.

Nowhere is it easier to transform a sports bore into a show-stopper than at Wimbledon. The English public hardly blinked at Steffi Graf's sensational exit: they were much more interested in the makings of a tear-jerking hero's tale to be found in the biography of her victor, 30-year-old Lori McNeil. The black American's father, a former professional American football player, had committed suicide, so as she fought her way into the semi-finals, the newspapers were able to celebrate her as a "role model" (Daily Telegraph) for a frustrated generation using sport to find their way out of the ghetto.

Even Michael Stich's debacle in the first round was forgotten on the same day. Instead, it was Andre Agassi's body that became the talk of the town in London, after the long-haired American took off his sweaty tennis shirt after the match and threw it into the crowd. Teenagers screamed their approval and photographers used up film after film as Agassi revealed his partly-shaven chest.

Agassi's hair, McNeil's heroic struggle, Becker's baby and Navratilova's girlfriends: this is what a tennis spectacle looks like in England. Biographies and personalities are mixed with scandals and scurrilities to create a unique blend in which the game of serve and volley only plays a fringe role.

It was as though there was a conspiracy among the chroniclers of the white sport. For months, they criticised the sameness of the faces, the monotony of the overblown events schedule, the lacklustre power struggles and the short career-span of child stars. The US magazine Sports Illustrated asked with concern: "Is tennis dying?"

Not in Wimbledon it isn't. Rather like a makeover, the two-week tournament at the All England Lawn Tennis & Croquet Club helped bring the tired tennis scene back to vitality and to the headlines. Here – on the carefully manicured grass courts whose surrounding walls are free from advertisements – a world of tennis is presented where time seems to stand still.

The venerable, traditional event in the south-west of London offers a perfect entertainment show: balls are not simply hit back and forth here – this is where tennis is choreographed. Wimbledon Champion Boris Becker knows that spectators "don't just want to see a good forehand but a performance."

While the numerous tournaments from Tokyo to Indian Wells broadcast dry indifference, the charming curtsy of Martina Navratilova in front of the Royal Box seems like a special, unchangeable ritual. And when, each morning, the organisers announce the names of the prominent guests in the Royal Box with an almost religious solemnity, the match is not only a polite tribute to the Duchess of Kent or the Countess of Harewood, but a clever marketing tool.

There is nowhere an athletic slowcoach can become a sensation as easily as in Wimbledon. Thus the English barely batted an eyelid at the astounding knock-out of Steffi Graf. In her conqueror, Lori McNeil, 30, they quickly found the stuff of sentimental heroic stories: the father of the dark-skinned American – a former professional footballer – had killed himself. As Lori McNeil fought her way to the semi-finals, the newspapers hailed her as a "role model" (Daily Telegraph) for a frustrated generation using sport as a means to escape from the ghetto.

Michael Stich's debacle in the first round was also forgotten on the same day: London could talk of nothing but Andre Agassi's body. The long-haired American had pulled off his sweaty sports shirt after the match and thrown it into the crowd. Teenagers shrieked and photographers shot metres' worth of film as Agassi exposed his partially-shaved chest.

From Agassi's hair and McNeil's life of hardship to Becker's baby and Navratilova's girlfriends, England paints a peculiar picture of tennis. Backgrounds and builds, scandals and silliness are blended into a work of art, leaving interest in the serve and the volley out on the sidelines.

It was as if the chroniclers of the sport that can only properly be played in whites had entered into some kind of conspiracy. For months, as one, they bemoaned their inability to tell one player apart from another, the grinding monotony of the packed tour schedule, the lack of appeal of power tennis and the burnout suffered by child stars. Worries summed up by the US magazine Sports Illustrated when it asked the question, "Are we witnessing the death of tennis?"

Not at Wimbledon at any rate. As if by stem cell therapy, the fortnight at the All England Lawn Tennis and Croquet Club injected the tired tennis scene with renewed vigour, at the same time giving the headline-writers a field day. Its green lawns, mown to just eight millimetres and framed on all sides by ad-free hoardings, play host to a world of tennis in which time has stood still.

This venerable, tradition-rich event in south-west London offers the purest form of entertainment, and not just in the way the players serve either: here tennis is truly theatre. The spectators, as Wimbledon hero Boris Becker is well placed to comment, "don’t just come to see a good forehand: what they want is a performance".

While the countless tournaments from Tokyo to Indian Wells exude a dreary sameness, watching the likes of Martina Navratilova respectfully curtseying before the Royal Box, one has the feeling of witnessing a unique, unmistakeable ritual. And every morning when, with near-religious solemnity, the organisers intone the names of the VIPs in the Royal Box, this touch of theatre is more than a polite tribute to the Duchess of Kent or the Earl of Harewood; it is also a clever marketing tool.

Nowhere can a dull sporting nobody be so easily turned into a sensation as at Wimbledon. Just witness how Britain greeted the sensational event that was Steffi Graf’s retirement with a casual shrug. In her 30 year old conqueror, Lori McNeil, on the other hand, they promptly found the stuff of mawkish heroic legend: the dark-skinned American’s father, a former pro footballer, had, it transpired, killed himself. When Lori McNeil then took her ground-breaking strides into the semi-final, she was feted by the newspapers, with the Daily Telegraph, for example, declaring her a "role model" for a frustrated generation that uses sport as a route out of the ghetto.

Even Michael Stich’s calamitous defeat in the first round was forgotten on the same day it occurred. Instead, all the talk in London was of André Agassi’s body, the long-haired American having taken his sweat-drenched tennis shirt off and thrown it into the crowd. While teenagers shrieked and swooned, photographers shot off yards of film at Agassi’s partially-shaved exposed chest.

Agassi’s hair, McNeil’s troubled journey through life, Becker’s baby or Navratilova’s girlfriends: Britain takes the spectacle that is tennis and paints a picture all of its own. Stories and the characters that inhabit them, scandals and wacky antics are all mixed together to paint a great canvas in which serve and volley are only of peripheral interest.

It was as if the commentators of the white sport had taken a communal oath. They criticised the interchangeability of the faces, the monotony of the jam-packed schedule, the dreary heavy hitting and the fall of the teenage stars. Worried, the US paper, Sports Illustrated, asked, “Is tennis dying?”

Not at Wimbledon. Like a breath of fresh air the fortnight at The All England Lawn Tennis & Croquet Club helped the soporific tennis scene back to its feet and brought back the headlines. On the lawn cut to a mere eight-millimetres and surrounded by barriers free of advertising, a tennis arena is on display where you could be forgiven for thinking time had stood still.

The venerable traditional event in London’s South West offers a perfect recreational setting. They don’t just serve here, they perform. The spectators, as Wimbledon-hero Boris Becker knows only too well “don’t just want to see a good forehand; they want to see a show".

Whilst the seamless tournaments from Tokyo to Indian Wells have a sense of arbitrariness about them, the charming curtsy of a Martina Navratilova to the royal box has the effect of a unique, inimitable ritual. And there is that morning when the organisers, almost as if in religious ceremony, announce the names of the VIPs in the royal box; such ceremony is not only polite tribute to the Duchess of Kent or the Earls of Harewood, but is also a skilful marketing technique.

Nowhere does a sporting bore more easily turn into a sensation than at Wimbledon. This explains why the English took the sensational defeat of Steffi Graf so nonchalantly. In her conqueror, Lori McNeil, 30, they quickly found the stuff of sentimental legend. The father of the dark-skinned American, a former professional American Football player, had committed suicide. Whilst Lori McNeil was fighting her way to the semi-final the papers were lauding her as a "role model” (Daily Telegraph) for a frustrated generation, who use sport to escape the ghetto.

Likewise, Michael Stich’s rout in the first round was already forgotten by the day’s end. The only thing London could talk about was Andre Agassi's body. After the match the long-maned American had stripped off his sweat-soaked shirt and thrown it into the crowd. As Agassi was exposing his partly-shaven chest, teenagers were shrieking and photographers were ploughing through celluloid by the metre.

Agassi’s hair, McNeil's hardship, Becker’s baby or Navratilova’s friends; England has its own take on a tennis spectacle. Histories and characters, scandals and absurdities – all are mixed together to create an all-embracing work of art, where the serve and volley is all but a passing interest.