Spectator, September 9, 2001
Porto Heli
People who make their living being offended would have had their due had they been in Greece last Friday, especially if they were anywhere near a public square or building. The country that gave the world its start in philosophy, drama, medicine, sport and various other virtues had just wiped the basketball floor with the nation which has not only given us rap music and the Podhoretzes, but also fast food and nuanced TV commercials. (To be fair, the US has also given the world Puff Daddy and Monica Lewinsky, but space is precious.) This very famous victory took place in Japan, where five normal Greeks beat five American billionaires, the latter all stars in the NBA, the former known only in places like Marathon, Salamis and Thermopylae. No sooner had the final whistle blown than the Greeks were out celebrating as if Zeus had made us all immortal, and then some.
Mind you, this was only the semi-final, but then Greeks tend to be optimists. In the final Spain took us to the cleaners, which is par for the course. Never mind. A tiny country of nine million schmucks had beaten Uncle Sam in a game it excels in, and we did it by playing a tight zone defence and shooting from outside. We won 101 to 95, proving that multimillion dollar contracts and slam dunks do not compare with defence, discipline and team play. Having said that, I hate basketball. It’s played by seven-foot-tall freaks who talk trash and push women around, but then sports stars ain’t what they used to be.
Basketball aside, a few thoughts on a game I love, tennis. Watching Andre Agassi losing to a young German qualifier in the US Open was yet another confirmation that sportsmanship has gone the way of cavalry charges. Of course Agassi was the overwhelming favourite, a man who knows how to play today’s culture of victimhood, unconditional love and Oprahesque emotions. But booing a competitor who drop-shotted Andre is like booing a boxer for defending himself. Why have a contest in the first place? One could hear a tear drop even when the qualifier made a great shot. At the end everyone cried, and the qualifier made a mea culpa for having beaten his idol and some more crap like that. When Jaroslav Drobny and Budge Patty left the centre court at Wimbledon after 20 years or more of glorious battles, they said not a word. Then came Martina Navratilova picking up blades of grass while blubbing, and it’s been downhill ever since. Now players embrace their coaches and wives in arachnoid clutches, win or lose, while those who supposedly report what’s going on resort to hysterics. Whatever happened to the noble game of tennis played by gentlemen?
Sport is, of course, the great life enhancer and I recently had the opportunity to feel like a winner again. It was during the annual George Nicholson clay-pigeon competition, which involves rabbit, the tower and trap. I hadn’t shot in more than three years but it comes easy to me. I missed only one and won a nice trophy. What I don’t get is why people make such a fuss over who is a good shot and who is not. I don’t shoot animals, but when I did I found it as easy as I find clay pigeons. In fact, the more one practises, the more one thinks, and one should never do that in sport. Doing it naturally, without thinking, is the trick. I saw Prince Charles playing polo a couple of times and was impressed by his riding. Perfect seat and all that. But he couldn’t hit the ball if the Kingdom’s future depended on it. He tried too hard and obviously was thinking, get off the saddle, turn your hips, lift the mallet, keep your head down and your eye on the ball, and then...miss or top it. Chuck, sport is like sex. It has to come naturally.
And speaking of royalty, last week I was among more queens than if I had attended the Gay Pride parade in the Bagel. There was the Queen of Greece, Anna Maria, whose 60th birthday it was, the Queen of Denmark and the Queen of Spain, and many other royals. Without making a fetish of it, King Constantine’s party for his wife captured the elegance of yesteryear. There were speeches by the children which were extremely touching, and I must say the Queen of Greece has been the template of queens. She has never uttered a word about anything political, has never judged any of the Greeks who have treated her and her husband so cruelly, and has always told her children to love Greece and the Greeks. Plus, and it’s an important plus, she was the most beautiful queen in Europe. It was moving because I saw so many of my old friends who live in Greece and whom I never have a chance to see. The royal bash and Dino Goulandris’s wonderful party the next night were the highlights of a hell of a week for good old Hellas.