(no subject)
So far, so good. It’s not a proper final without a wobble that draws an uneasy silence from the crowd - is Oliver Wilkinson about to lose his first game in the entire Aegon Championship? At love-forty, it’s looking pretty bad. 96.5% of the spectators have their eyes on the twenty three year old, waiting with utterly bated breath. There are a couple of bitten lips, a few crossed fingers and several worried frowns - the British public have a strange approach to their sporting stars, particularly in tennis. It’s the curse of being That Country With Good But Not Good Enough athletes; you place all your heart and hope in that one person that fights their way to the top, you support them with banners and flags and face paint… but one slip, one little slip, and you’re back to “I never thought he was going to win anyway”.
Everyone knows that O. Wilkinson is a bright, bubbly guy in his press conferences. He laughs and jokes around, he never takes himself too seriously, but on the court his emotions are almost unreadable. People have never really understood how he switches on and off like that, because beyond the occasional small smile or wince of frustration, he is the coolest tennis player that anyone can ever remember. It’s not until he loses or he wins that his shoulders drop or he leaps up almost a foot and a half in the air with a whoop and a cheer.
As he tosses the ball and prepares to serve, there is the briefest curve of a smile on his face.
Now, Ollie would never ever admit to grandstanding and showboating, nor would he ever admit that he honestly thought he could casually fluff a game until four break points and then just as casually go on to win it anyway - but he hopes that no one saw the slip of composure. He doesn’t want anyone to speculate, but he knows there’s nothing quite like coming close to losing something and then snatching it back mercilessly.
Ace.
The next two four rallies last no more than twenty shots combined. Ollie is actually quite surprised by what he can do when he really gives it everything - he’d be fucking embarrassed if he decided to be cocky only to ruin it all completely - but he doesn’t dwell on the thought for long. The cheers are getting louder and - hilariously - increasingly high pitched.
He almost wants to laugh. The worst part of it all that- well, he’s 5-4 up right now. He’s been serving for the championship the entire time.
Never again, he thinks to himself, considering the intense unease that has been settling in the pit of his stomach ever since love-thirty. He is never going to do this this again. It’s too stupid, too arrogant, and most of all, far too terrifying.
Advantage, Wilkinson.
From here on, he likes to think he’ll remember this moment in slow motion. Racket back, ball up, slam, over the net, into the service box, returned by forehand, a smooth backhand across once again and then a light forehand - so light that it just ghosts over the net, and Ollie’s already running like his life depends on it. The adrenaline flashes in front of his eyes as he only just taps the ball, and it only just goes over. His opponent tries to sneak a cheeky volley past him, but you know what, Ollie’s having none of it. He returns with a decidedly forceful volley, and it sure as heck doesn’t land in the service box.
It lands just before the base line, right on the tramline. For a moment Ollie thinks, “those bloody tramlines” before he realises that the crowd is cheering. It’s quite deafening, actually - more like a roar. Somewhere in between the grin that spreads on his face and the somewhat involuntary leap of victory, he drops his racket, bouncing and spinning around by the net as if he’s suddenly turned into a tennis ball.
First British winner at the Queen’s club in over seventy years? Not too bad, Ollie Wilkinson, not too bad.
Everyone knows that O. Wilkinson is a bright, bubbly guy in his press conferences. He laughs and jokes around, he never takes himself too seriously, but on the court his emotions are almost unreadable. People have never really understood how he switches on and off like that, because beyond the occasional small smile or wince of frustration, he is the coolest tennis player that anyone can ever remember. It’s not until he loses or he wins that his shoulders drop or he leaps up almost a foot and a half in the air with a whoop and a cheer.
As he tosses the ball and prepares to serve, there is the briefest curve of a smile on his face.
Now, Ollie would never ever admit to grandstanding and showboating, nor would he ever admit that he honestly thought he could casually fluff a game until four break points and then just as casually go on to win it anyway - but he hopes that no one saw the slip of composure. He doesn’t want anyone to speculate, but he knows there’s nothing quite like coming close to losing something and then snatching it back mercilessly.
Ace.
The next two four rallies last no more than twenty shots combined. Ollie is actually quite surprised by what he can do when he really gives it everything - he’d be fucking embarrassed if he decided to be cocky only to ruin it all completely - but he doesn’t dwell on the thought for long. The cheers are getting louder and - hilariously - increasingly high pitched.
He almost wants to laugh. The worst part of it all that- well, he’s 5-4 up right now. He’s been serving for the championship the entire time.
Never again, he thinks to himself, considering the intense unease that has been settling in the pit of his stomach ever since love-thirty. He is never going to do this this again. It’s too stupid, too arrogant, and most of all, far too terrifying.
Advantage, Wilkinson.
From here on, he likes to think he’ll remember this moment in slow motion. Racket back, ball up, slam, over the net, into the service box, returned by forehand, a smooth backhand across once again and then a light forehand - so light that it just ghosts over the net, and Ollie’s already running like his life depends on it. The adrenaline flashes in front of his eyes as he only just taps the ball, and it only just goes over. His opponent tries to sneak a cheeky volley past him, but you know what, Ollie’s having none of it. He returns with a decidedly forceful volley, and it sure as heck doesn’t land in the service box.
It lands just before the base line, right on the tramline. For a moment Ollie thinks, “those bloody tramlines” before he realises that the crowd is cheering. It’s quite deafening, actually - more like a roar. Somewhere in between the grin that spreads on his face and the somewhat involuntary leap of victory, he drops his racket, bouncing and spinning around by the net as if he’s suddenly turned into a tennis ball.
First British winner at the Queen’s club in over seventy years? Not too bad, Ollie Wilkinson, not too bad.