Whereas football et al. double fault in the aesthetics department, tennis seemingly aces it entirely. These are the players who gave cachet to the court...
Words: Josh Lee
The first time you witness tennis, it’s unlike anything else you’ve seen in sport. Boxing, all muscle and brawn, and grown men hardwired to knocking each other’s heads clean off, is a primal default already instilled deep within us. You’ll be used to the weary pace of football, either in your neighbouring cul-de-sac or on the flatscreen in the local Wheatsheaf. Rugby comes kind of close, in terms of peculiarity, but there are those within certain sectors of society – the rah-rah Etonians and the ones with a G-Wagen in the chalet’s driveway – who have long been accustomed to the egg-chasing. But tennis – tennis is both chess and ballet propelled through Slash’s overdrive pedal; a game that’s equal parts grace and thunderous rock ’n’ roll.
Björn Borg kisses the gentlemen's singles trophy, Wimbledon, 1980. Image: Getty
There’s the aggressive, brutal wrath of Rafael Nadal’s baseline form, Nick Kyrgios’s maverick zingers in the press room, and Roger Federer’s one-handed backhand that carried the elegance of a Mozart composition. Here, you must hit a neon ball the size of a Pink Lady over a net (and within the confines of a set of rigid lines), use obscure terminology such as ‘love’ and ‘deuce’, and, for reasons unexplained, pray at the altar of Tim Henman, the British hero whose Grand Slam cabinet remains as empty as a Tory’s campaign promise.
Specific sports have always been strongly entwined with various objects, references and subsects of culture. Baseball and hotdogs. Golf and green blazers. Darts and lager and Luke Littler. Tennis has style, but not so much in an off-court sense, the way in which the hypebeast sleaze of Neymar and co attracts the cameras – the Louis Vuitton washbags and the skinny denim with the young-Bieber-esque high-tops. With tennis, it’s on the grass, clay and hard surfaces where the stars make their sartorial bones.
Arthur Ashe, whose thick-rimmed specs became the stuff of court-style legend. Image: Getty
Image: Getty
It likely all started with René Lacoste, who, in the 1930s, introduced short-sleeved piqué cotton shirts. The move turned away from the sport’s rigid codes of pleated trousers and cumbersome button-downs, and, in effect, maximised breathability and movement around the court. Nicknamed ‘The Crocodile’, Lacoste went on to add a motif of the reptile to his clothing – the first step in creating his brand. Even all these decades on, he is still celebrated for popularising the polo, a wardrobe staple favoured by everyone from the preppy dressers to the Fred Perry mods, the dads mowing their lawns on easy-going Sundays and those who enjoy the good life in the Hamptons.
Andre Agassi, in his acid-wash denim Nike shorts. Image: Getty
Image: Getty
If you’re of a certain generation, you’ll likely be familiar with the timeless appeal of Arthur Ashe and his thick-rimmed specs and gold wristwear. Fans of Boris Becker will always appreciate him for pairing a pure-power playing style with babyface looks and a strawberry-blonde bob. Björn Borg’s headband should be in a sort of follicle museum somewhere near Flushing Meadows. Novak Djokovic has done much to give kudos to Uniqlo’s activewear department. The fluoro vests and patterned sets common at Roland Garros – most of which are streaked with a bit of clay on the back, no less – offer a nice, punchy foil to Wimbledon’s pristine aesthetic. And very few conversations of this kind can fail to mention Andre Agassi, who, with his acid-wash denim Nike shorts layered over bold Lycra, influenced a generation of ravers and pill-takers.
Roger Federer, the starshine of tennis. Image: Getty
Then, of course, there’s Federer, the starshine of tennis whose replays on pristine lawns will never fail to make the heart jump. Few icons have made their sport look as good as the Swiss hero has. When he was competing in SW19 throughout the 2000s, winning seemed a sure thing. The all-white ensembles during those warm July afternoons added further purity to his game. His sponsorship with Nike, the biggest label at the time, seemed like a coming together of athletic untouchables. His hair flopped neatly over his headband, as though every strand had been carefully art-directed. His breeziness took the sting out of the unforgiving one-on-one nature of the game. And his serves and volleys flowed with the ease of Lake Geneva. No garish logos, as with the Stone Island terrace regulars. No light-blue jeans with brown boots, the armour of the Twickenham crowd. David Beckham could never. Classic and evergreen. Forehand and backhand. Fluid and beautiful. Game. Set. Match.
This feature was taken from our Summer 2024 issue. Read more about it here.
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