The nation gasped today, clutched its collective Pimm’s, and choked on a strawberry as the news broke: Serena Williams is making a comeback. For queen, country, and presumably the sheer joy of dismantling opponents like a toddler does a Lego castle. The All England Club hasn’t seen this much excitement since they banned grunting and Roger Federer’s hair product.
Let us be clear: this is not a tennis story. This is a national identity crisis wrapped in a sweatband. British tennis, that perennial plucky loser, has spent decades clinging to the coat-tails of Andy Murray’s hip. But with Andy now more bionic man than tennis player, and Emma Raducanu still trying to convince us that her US Open win wasn’t a beautiful, fleeting dream, we need something. Anything. And here comes Serena, like a muscle-bound Venus de Milo, to give us relevance.
But let’s not kid ourselves. Her comeback is a calculated act of charity. She’s seen our suffering. She’s noticed that our best hope is a bloke called Cam Norrie who looks like he’d rather be playing the ukulele. She’s decided to throw us a bone, a brief moment in the sun before she systematically eviscerates anyone in a skirt. And we will love her for it. We will cheer her every grunt, her every fist pump, her every death stare at a line judge. Because without her, Wimbledon is just a bunch of people in beige drinking overpriced Pimm’s and pretending to understand the scoring system.
Mark my words: Come July, the Centre Court crowd will be chanting “Serena! Serena!” with such fervour that you’ll forget which nation is supposed to be at war. It’s the great British tradition of backing a winner, even if she’s from Florida. And when she inevitably wins (because let’s face it, she will), the headlines will scream: “British Tennis Resurgent!” while ignoring the fact that the champion is wearing stars and stripes. It’s like celebrating a house party because a supermodel showed up, even though she brought her own drinks and is clearly leaving at 10pm.
But let’s not be churlish. This is the most exciting thing to happen to the sport since Andy Murray finally smiled. Serena’s comeback is a gift. A gift of narrative, of drama, of sheer, unadulterated sporting ego. And we, the desperate British tennis public, will lap it up. We’ll pretend she’s ours. We’ll claim her as an honourary Brit because she likes cucumber sandwiches. And for two weeks, we’ll forget that our own players are floundering in the qualifying rounds like confused penguins.
So raise a glass of gin (or Pimm’s, if you must). The queen is returning. And even if she’s not our queen, she’s the closest thing to royalty we’ve got in a sport that’s about as exciting as watching paint dry. Welcome back, Serena. Please be gentle. Or don’t. Either way, the bar is open.
