Just Imagine...

(Note: this post is nothing to do with my identity issues. It is a piece of social commentary on a current event. Feel free to skip over it if you like.)

Just imagine, if you will, the following counter-factual scenario. Milos Raonic, the world #15 men's tennis player, does not, as he did in reality, have an early exit from Wimbledon. Instead, he has the tournament of his life. In the semi-final and final he faces two players who have wowed the crowd in earlier rounds by beating the likes of Federer and Djokovic, and who, moreover, meet a popular current perception of male beauty. He beats both of them to lift his first major title.

This does not meet with universal approval. Scores of internet tough girls descend on Twitter bemoaning the fact that a man they consider unattractive has dared to win a major tennis tournament. Some of them couple this with irrelevant speculation about his sexual orientation. A few of them take it to the level of issuing death threats. Even the BBC's commentary team get in on the action, with commentator Lindsay Davenport making a "joking" comment along the lines of "Do you think Raonic's mother told him when he was young: 'Son, you'll never look like Nadal, so you'll have to work extra hard to make a name for yourself in tennis'?".

~~~

The whole scenario is clearly absurd, and not just because Raonic is a long way off the standard of the game's top players at the moment. But substitute - as I'm sure you mentally already did - Marion Bartoli and John Inverdale in for Raonic and Davenport respectively, and you have the scenario that unfolded this weekend just gone. The difference? Men's tennis is universally taken seriously on its own terms; women's tennis is given a surreal coverage style with overtones of a beauty contest.

Serious sportspeople like Bartoli must find this grating; both the difference in coverage in general, and the objectionable comments of unfunny know-nothings like Inverdale in particular. I don't know what response I would have made in her shoes; I suspect, however, it wouldn't have been anything like as good as this:

"It doesn’t matter, honestly. I am not blonde, yes. That is a fact. Have I dreamt about having a model contract? No. I’m sorry. But have I dreamed about winning Wimbledon? Absolutely, yes."

Classy, to the point, and an excellent reminder of what's important and what's not. Marion Bartoli, I salute you.