The end of summer

They’re wrong you know.

Not every picture tells a story. They’re not always worth a thousand words. If you knew nothing of the men on this page, what fiction would you invent for them? Would it be of more consequence; could it have more poignancy than that which they wrote for themselves?

They are men caught at a pivotal moment of a significant time, but even without knowing who they were, could you say with any clarity what was going on here?

In the background, a ball boy collects the leftovers of this 1914 Wimbledon Gentlemen’s singles final while, in the foreground, the umpire moves from his eyrie.

Between them, two greats of the game meet in a momentary exchange.

But, as the shadows grow on a beautiful southwest London afternoon, New Zealander Anthony Wilding seems already to have things on his mind beyond congratulating his friend, the Australian Norman Brookes.

There's a shake of the hand. A turn of the head. And with that, a legendary Wimbledon career is at an end.

Within weeks, the world would be at war.

Within a year, Wilding would be dead.

This was the end of summer.

Who was New Zealand’s first truly international sports star?
It’s a question worth asking. In the late 19th century there weren’t international stars of any description, and by the turn of the 20th, the only candidates would seem to be rugby players.

Until Anthony Wilding came along. Tall and with matinee idol good looks, he would have made an impression even if he hadn’t been one of the finest tennis players of his generation.

But he was no one-trick Tony. As a teenager, he played two first-class cricket games for Canterbury and would no doubt have enjoyed a successful career, had he not instead dedicated himself to a life of adventure.

In 1902, he started at Cambridge University, where he was able to turn a promising tennis career into a truly great one and for the next few years, he would travel the courts of Europe, collecting titles at a rate like no other.

He would ride between events on his Bat-JAP motorcycle, and it’s not much of a stretch to imagine the striking New Zealander, scarf flying and goggles in place, rolling up to Cannes or Menton, rattling off a few sets, picking up the trophy and quaffing a few glasses of something suitably bubbly, before heading off to the next event further along the Cote d’Azure. Which he would also win.

Wilding also has the distinction of being our first favourite to win an Olympic gold medal and was, therefore, our first Olympic disappointment.

In 1912, he was already a two-time Wimbledon singles champion, the best tennis player in the world and, in a Stockholm tournament without several other stars of the time, was expected to win handsomely.

Instead, he was beaten in the semi-final, and went on to claim the bronze medal.

The wheels of war were already in motion.

Just days before Wilding met Brookes across the Wimbledon net for the final time, Archduke Franz Ferdinand of Austria had been assassinated in Sarajevo.

It would take the sabre-rattlers time to properly get their act together, but a terrible page in history had just been turned.

Brookes and Wilding, though great competitors, were also Davis Cup teammates and doubles partners.

There was time for them to team up one more time to lead Australasia to Davis Cup success, but at the outbreak of war, he joined the Royal Marines, where he served as a captain with the Armoured Car Division.

His job on the Western front was to direct the Allied shelling towards the German trenches.

On May 8, 1915, he wrote:

            “For really the first time in seven and a half months, I have a job in hand which is likely to end in gun, I and the whole outfit being blown to hell.

            “However it is a sporting chance and if we succeed, we will help our infantry no end.

            “I now the job exactly, and the objects in view room my study of them – it is the only way to play in business or war.”

  The following day, Captain Anthony Wilding was killed at Neuve-Chapelle during the Battle of Aubers Ridge and is buried at the Rue-des-Berceaux Military Cemetery. He was 31.

 Next to his body they found a gold cigarette case; a souvenir of the Riviera tennis tournaments of which he was so fond and in which he was so dominant.

I was wrong.

There is a story in every picture and this one in particular. It’s a tale of two men whose paths crossed briefly, but brilliantly. Men who would go on to fight separate battles, with different results.

Men who, in their own way and in their own countries, would become sporting superstars of their day.

Brookes, Sir Norman Brookes when he died in 1968, is venerated as the father of Australian tennis. He was the first non-British champion at Wimbledon (Wilding was second) and each summer, the winner of the Australian Open men’s singles final is awarded the Norman Brookes Challenge Cup. He was 90.

He was named to the International Tennis Hall of Fame in 1977, the year before Wilding.

So how do we remember our greatest player? With a Christchurch tennis centre. A retirement village. Three avenues (Auckland, Napier and North Shore City) and a street (Christchurch).

Doesn’t seem like much does it?

In his book Twenty Years of Lawn Tennis, the Daily Telegraph tennis correspondent Wallis Myers wrote of Wilding:

            “Physically and mentally he became a man; spiritually he was a boy until the end.”

Wilding’s is a story of extraordinary achievement. Eight Wimbledon titles, including four Gentlemen’s singles in a row. Four Davis Cups with Brookes.

But mostly it is a story of loss. Anthony Wilding’s sporting career was in its twilight, but his other life had barely begun.

 It’s a story of what might have been.

 And it took exactly a thousand words.

Award-winning sports writer Eric Young is a presenter for Prime News. This post originally appeared on www.theblack.co.nz.