Quite a racket at Wimbledon

Sharapova's grunting can curdle your berries and cream

Funny how the sounds of summer can pass for internal monologue. The chirping crickets and splashing water and buzzing lawnmowers blend together to become more a feeling than a sound. And in the background there is always baseball.

From my youth, the sound of Bob Murphy's voice is drilled into my subconscious. Am I hearing his call of a Mets game or thinking it? From my college days in Illinois, Steve Stone and the Cubs would lull me into a mid-afternoon nap … which would end abruptly with Harry Caray screaming "ARRRLLL-RIIIIGHT! Lemme hear you!" during the seventh-inning stretch. And these days, the easygoing ESPN broadcasts of Jon Miller and Joe Morgan bead up my nights like sweat on a highball of lemonade.

Wimbledon, too, is a summer staple. For two weeks, the soft thwack of catgut, felt and grass is a metronome that sets the pace for another lazy summer day.

This year, the sound of Wimbledon is big news. Namely the yips and yelps of Maria Sharapova, the 16-year-old Russian who has shown that her bite is as bad as her bark with a stirring run into the Sweet 16. Her grunting has made headlines on both sides of the Atlantic, even drawing the ire of competitors -- on the next court! -- at a Wimbledon tune-up event. Her squealing has intruded upon our peaceful summer. Men everywhere have been diving for their mute buttons, lest their wives think they are watching Cinemax at 10 o'clock on a Saturday morning.

If you haven't heard it, it is quite something. And much as been discussed as to whether she is obligated to curtail it.

I say no. (And not for reasons of my own amusement.)

All jocks grunt. They bray, howl and snort. They squall, wail and whoop. They scream, screech and caterwaul. They are a cacophonous symphony of bodily expulsions. Ever stand on the sidelines when two NFL lines come together like wave and rock at Big Sur? You're tempted to start looking for lost organs around the line of scrimmage when they head back to the huddle. Nobody's telling them to tone it down. And when a martial arts expert wants to put his hand through three slabs of cement, isn't it all about the "HI-YAH!"?

Tennis just happens to be a sport that is played in vacuous silence, leaving every utterance and exclamation out there to be heard by everybody in the building. And when Sharapova starts ululating, it can make for some uncomfortable eavesdropping.

But she’s hardly the first.

Monica Seles heard the same complaints early in her career. Jennifer Capriati has been known to get a little guttural. Even the Williams sisters pump up the volume when they find themselves being run about a little bit. Sharapova's moans merely raise the bar by a few octaves. If Anna Kournikova is tennis' Jezebel, then Sharapova is the Decibel.

For those opponents who claim the noise is distracting, I cite the great Bobby Jones, who said: "Some people think they are concentrating when they're merely worrying."

So everybody stop worrying.

Maria, you keep on bellowing. You crow, girl. You low until the cows come home. You come to the U.S. Open this fall and give LaGuardia a dose of its own medicine. And when you someday claim a Grand Slam title of your own, I will expect your victory speech to sound something like this:

"AHHHHHHHH! UMMMMPPPPH! RRRUUUGH! GRAHHHH!"

David Vecsey's Voice of Reason column appears weekly on SI.com.

 

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