Staring the Defeated in the Face

In 1997, David Law's dream of a job in tennis came true, working as a link between tennis players and the media at The Queen's Club. What he didn't know was what it would involve. This is the story of how David learned the job, on the job.

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Tim Henman is not having a good day. He is sitting in the corner of the locker room, head in hands and covered by a towel. He's probably reliving his last hour of tennis, having just lost to a player ranked one hundred places below him.

I don't think I'm going to have a good day either. I've got to ask him to attend a packed press conference to explain why he lost.

Tim Henman at the Stella Artois Championships at Queen’s, 1997

Under normal circumstances, Henman is easy to deal with - approachable, sensible and decent. A year ago, I slept, ate and queued on the pavements of Wimbledon, to watch him. In those days, people were thankful for still having a player in the second week of the tournament, and I was a student dreaming of one day working in tennis. But things have changed. Now he’s the British No.1 carrying the hopes of a nation on his shoulders. And my dream has come true, working at a tennis tournament as the link between the players and the media. I’m responsible for ensuring that Henman attends post-match press conferences like this one.

This is the Stella Artois Championships at Queen’s, just before Wimbledon. Every year tabloid hacks arrive in force to begin their three-week interest in the sport. Winners are billed as the next big thing, early fallers are ignored, or crucified.

They've come to see the British guy who's going to win Wimbledon, let alone the warm-up. Henman's got some explaining to do.

I feel sorry for him, but there's not much room for that. If I don't tell Henman that he's required to attend a press conference, then he won't have to. If that happens, the press will be forced to write stories without hearing what he has to say, and I may as well look for a new job.

Now is not the right time to approach him. He's upset and cocooned in his own private world. If I wade in and list a bunch of demands from the media right now, he may well tell me where to go. He needs space.

Don't take my word for it. Robin Daniels, my mentor, has spent the past 20 years transforming scowling, emotional messes under post-loss towels into press-friendly interviewees.

Imagine facing John McEnroe in one of his strops, a pissed-off Jimmy Connors, or Ivan Lendl looking for someone to blame after losing a first round match. Daniels has encountered them all.

"Give him a few more minutes, Dave," he whispers to me through my radio headset.

“Will do," I reply, trying to sound as if I know what I’m doing.

This is Day 3 of Daniels’ training course for beginners. Day 1 was straightforward enough - meet and escort the endlessly amiable Patrick Rafter from players' lounge to journalist’s microphone for a pre-arranged interview. It was designed to go without hitch. It did.

Day 2 was a different story. Boris Becker was wrapped in a towel when it happened. Daniels stood next to me inside the locker room doorway waiting for Becker to emerge from the shower so that he could inform him of his interview requirements. I was shadowing him to learn how to run a press conference and watch him deal with one of the game's biggest stars.

But Daniels whispered into my ear.

"You've got the list of interview requests?"

"Yes, here," I said, passing my note-pad to him.

“No, you're going to ask him,” he said.

I didn’t reply.

"Ok Dave?"

“Yeah,” I said.

But my legs were jelly. I was 12 years-old when Becker won his first Wimbledon.

"Now," said Daniels.

I crept over to where Becker was watching tv, his back to us.

"Excuse me Boris,” I said.

Becker turned. He was awesome. Strictly speaking, I towered over him, 6 feet 7 inches to his mere 6'3”. But in my eyes he was a colossus. I was that 12-year-old nobody. And those eyes. Blue and piercing, it felt as though they were burning a hole in me. I pressed on.

‘How long do you need before your press conference?’

‘Ten minutes’.

‘I also have some 1-1 interview requests for you.’

Becker scanned the list of journalist’s names I had written on my note-pad. It felt like an age, but his eyes thawed and a smile crossed his lips.

"I'll do the press conference and one other," he said, politely. “The Times.”

Daniels smiled. I'd graduated.

David with Robin Daniels at Queen’s in 2019 (22 years later)

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Henman, by now, is towelling himself down and watching the pages of Ceefax flick from one sports story to another on TV.

A report of his demise appears and Henman's grimace changes to a grin.

"Henman crashes out," he reads out loud to his friend and fellow player, Andrew Richardson. Richardson grins back.

"CRASHES!" confirms Henman, laughing.

The moment to approach is now.

"Excuse me Tim.”

Henman turns. He knows what I want.

"How long do you need before your press conference?"

"I can't do it, I've got doubles," he replies, politely but firmly.

Doubles. That changes things. He's supposed to say he'll meet me in 10 minutes, the pack of press-people and tv crews will shuffle into the interview room, Henman and I will follow, the press conference can happen, and I can go for a curry.

Daniels hasn't told me what happens if a player has a doubles match to play.

I panic and fiddle around with my walkie-talkie. "Robin, Tim says he can't do his press conference because he's got to play a doubles match."

Within minutes, Daniels has sorted everything. He arranges with Henman to do his press conference as soon his opponent has come out of the interview room. All I've got to do is make sure the other press conference doesn’t overrun.

But press conferences don't always go according to schedule.

"Why did you have to do that to our boy?" asks a British journalist of Henman’s conqueror.

The inquest continues for a further 10 minutes, and it’s now Henman’s turn.

"Thank you ladies and gentlemen," I say.

"Do you think Henman can win Wimbledon?" asks a journalist, completely ignoring me.

"He's a very talented player. All he needs to do is win a couple of matches, and he will be fine," reassures the opponent.

They still haven't finished, but I can already see Daniels leading Henman down the steps towards the interview room.

"Please keep your seats, Tim Henman's press conference will follow," I say.

Henman and Daniels brush past us, as we leave the interview room .

"Tim, what happened," asks a journalist.

"Well…" begins Henman. The interview room door closes behind me. I can't hear a word.

I walk back up the stairs to the locker room. Inside, a familiar figure is sitting in the corner of the room, head in hands and covered by a towel.

Greg Rusedski isn't having a good day either.