An Ode to French Flair

Whatever your opinion of the French Open—the most compelling major or most boring slog—there’s no argument about French players. They are almost without exception, and seemingly always have been, the most stylish and, as such, the most entertaining around. There must be something in the Evian.

Let’s start with the patron saint of Gallic flair, Francoise Durr. (Like Suzanne Lenglen and the Four Musketeers of Borotra, Brugnon, Cochet and Lacoste, “Frankie” was before my time, but I’ve seen the pictures.) Durr probably won too much to be considered prototypically French: a 1967 French Open victory among her 26 singles titles, along with 60 doubles titles, including five straight at Roland Garros. Underachievement brought on by maddeningly inconsistent play and fragile psyches are part of the deal with French tennis players. Durr’s fashion sense, in conjunction with Ted Tinling, heavily influenced Austin Powers. She wore knee-high tube socks before Serena Williams was a glimmer in her parents’ eyes.

But, mon dieu, her game had even more flair. Her index finger, as always, riding up the grip of her limp-wristed one-handed backhand like some demented weekend hacker, Durr, at age 34, beat Martina Navratilova 1 and 1 in the semifinals of the 1974 Colgate Inaugural! (Then she lost in the final to Chris Evert, whom she never defeated…seems appropriate somehow.)

In the ensuing years, the French have produced dozens of players with remarkable shot-making ability, free-flowing grace, effervescent personalities and skittish temperaments. My all-time favorite: Henri Leconte, the man with the golden left arm. Most people think of him as the inconsistent genius whom Mats Wilander drubbed in Leconte’s only major final, the 1988 French Open—you remember, Wilander missed one first serve in the entire match (so Swedish), while Leconte missed everything.

I prefer to remember the 1991 Davis Cup final in Lyon, where Leconte’s magnificent singles victory over Pete Sampras spurred the French to a huge upset. One shot is seared into my memory: an on-the-dead-run-ball’s-behind-him-buggy-whip-backhand-did-I-just-see-that?!?-no-freakin’-way-passing-shot. The man could hit any shot, no matter the degree of difficulty, just not three simple groundies in a row.

If the Buggy-Whip Backhand Pass was the greatest shot I’ve ever seen on television, it’s little surprise that another Frenchman hit the greatest shot I’ve ever seen live. Nor should that Frenchman’s name come as a shock: Fabrice “The Magician” Santoro, the petit double-handed pro who has thrilled crowds seemingly forever with his jester-meets-wizard game. That the shot took place on a U.S. Open practice court should only underscore its utter sublime ridiculousness.

Santoro looped a kick a serve out wide to the ad court. His practice partner—all I recall is that he was shirtless, which even in New York seemed a bit déclassé—had cheated over and ran around his backhand to unleash the mother of all monster forehands. It came back at Santoro’s shoelaces so fast that he was still in his service follow-through position: body facing 10 o’clock, right foot ahead of left foot, both pointing at 2 o’clock. The Magician had time only to spin his body 90 degrees counterclockwise and swing his wand, er, racquet as fast as he could, in what appeared to be self-defense. Needless to say, the ball went rocketing back crosscourt for a winner twice as fast as the return. The only things missing were a comely assistant and a puff of smoke.

No doubt you have your own French fave. Maybe it’s the impish Sebastian Grosjean, the little man with the big man’s game and the only player who looks right in a ball cap worn backwards. Maybe you were partial to the athletic Noah’s flying dreadlocks, or the balding-yet-dashing Forget’s indented Lacoste racquet. Even the less exciting personalities, like Mauresmo and Pioline, have always played with style. Indeed, for the French, style is substance.

Last year, the “New Musketeers” of Gasquet, Monfils, Simon and Tsonga simultaneously put four Frenchmen in the Top 20 for the first time since the computer rankings began in 1973. That’s nice, I suppose, but when it comes to Gallic tennis, I’ll take joie de vivre over victoire any day. So I care less about whether any of the four will win a major than that they continue to play with such estimable flash, from Gasquet’s gorgeous backhand (which, alas, we won’t see for some time) to Monfils’ elbows-and-knees-akimbo vibrancy.