-2.jpeg?width=1200&height=800&crop=1200:800 "Inside the Hurlingham Club and the poshest event on the British sporting calendar – UK Times")
A fleet of Rolls-Royces line the drive. Spectators in heels and hats walk under trellises of roses, past the Orangery and members-only Polo Club, stopping to admire the wares of a handful of luxury sponsors. A peacock roams freely along perfectly-manicured lawns. This is the Hurlingham Club, home of the Giorgio Armani Tennis Classic, the most glamorous sporting event of the summer.
Tucked into a leafy corner of south-west London, Hurlingham is the final stop for many elite players before they travel a little further along the District Line for the pinnacle of the grass-court swing. As an exhibition event it offers participants one last weekend of semi-serious competition, against players who they may well face over the next two weeks, albeit with much higher stakes.
Coming so close to Wimbledon, the Classic doesn’t really have the feel of an exhibition at all – the rosé-sipping crowd aren’t treated to many trick shots or tweeners. Instead, it feels like valuable match practice, a test run of Wimbledon itself, complete with all-white kit and utterly pristine grass.
That’s borne out by the names in action; Novak Djokovic headlines play on Friday, while top-tenners Lorenzo Musetti, Holger Rune, and Ben Shelton all enter (Musetti later withdraws).
The star on Thursday is world No 4 Jack Draper, playing at Hurlingham for the first time. It’s only a few miles away from his Putney home but he takes a while to acclimatise, caught off guard by a blistering start by Rune. The Dane – once talked about in the same breadth as Sinner and Alcaraz, a hotheaded, bad boy character in a potential new ‘Big Three’ – breaks in the first game and stays one step ahead of Draper throughout the first set, looking just that little bit sharper, to seal it 6-4.
-7.jpeg)
A forgettable first three points kick off the second set for Draper as he goes 0-40 down, before waking up and producing some thunderous serves – which have hitherto been few and far between – to get out of trouble.
But a biased, but very polite, crowd get their wish as the 23-year-old turns the set around before taking the deciding tie-break. It’s a good run-around for Britain’s biggest star, against a fit, aggressive young player and a former quarter-finalist at SW19, before he starts his campaign on Monday.
-5.jpeg)
On Friday afternoon Stefanos Tsitsipas – now down to world No 26 – understands the brief much better. The Greek showman throws his racquet in a vain attempt to reach a drop shot from Tomas Martin Etcheverry and reacts with mock amazement at a particularly brilliant down-the-line winner of his own. The crowd murmur appreciatively at the grace and explosiveness of his one-handed backhand; Tsitsipas allows himself to marvel at it too, on occasion. He loses in the tiebreak, but doesn’t seem too fussed about it.
Friday’s headline act is Djokovic himself, enjoying the perfect grass-court warm-up against the venomous serve of 6’6” Karen Khachanov. The Serb makes a mess of a routine overhead but even the game’s premier perfectionist can laugh at himself in an exhibition. Both serve immaculately; Djokovic, at the age of 38, still looks like he was designed to play on grass. Khachanov wins 7-6(4), 6-4, but says it himself: “[Djokovic] feels at home on grass, the ball always goes in. He doesn’t need to play these [warm-up] tournaments – he’s always ready.”
Get 4 months free with ExpressVPN
Servers in 105 Countries
Superior Speeds
Works on all your devices
Try for free
ADVERTISEMENT. If you sign up to this service we will earn commission. This revenue helps to fund journalism across The Independent.
Get 4 months free with ExpressVPN
Servers in 105 Countries
Superior Speeds
Works on all your devices
Try for free
ADVERTISEMENT. If you sign up to this service we will earn commission. This revenue helps to fund journalism across The Independent.
In action for the first time since the French Open, Djokovic shows few signs of rust. He misses a couple of shots he shouldn’t – but neither man is playing flat out, so it feels difficult to ascribe this to poor form. “Obviously being in an environment where it resembles the official match, it’s good for me – I haven’t played any lead-up tournaments,” he adds. “I still thrive being on tour, find enjoyment in competition.”
It’s not all Whispering Angel and on-court hijinks: over on the much smaller, more intimate Court One, the juniors contest their matches under the watchful eye of some white-clad members, keeping tabs on potential stars of the future.
There are some ways in which the Hurlingham Classic feels a relic from a bygone era. The wrought-iron gates, beautifully kept rosebeds, and dolphin-shaped fountains have a hint of the old country house to them.
But it’s a sense felt most of all in the presence of line judges, two at each end of the court, in ties and shirts but permitted to remove their jackets in the heat. Even Wimbledon, that bastion of tradition, has retired them in favour of electronic line-calling, retaining 80 in the form of ‘match assistants’ to shepherd players on and off court.
And while Queen’s – another proud, moneyed institution – opened its doors to female players this summer, for the first time in more than half a century, the Tennis Classic remains a male-only affair.
-2.jpeg)
For the professionals, at least. Girls can play in the relatively new Junior Invitational, walking the same hallowed corridors as previous attendees like Carlos Alcaraz, undoubtedly the favourite for next week’s real deal a few miles south-west. Djokovic himself, interviewed on court, finds his attention drifting there.
“It’s a huge honour to participate in another Wimbledon, still going with the youngsters, a new generation that are exciting. That French Open final was one of the best we’ve seen in decades. Tennis is in good hands.”
The rosé is finished, the ballkids snap selfies with the players, and the last well-heeled punters are shepherded into their Rolls-Royces. The dress rehearsals are over: it’s showtime.
