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July 5, 1975, just outside Doochary, Co Donegal, approaching the mighty Corkscrew. The radio was buzzing and crackling and Arthur Ashe was one game away from winning Wimbledon. God, we loved tennis in those days. But some people just didn't appreciate that sporting history was about to be made.

"Did'a ever tell ye the story about your Grandfather having to reverse his Model T Ford up the Corkscrew," asked the driver, interrupting the commentary at a gut-wrenching moment. "Shhhhh," howled the stuffed contents of the back seat, who had been rooting for Arthur since Aughnacloy and weren't about to abandon him now. Not even for that story about Grandda's gravity fed petrol tank, which we'd heard almost as many times as Dan Maskell had said `rasping volley'. Nobody in the backseat was shouting for Jimmy Connors that day, partly because he had won Wimbledon the year before, partly because he always went "hugghh" when he hit the ball and that drove us mad. But mainly because Arthur Ashe would make history by becoming the first black player to win Wimbledon.

He first broke Jimmy's serve on the outskirts of Ballygawley and by the time we arrived in Strabane he was two sets up. But then the driver insisted on stopping because he wanted to buy Golden Wonder Ready Salted crisps, which you couldn't get in the Republic those days. "Leave the keys in the ignition so we can hear the radio," we pleaded, but he wasn't having any of it. His sons had just recently discovered the joys of driving and he feared he'd return to find them practising their handbrake turns. So he left, with the keys in his pocket, and our link to Wimbledon was temporarily cut off. He returned, 15 minutes later, laden down with a month's supply of Ready Salted crisps. Link to Wimbledon restored - 5-5 in the third set. And then, disaster. After crossing the border at Lifford the Hills of Donegal got the better of our BBC Radio reception. Buzz, buzz, crackle, crackle, hum, hum, but no tennis. It wasn't until we hit high ground near Killygordan that we learnt that Jimmy had won the fourth set and Arthur was struggling. We conferred in the back seat and agreed that if Arthur lost the fourth he'd lose the match.

Ballybofey, 4-4 in the fourth. "I'm going to be sick." "Aye, the roads aren't the best." "It's not the roads, it's Jimmy bloody Connors' return of serve - he's destroying Arthur." The Corkscrew's ahead. Arthur's gone 5-4 up. The reception's breaking up again. "But did I ever tell ye what your Grandfather did to solve the problem of the gravity fed petrol tank," he grinned, proudly. "No, you never told us that he mounted an auxiliary tank over the engine so he could switch on the petrol flow to the carburettor in order to climb the Corkscrew without having to reverse. Now put your bloody pedal to the metal and get us to the top!"

"Right." Vroooooom . . . "Game, set and match to . . . Ashe." "YEEEeeeees." "And did I ever tell ye your Grandfather had only the sixth car that ever came in to Donegal? Well, the sixth registered one anyway. Did I? Hello? What are ye getting so excited about a tennis match for anyway, God's sake." "It's hard not to Da. It's a wonderful game."

November 8th, 1998. The first time since Arthur Ashe's Wimbledon triumph that I'd listened to a tennis match on the radio. I'd tuned in to BBC Radio Five, last Sunday, for a football commentary and the closing stages of the Paris Open final, between Greg Rusedski and Pete Sampras, were being broadcast.

The commentary? "Rusedski to serve. Gadunk. 15-0. Gadunk. 30-0. Gadunk. 40-0. Gadunk, gadunk. Oooooh, a rally! 40-15. Gadunk. Game, Rusedski." And so it continued. Zzzzz. In truth, it was a bit like listening to snooker commentary on the radio and pretty much summed up why so many of us are fast falling out of love with the truly beautiful game of tennis. Remember Borg v Gerulaitis, McEnroe v Connors, Borg v McEnroe? Magicians like Ilie Nastase and Vijay Amritraj? All wrist, no muscle. Remember rallies? Remember dull Roscoe Tanner and even duller Buster Mottram never winning Wimbledon, even though they had ferocious serves? And would they have won it in the '90s? Possibly. Of course, it's the power of the serve these days that's the problem, but we've known that for years. Only allow one serve, some argue. Make `let' a fault. Make the balls heavier and the courts slower. Bring the serving line three feet behind the existing baseline. Blah, blah, blah, but nothing changes and kids don't play tennis out on the road during Wimbledon anymore. John McEnroe has, for a long time now, argued that these ugly space-age rackets should be banned and the wooden variety should be reintroduced to the game. First-hand experience makes me agree with the maestro.

"What kind of racket would you like," asked the sports shop assistant when I decided a while ago to resume my tennis career. "Emmmm . . . a blue one, I think," I said. He smiled sympathetically and then started rattling on about swing indexes, hammer technology, short swing power rackets and NASA research into "a design concept for a better performing tennis racket". "How much are you prepared to spend," he asked. "Ooooh, I think I'll go mad - £30." He giggled, like I'd made a joke. "So you're ruling out the Prince Mach 1000 racket," he said, smugly. "How much is that?" "Just over £300," he smirked. "What? So you can stay in the clubhouse sipping gin and tonics while it wins you the match?" "No." "Will it improve my fly-swat backhand?" "No, but with a bit of practice it will help you serve at over 100 miles an hour."

"Mmmm. No more rallies?" "Nope." "Just gadunk, gadunk, gadunk, game, set and match to me?" "Exxaaactly."

"I'll take it. Do you have a blue one?" Okay, I haven't used it yet. It's sitting underneath a mound of dust beside my exercise bike and Slendertone Gymbody but some day soon, when I take off the wrapper and hit my local court, I'll be able to say, without fear of contradiction "I am Lyndsey Davenport - not hugely talented but, boy, my serves will send you in to the middle of next week." And isn't that the problem with tennis these days? Gadunk, gadunk, gadunk? Even the story about Grandda reversing up the Corkscrew is more interesting. And that's saying something. Tennis authorities? Time to stop talking, time to do something.