Your bedroom my language lab?

Serving with speed, pushing volleys with precision and two-handed backhands with more power than I can ever muster from my double-fisted forehand, she obliterated all the opposition the women’s professional game can offer her to win the French Open for the second time.

While it was not exactly a stroll in the park, her victory over Siberian-born Russian glamour girl Maria Sharapova was surefire swift with a thorough display of dominance.

Having won the on-court battle, Serena proceeded to win another – the hearts of legions of Parisiennes but more importantly, the passion of one Frenchman.

She conquered the former by speaking in French during the on-court, victory interview. The latter? She attributes her string of victories culminating in this one to Frenchman Patrick Mouratoglou, her current beau.

Allow me to discount any need to use terms couched in sensitivity – I think our readers can accept that they are two adults who are deeply in love, which makes them; lovers, c'est non?

Anyway, despite my convoluted attempt to couch my claims in polite language, what I am driving at is that the best classroom to pick up a language is the bedroom.

Ms Williams spoke easily in her American-accented French and proceeded to thank everyone from her mum to her sisters – somehow forgetting her pet poodle. More importantly she mentioned her trainer, Patrick as the camera panned to a cool dude in blue and white sports teeshirt in the players’ box just to emphasise the point.

For the past two decades, I have been following the tennis fortunes of the Williamses – so stratospherically talented was eldest of the brood that domineering dad name her Venus. At that point then, the world was told by Williams Senior that the production line had an even better, younger sibling who thankfully, he did not deem necessary to name Jupiter or even Uranus but simply Serena.

Over the weekend; the week of the French Open tennis tournament Venus was sadly eclipsed, Serena’s star shone ever so bright, all the way to the winner’s crown.

Played in the spring sunshine though somewhat occasionally showery Paris, Venus’ star no longer resides on some relentless orbital trajectory through a combination of the advance of age, attrition and niggling injuries. Sister Serena on the other hand wrested the title from sexily showy Sharapova, who, with her long golden tresses, even longer legs and feline athletic grace, would make more than a decent living on the Supermodel circuit.

So in order for Serena to steal the limelight away from Sharapova, she had to be outré outrageous or uber dominant. She matched, nay topped that. She had to as their matchup cannot be more a case of chalk versus cheese.

SEXY VERSUS SASSY

While Sharapova is willowy, Serena is; well; well-endowed. There can have been no more a fulsome woman on the circuit who is as buxomy as she is big-boned . You won’t be far wrong if you describe her as borderline voluptuous, Serena makes no effort to conceal her assets that perhaps detract her opponents from keeping an eye on the yellow missiles that she aces past their lunging defensive backhands. Her generously ample curves become more exposed as her sporty outfit (she dabbles on the side as a fashion designer too, the epitome of the American over-achiever if ever there was one) makes no concessions to Talibanesque dress decorum nor concession to preserve female modesty.

Okay, lets not beat about the bush. While we are at it, Sharapova is Slavic white, Serena is ebony black. Thankfully tennis is unlike golf – a game that until quite recently had no dominant black figures until a certain Eldrick with 50% Thai genes came along. Some clubs in the US steadfastly refuse to allow women to its membership roster – let alone men of a more tanned disposition. Arthur Ashe broke the white mould for the men, while Althea Gibson blazed the trail for the women a lot earlier. Evonne Goolagong represented all of Australia, not just the aborigine community.

Back to victor’s rostrum at Roland Garos. Serena was coy at first but gradually warmed up when asked by the master of ceremonies post victory to comment on her win. Asked in French, she promptly answered in French, not as free-flowing as any Francophone for life but with the rough edges of a non-native speaker. In the event, her command of the language was pretty commendable and she never once faltered.

PARLER FRANCAISE

The French crowd off course loved it. They lapped up her every word and tongues wagged about how she was able to master a totally new tongue. Of course it was Patrick and I offer no guesses that even if Serena cut classes at the Paris Lingauphone center due to her busy timetable, she’d just have to whisper j’taime to get a home tuition session going.

I know for a fact a typical language lesson from that world leader in language learning lasts no more than 30 minutes. Extrapolating Serena’s atheletic abilities and Patrick’s tactical nous, their teacher-student session will no doubt extend into triple extra time without needing any one party to instigate, at no extra charge too!

Okay, let’s leave the two love birds alone and come back to our own language frailties here at home. I tried ordering dinner at one of the outlets at the Bursa Malaysia foodcourt one evening – in English. “Can I have a bowl of meatball soup please,” I asked the young lad in school uniform who I thought must be lending a helping hand at the food outlet and not cutting classes.

He stared at me blankly in total non-comprehension. I repeated my order, only for him to retreat to the kitchen. His mom came out and told me; “Anak saya ni pemalu,cakap orang putih dia lemah sikit,” she explained and took my order.

This got me thinking. Maybe our schools should re-order the classroom schedules to have less of the sanctimonious moralising of which our Sekolah Kebangsaan system is noted for and a bit more of the uninhibited interaction. That may require us to be creatively disruptive as Serena and Patrick have shown what can be achieved during timeout in between the sheets.