Sport: Everyone's Wild over Bobele

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On Monday, if we are to believe his manager's estimate, he gave 18 interviews, mostly to reporters who did not forget to bring, along with their tape recorders, that other essential of the up-to-date journalist's trade, a checkbook. Then he flew off to Monte Carlo to visit his money, for after all a tax shelter can spring a leak if your attention is too long diverted.

By Friday he was back in Leimen, the small West German town (pop. 17,000) where he is the biggest thing to happen since they opened the cement factory. The good burghers turned out 8,000 strong for a motorcade. There was a cannon salute and a trumpet fanfare, and then a town-hall reception. Everything was golden: the commemorative ring and the specially processed album by the Deep Purple rock group that he received, the distinguished-visitors book he signed. Down the street, at the Helmut Weber bakery, which displays in its windows the scuffed shoes and muddy togs he wore the day of his famous victory, the bakers whipped up thousands of "Bobele" pretzels. They are B-shaped, and their name is an acronym standing for Boris Becker of Leimen. He does not receive any royalty on their sales. Not yet, anyway.

But who can say what the future holds for Becker? No question about it, he is an authentic phenomenon on at least three indisputable counts. He is, at 17, the youngest man ever to win Wimbledon, which may be media frazzled but is still by irrational common consent the world's premier tennis tournament. He is also the first unseeded player to do so and the first from Germany. Other unheralded players have used this great stage to announce their arrival at the threshold of greatness (Bjorn Borg, who reached the quarter finals in 1973 at 17; John McEnroe, who gained the semis at 18 in 1977). On the other hand, think of Chris Lewis, who made it to the finals in 1983, and last year's quarterfinalist Paul Annacone and semifinalist Pat Cash, who have yet to convert their moments of glory into a permanent condition.

Will the Baby Boomer's Monte Carlo stash someday rival the $60 million Borg is alleged to have there, or will he become just another tennis courtier, serving (and volleying to) its true monarchs? The problem of predicting arises from the ambiguities inherent in any Wimbledon victory and from the mysteries inherent in reading any adolescent's psyche. Since the U.S. Open ceased using grass, and since the major players pretty much abandoned the Australian Open, the computer rankings on which Wimbledon's seedings are based do not have adequate input regarding abilities on what is now the exotic tennis surface. That is why, in recent years, many of the top seeds leave the tournament suddenly and why one or two strong-serving kids, whose hot spell comes upon them here rather than in darkest Stuttgart, find themselves on Centre Court and on international TV. Indeed, the tournament's size favors heedless youth. In a draw containing 128 players, the eventual victor must win seven matches in two weeks, some of which are bound to be played on ill-kempt outer courts, some of which are bound to be interrupted by rain or darkness. The physically tireless have the edge in these circumstances. And so do those who can avoid dank brooding on fate's fickleness.