During a regular calendar year, professional tennis takes players and connoisseurs on quite a journey, from sunny Melbourne, where eggs have been fried on bright, blue courts as a testament to brutal summer heat, to blue and green courts shadowed by palm trees in Indian Wells, Calif. before a stop on teal courts in Miami.
Planes (remember those?) shuttle players on to Europe, where striking red clay courts await in such storied cities as Monte Carlo, Barcelona, Madrid, and Paris. With June comes grass season, culminating in a suburb just south of central London known as Wimbledon, one of my favorite places on Earth.
The hallowed All England Lawn Tennis & Croquet Club, home to a tennis event since 1877, has been forced to keep its nets down before: from 1915 through 1918 and from 1940 through 1945, because of World War I and World War II, respectively. One of four Grand Slams, Wimbledon is referred to as “the Championships” and is regarded on par with golf’s most prestigious major, held at the Augusta National Golf Club in Georgia—and not just because tickets are nearly impossible to access. They’re allocated to debenture holders (who pay as much as £75,000 ($94,000) to get a guaranteed Centre Court ticket for five years), members, and winners of a coveted ballot, who are picked at random. Other mortals can queue or—more recently—try their luck online.
I like to consider my history with this revered venue along Church Road in London’s SW19 postcode (like a zip code) as unique. After years of religiously watching the tournament on television from Sydney in a not exactly conducive time zone, my initial Wimbledon pilgrimage on a trip to London involved joining The Queue, a rite of passage for any tennis aficionado.
The Sights and (Lack of) Sounds
I remember being awed from the moment I stepped through the black gates embellished with “AELTC” in gold. Purple, green, and white flowers and shrubs delicately arranged in hanging baskets and window boxes (which I’ve since learned include hydrangeas flown in from the Netherlands). Navy green buildings adorned with creeping ivy. The sound of furry neon-yellow balls being struck back and forth. The tradition of all-white player attire, stark in contrast against lush grass mowed into stripes. People abuzz with excitement. Umpires calling out score updates. Hand-picked strawberries doused in cream. I knew I’d be back.
After college, I had the privilege of working as a court attendant over two summers. I made friends with Brits my age who had made their film debuts in (you guessed it) the 2004 romantic comedy Wimbledon, starring Kirsten Dunst and Paul Bettany. My team of six was responsible for ensuring that our court’s sacred grass, meticulously cared for year-round by dedicated ground staff, was covered within minutes of play being suspended for rain. Each morning, I’d help “dress” our court with wooden net posts, wind the net to an appropriate tension, and place umpires’ chairs and players’ towels—items that would have to be swiftly removed if and when it rained.
I’d also operate the then-manual scoreboard, enabling me to share a court with some of the sports’ greatest, including Venus and Serena Williams. Word of my scoreboard enthusiasm spread. Soon, I was happily substituting for friends on both nearby courts, as well as inside the “Crow’s Nest,” a structure in which a team of two would operate scoreboards for two show courts that have since been torn down and rebuilt as Show Court No. 3.
A Tourney Like No Other
I love Wimbledon because of how its energy differs from that of the other Grand Slams. The adage about being able to hear a pin drop rings truer here than at any other sporting venue. Rather than a relatively constant buzz of chatter, or speakers blasting hits such as Journey’s Don’t Stop’ Believin’ on other prominent courts like Arthur Ashe Stadium at New York’s Flushing Meadows, home of the U.S. Open, there’s nothing but hushed silence between points.
As players change ends, a gentle murmur rises, as well as delighted gasps and appropriate (rarely raucous) applause for those highlight-reel moments in which players do the impossible by winning a point thanks to a series of unthinkable shots.
Fans don’t need a sideshow. They’re on site to pay respect to the athletes serving and volleying, trading blows, and delivering mind-boggling winners from unthinkable positions. These are the warriors whose white sneakers collectively wear the grass courts down, from green to brown, over two weeks.
I love the tournament’s heritage and unique details, such as the fact that Rudyard Kipling’s “If you can meet with Triumph and Disaster, and treat those two imposters just the same” greets the players as they enter Centre Court.
Many players once watched on TV as their idols became champions between those white lines, and they understand the magic of Wimbledon, so the price of victory is heightened. With higher stakes comes a level of tension that makes for an intensely gratifying, almost surreal spectator experience.
How I’ll Do It Next
These days, when travelers to the U.K. must self-isolate for 14 days, and being able to watch live tennis in crowded stands is a distant memory, I’m thinking about a sun-filled day of tennis at the AELTC. (Because who wants to factor rain into a daydream?)
Day Ten: The Championships – Wimbledon 2019
A view of the Royal Box on Day 10 of Wimbledon 2019. Photographer: Mike Hewitt/Getty Images Europe
If I’m being greedy, it might even be during a finals weekend that features a history-making moment—for instance, a first-time champion who breaks new ground for their career and country, or a prior champion such as Serena Williams, Roger Federer, or Rafael Nadal winning once again to extend an already legendary status in the sport.
At the conclusion of play, I’d take a short walk to Wimbledon Village and catch up with friends at such pubs as the Dog & Fox or Rose & Crown, which are usually packed with sun-kissed locals, as well as visitors. What I wouldn’t give to be eating some beer-battered cod and chips while seeing a tennis couple that is the subject of speculation confirm their relationship status by frequenting the same establishment.
One experience I’m not dreaming of reliving is when my friends and I discovered an unopened bottle left by a player in the fridge that is built into the umpire’s chair. The “healthy” liquid was bright pink, chalky, and full of electrolytes that made it extremely, unpleasantly salty.
Including the event’s restaurants and hospitality suites, in which afternoon tea is undoubtedly the highlight, tennis fans have been known to knock back more than 300,000 Pimm’s cups and some 1.6 million strawberries and cream during Wimbledon’s usual run of 13 days.
I’m personally dreaming of those hand-picked strawberries, as well as a separate cup filled with at least two scoops of Haagen-Dazs Strawberries & Cream ice cream—a flavor available at Wimbledon and supposedly, elsewhere in the world, but that I haven’t been able to find anywhere in the U.S.
Food and Rest
During most of my visits to Wimbledon, I was either working on the courts or covering the event for an Australian newspaper. The next time I go, I’m going to prioritize food, and not only because I’ve spent the past three months missing the experience of eating out. I’ll take the advice of friends who are writers, or who are better at tennis than me (having actually competed at Wimbledon), who recommend Thai restaurant Giggling Squid, as well as Sticks'n'Sushi, a concept created by Japanese-Danish brothers. I’ll also be sure to drop into Bill’s Wimbledon for a breakfast that features eggs, avocado, and grilled halloumi, and I’ll stop at the Ivy Café for a full English breakfast. I might even order a pizza fresh out of Al Forno’s brick oven for a late-night snack.
But as my colleague Richard Vines can attest, the real foodie delights are further afield, in London. One experience I’m dreaming of replicating is a breakfast I had the last time I was there, before my speedy 17-minute commute on the London Underground from Notting Hill Gate to Southfields. I grabbed a shakshuka breakfast with a friend at Ottolenghi Notting Hill, savoring the aromatic spices, tomatoes, and fresh focaccia. (New Yorkers, a very good substitute can be found at Miss Ada in Brooklyn’s Fort Greene neighborhood.)
On my next trip, I’ll definitely stay in either Wimbledon Village or central London (logistics can’t even escape this daydream) and play tennis with friends in Battersea Park, Regent’s Park, and Dulwich Park. If this daydream faces no budget constraints, I might stay at the Belmond Cadogan Hotel in London, if only for access to private tennis courts in Cadogan Square Gardens.
Resorts for the Racquet-Crazed
Speaking of resorts with tennis, you might consider several outside the city if you are a die-hard like me. Stoke Park is a resort with six grass courts and a 27-hole golf course, and Coworth Park is an iconic country house hotel in Ascot, where Prince Harry stayed the night before his wedding to Meghan Markle. You could venture northwest to Lucknam Park Hotel & Spa in the Cotswolds, where yes, there are two tennis courts, and you can ride a horse, enjoy a massage, take cooking classes, or leave the cooking to the professionals and indulge in a full English afternoon tea featuring warm scones and clotted cream.
One year, I might even jump on a two-hour flight to Nice in France to check the ultra-luxurious Hotel du Cap-Eden-Roc and its red clay courts off my bucket list.
This June, the closest I’ll get to Wimbledon is a towel, or, if I can find it, the faded green cap that was part of my uniform. I hope my next visit will come in 2021. Whether it’s a seat in the stands of a show court, on a picnic blanket with friends on Henman Hill (or Murray Mound, depending on whom you’re speaking to), or standing room only next to a smaller court, I’ll be stoked. I’ll soak in rays of sunshine, smile at revelers dressed in anything from Scottish kilts to Bjorn Borg wigs kept in place with a green, white, and purple headband, and bite into a strawberry or 10 while watching players warm up. Eventually, an umpire will signal that it’s go-time with a simple “Ready? Play.”
While I dream of the thwack of tennis balls and freshly manicured grass courts, I’m thinking about the current spotlight on racial inequality. A number of charities seek to support remedies. If I must pick one, it’s the NAACP, which says its mission is to secure the political, social, educational, and economic equality of rights in order to eliminate race-based discrimination and ensure the health and well-being of all persons.
This article was provided by Bloomberg Newws
