With the Wimbledon finals coming up this weekend, I will be watching not just for the tennis, but also the grounds, the faces in the crowds, the television coverage of off-the-beaten-path profiles, and the behind-the-scenes vignettes that reflect the attachment and lore of the championship.
I saw recently that a writer with Sports Illustrated suggested that today’s high-tech racquets have “killed” the grass game, and that the era of the wooden racquet was better for competition on grass. I can hear the loyalists laughing with enduring contempt.
On previous trips to Wimbledon, I found no fault with the village and the tournament. I like that tradition is honored; I like the all-white dress for the competitors; I like Wimbledon’s cucumber sandwiches and strawberries and ice cream remain a staple of emotional fulfillment.
I like that the grounds are mesmerizing. Just walk around Wimbledon and drink in the atmosphere, all the while hoping rain does not spoil an unforgettable experience. I love the accents and not just that of the Brits. Wimbledon has the greatest of international flavors, which makes you wonder why the politicians can’t do as competitors seem to manage – compete doggedly but never draw swords.
All sporting events showcase something unique which adds to the allure that characterizes them. For example, the roar of the engines at Indianapolis distinguishes the Indy 500 from all other sports. You could say the same thing about the Daytona 500.
The anticipation of kickoff at the Super Bowl is spine-tingling. That anticipation, that fever pitch, is also there for the kickoff of a college rivalry game and big, important games like the Rose Bowl. The cheering is often non-stop at an NCAA basketball Final Four. Despite fewer spectators, it can be deafening when games are played indoors; however, it is a major spectacle that gives you the earache.
The World Series has abundant and raucous cheering, and great anticipation, but a measured calm seems to come about as things settle down after the first pitch. Sports atmospheres range from pomp and circumstance to raw bluster and relentless force when great championships take over the landscape.
Not sure what the take from others would be, but I believe the three classiest sporting events are the Masters’, the Kentucky Derby, and Wimbledon. I’ve never been to Ascot.
All three of the aforementioned reek of fashion are entrenched in tradition. It is difficult to start a golf tournament with a bang, which also is the case with Wimbledon. However, when Derby’s well-documented anthem – My Old Kentucky Home – precedes the running of the most famous of horse races, warm feelings wash over everything and everybody at Churchill Downs. It is a very emotional and signature moment, unmatched in sports.
Being in London in July is a highlight, just as Paris is in spring. You won’t find signature restaurants as you do in the “City of Lights,” but pub life in the city of “Big Ben,” is certainly not a bad life.
You can stay in a hotel in London, the most expensive or something modest and becoming, and then grab a train or “the Tube” to Wimbledon. On my first trip there, I remember boarding a train at Bayswater Station to Putney Bridge and then taking a doubledecker bus to Wimbledon Village.
It was nice bumping into old friends from the U. S. at the Wimbledon Press Centre, including Edwin Pope, an Athens native who was the sports columnist for The Miami Herald and, of course, Furman Bisher of The Atlanta Journal.
It was Bisher who introduced me to a local lady, Elizabeth Robins, who rented rooms, a bed-and-breakfast arrangement, to sportswriters. It was cheaper than any lodging facility and much more convenient. I had brought over from France a couple of bottles of duty-free wine which I shared with Elizabeth and her college-age daughter. They introduced me to their neighbors and booked dinner at a couple of neighborhood restaurants. Nothing like being immersed in a comingling of curious visitors and the local gentry.
The competition at a Grand Slam tennis event is as good as it gets and the politeness of the spectators leaves you with a sense of gratitude that, John McEnroe’s behavior notwithstanding, manners are respected and expected at one of the world’s great sports events.
Wimbledon is where they still refer to the competitors as ladies and gentlemen. Men often wear coats and ties to the matches. Wimbledon, the village, offers browsing at its best. Wimbledon Common is one of the largest areas of common land in London.
And “Bobbies,” the local police, walk around unarmed.