Upon returning, I joyfully received the news of Mrs. Demery's available room. I'd enjoyed several hours bending my elbow and spreading the blarney with the amiable folks you encounter in pubs. I played a game of darts with a superstitious, older Irishman named Patty and his friend Mike. Well, I forgot the two 'blokes' names and one chap was an Englishman, but I played a game of darts, loss and bought a round. I never was too good at the game. After two pints, I have trouble hitting the game board. If I do, it's a terrific shot.

The strong English beer had left me a trifle groggy, but gleeful, and I desperately needed to lie horizontal for a few hours. Aware of my predicament, the kind lady hurriedly provided a map with a name, address, phone number and other annotations. I thanked her graciously and grabbed my bag frowning. I departed for the short stagger to Southfields. The bag had become a pain in my buttock.

Twenty-five minutes later, I knocked on Mrs. Demery's front door. A small, friendly-faced lady greeted me. She invited me in, introduced herself as Alex Demery, and led me to the second floor where a small room waited. It was clean, close to the bathroom, and I accepted through a yawn. Mrs. Demery was barely down the stairs when an exhausted tennis fanatic met the bedspread, thinking of an earlier plan. I would join the Somerset Road queue after a catnap. The article had said your chances for tickets are better in the Somerset Road queue, because most Londoners unload at Southfields and join the Church Road queue. As far as available reserve tickets are concerned, it doesn't matter, since available tickets are divided equally between the two queues. The sandman came.

After a long nap, I woke around 9:10pm, feeling almost human again. I went downstairs. Mr. Demery and son, Rupert, were home watching television. Mrs. Demery introduced them, then left to prepare a brown-sack meal for me. Rupert offered to drop me off at the Somerset Road queue. Shortly, he would be headed in the direction of Wimbledon with a friend.

This comfortable seventy years old, two-story house was home to Mrs. Alex Demery, husband, Edward, son, Rupert and their daughter, Miranda. They were warm, friendly people who made me feel welcomed. Edward and Rupert played tennis and young Rupert played the cello. The Demerys and I had some common ground, since I'm a musician and tennis playing fanatic; just ask Marjorie. Rupert plays Bach, and I play jazz on the trumpet. However, I mostly spit in it these days. I attempt to play along with Louis 'Satchmo' Armstrong…records, of course. I don't cavort with spirits. You know Louis played some of the happiest sounds this side of heaven. Now, Louis wails with Gabrielle most likely. Man! Didn't he ramble?

At 10:26pm, the car pulled to the curb sixty-five yards from the Wimbledon entrance and the end of the queue. I thanked Rupert and friend, alighted and joined the queue. At least 150 fans were ahead. The article had said that about 250 Centre Court tickets were held for the genuine tennis fans that queue. I felt exhilaration mounting. I would be sitting on Centre Court watching two of the ladies quarterfinal matches. "How-sweet-it-is!"

The sun had dipped below the horizon minutes earlier. England, this time of year, is light until around ten. The tennis action continues until eight or nine, depending on the length of matches and the weather. There is no night tennis action inside Wimbledon. Outside, queue action varies, depending on who's playing on Centre and No. 1 Court the next day and the weather prediction. A promising order-of-play brings the queue animals out early. Thus, the queue lengthens rapidly. The queue is never dull. It's always very long by morning regardless of the weather or who's playing.

Centre Court tomorrow, Tuesday, featured the number 1 seed, Steffi Graf, whose consistency of late made her unbeatable, matched against the 1989 French Open champion, Arantxa Sanchez-Vicario. The number 2 seed, Martina Navratilova, who knows Centre Court like her own front lawn, matched against S.W. Mager, whom I'd never heard of. Mager was ranked about number 70 on the computer and this fact might excuse my ignorance. Mager, is not a household name; however, her success getting this far was one of the many surprises the 'Big-W' produces each year. Un-pre-dic-ta-ble Wimbledon! Yes! "It's like a box of cho-co-lates. You never know what you're going to get," to steal a line from Forrest Gump. "Run! Forrest! Run!" I enjoyed the movie immensely. I laughed 'til I cried.

Observing the loyal, stouthearted fans queuing, I had a sneaky feeling I'd come poorly prepared and might have one horrendous problem. Fans had brought sleeping bags, blankets, rain gear, thermos bottles, food, gas stoves and coolers full of beer. I'd brought a brown sack, containing meat and cheese sandwich, apple, sweet biscuit, and a small thermos bottle filled with coffee.

Later, when the night air plunged below 60 degrees, it became apparent why fans had come equipped as they did. Fortunately, a compassionate group of 'Brits' ahead saw me shaking and offered me a blanket and lawn chair. I gratefully accepted thinking, what a kind gesture. These British are a bit of all right, y' know.

On the queue, the camaraderie is spirited. Fans are friendly, helpful, and bonded by the same common interests. Obtaining tickets and making it through the night.

Everyone had settled in for the night, when an English television crew arrived to interview queue animals. They singled me out 'cause I stuck out like a sore thumb, sitting in a chair while others slept in cozy sleeping rolls or lounge chairs. They became fascinated with my southern drawl and for a few minutes asked some obvious questions.

"Where do you come from? What do you think of John McEnroe? Have you queued before?"

The answers: Florida. John's no Sweetheart, but he's exciting. No, this is my first time.

That was the essence of the 'Old Man and the Queue' interview.

After they moved down the queue, I settled on the borrowed chair, arranging the blanket around my body to protect against the cold. The temperature bottomed out at 52 degrees Fahrenheit, which is rather chilly for a South Florida Cracker with thin blood, and sleep was more difficult than the night before. In South Florida, we bring the brass monkey inside when the temperature falls below 60 degrees. Believe it.

I was miserable. But tomorrow, on Centre Court, my spirit would soar far above the 37,000 feet the jumbo jet achieved on the flight over, and my troubles would be forgotten. Who, in their wildest imagination, could believe Somerset Road would become my spot at the end of a rainbow. Certainly not I, considering the discomforts I experienced my first time queuing at Wimbledon.

Policing the queue was a rather thoughtful discipline, but unnecessary, if their singular purpose was to prevent queue-jumping. Fans who'd weathered the chilly night air and rough accommodations would kill anyone caught crashing the queue. I smiled thinking that's the real reason for their presence. Stewards also require fans to pack-up their gear around 9am in preparation for tightening up the queue. This makes queue-jumping more difficult. Also, cars parked adjacently to where fans queue must be moved, allowing unobstructed two-way traffic on Somerset Road. The queue, after ranks were closed, was more than two miles long this Tuesday, day of the women quarterfinal matches.

The tradition of queuing for Wimbledon tickets is a spectacle beyond belief, and it happens nine days every year. The English adore this tennis fortnight. The Somerset Road and Church Road queues and their allegiances attest to this fact.

I had nothing to pack-up. I returned the borrowed chair and blanket with a warm expression of gratitude. I'd consumed the contents of the brown bag and pitched it. There was only an empty thermos bottle to hang onto. I'd freshened up earlier. Burrr! The water is ice cold. I used the mobile toilet that the All England Club provides for fans and the facility is limited. Getting an early start is a smart move.

Paper people arrived and I purchased a Daily Mirror for 30p. I wanted to discover what British newspapers considered newsworthy. After reading several headlines, which could've appeared on the front page of the Palm Beach Post, I was overwhelmed with a desire for coffee. I'd heard about a lady up Somerset Road who sold snacks, hot and cold drinks out of her garage, and I decided to head up Somerset to check it out. Without coffee, a newspaper bores in a hurry.

After passing several residences, a homemade sign appeared announcing, 'Judy and Mandy's Roadside Café.' Naturally, a short queue had formed in anticipation of the garage door opening. I thought, did the English invent the queue? I smiled a sleepy smile and took a stand in the queue. An English chap engaged me in conversation. His knowledge of the Wimbledon scene impressed me. Discovering Martina Navratilova rented the big, two-story house one hundred yards farther up Somerset wasn't terribly exciting. I doubted that Miss Navratilova would invite me for tea had I walked the one hundred yards and rang her doorbell. Besides, she was scheduled to play later on Centre Court. I could wait.

The kid was enthusiastic. I enjoyed making small talk with him. It seemed to shorten the wait. The garage door opened to the joy of the hungry. A comely, middle-aged lady appeared. Her disposition was akin to a bank president or a funeral director. She was all business. She was very stingy with her smile I observed as she hastily served the people ahead. When my turn came, I ordered two orange juices, a large coffee with cream and sugar, and laid two-quid (£) on the counter. Quickly, she completed my order and passed it to me, with a few worthless looking coins. She managed a polite smile that withered two seconds later. I thanked her and headed back to the queue, complaining bitterly to myself about the cost of things and sorry I hadn't left the change. Already, the coins were making holes in my pants pocket.

I bumped into a mixed party of merry fans who had come several hundred miles to experience the torture of the queue. Wimbledon was a two-day party every year for them, and they were headed home after today's matches. A pretty, freckled-faced lady carried a slightly worn, green sleeping bag, and a light went off in my head the moment I spotted it. I asked her if she'd sell it. The lady's green eyes lit up. She tossed her long, fiery-red hair, thought for a moment, and asked softly, "Is it worth ten-quid, Luv?"

"Sold!" I said, without hesitation. I hastily peeled off two fivers and passed them to her. I didn't give the lady a chance to change her mind. I desperately needed the sleeping bag for the Tuesday night queue. This act was the second kindness total strangers had bestowed upon me in the last ten hours. The first had occurred the night before, and I felt genuine warmth for the English.

I arrived at my not so cozy accommodations, placed the sleeping bag on the ground and topped it, being careful not to spill coffee. I'd noticed fans were restless and eager for the gates to open. I reached for the paper but, before reading it, I took a minute to thank the Man for his blessings. I knew my Wimbledon experiences were going to be heavenly. I felt a sense of destiny.

The loudspeaker captured everyone's attention around 10:05am when a gentleman with a distinctive voice announced ever so slowly and willfully: "Ladies - and - gentlemen - we - have - tickets." Cambridge diction I think.

I thought, after looking at the length of the queue, he'd better have some 'bloody' tickets if he doesn't want the fans clawing out his heart.

"We have 195 unrestricted tickets and 98 restricted tickets for Centre Court. We have 232 unrestricted and 79 restricted tickets for No. 1 Court." He continued to announce the large number of tickets for the other Show Courts. In '91 the terminology of restricted and unrestricted changed to standard and reduced. In '92, the roof structure was reinforced, columns eliminated, and now, all Centre Court seats are standard. All seats cost the same. That’s the dynamics of Wimbledon. (Wimbledon allows one ticket per queuer.)

I digress. The surplus profit goes to the Lawn Tennis Association and that's substantial. I wonder why England isn't producing more world class professionals. Could it be, considering their class-consciousness, the money is spent on the affluent kids, who quite possibly lack motivation. It’s only a thought. But look at the talent that comes from US ghettos. In 1990, £9.6 million was given to the LTA. They use the money mainly to build facilities and train players. According to Chairman John Curry, England hopes to develop some world class competitors by the new millennium. Good luck.

Seriously folks, the practice of holding back tickets for the public is really a generous and considerate policy. Wimbledon is the only Grand Slam tennis tournament practicing this act of kindness. The observance of thousands of devoted fans confronting the queue year after year is super public relations and another testimonial to Wimbledon's greatness. Queuing adds color and character. It's just one more reason why Wimbledon is the best. Great shows, guv. Thanks, for the memories.

Now, after saying all that in earnest, I wonder if the 'Big W' might be motivated by an ulterior motive. That queuing provides some kind of safety cash net. After cynically pondering the question, I arrived at no conclusion, except that the genuine tennis fans buy the Ground Passes after the Show tickets are sold out. Even if there is some underlying profit incentive, I don't really care. The fact they make great reserved seats available to the hoi polloi is enough to make me grateful. Hint! Someone needs to tell the other Grand Slam tournaments Wimbledon's secret. I would like to queue at each. Should I, I'll confer the title of 'Grand Slammer' on myself.

The All England Club has been learning how to run a tennis tournament for 103 years at this point. So, it's not surprising the event is colorful, smoothly managed and highly profitable. It's 'bloody' impeccable. Sure the tennis is inspired. Why not? Winning prestigious Wimbledon is the supreme dream of every tennis player who has picked up a racket. You can become rich and famous with one stroke, if it's the winning championship point. However, a million strokes will be required to prepare you to earn that moment of supreme glory

I closed my eyes for a few minutes between matches and almost fell asleep. I was awakened by the enthusiastic applause for Miss Navratilova and Mrs. S. W. Mager who had entered. They curtsied to the Royal Box and started warming up. Martina, the queen of grass, looked invincible. She moved like a cougar, agile and focused. I wondered what kind of fight Mager might muster to compete with a superbly conditioned net-rusher like Martina. In less than an hour, the match was history. Ho-hum! Martina proved to be much too powerful for the American; however, I had enjoyed watching the crafty athleticism of a tennis legend.

Jet lag tugged constantly at my eyelids. I was too weary to enjoy more tennis, and I decided to call it a day. I collected the green-sleeper and departed for my B&B. Looking at my watch, I calculated the time at home was noon. I wondered how jet lag effects the body. Hell, I thought, why analyze it. I knew I felt like a sack of sand. Minutes longer in sun-drenched Centre Court and I would have passed into dreamland.

The walk back to Mrs. Demery's took twenty minutes. I went straight to my room, after letting myself in the front door with the key she had trusted me with. The house was very quiet. I was asleep, fully dressed, in one minute flat.

If this is Wednesday, this must be Centre Court

Peaceful rest refreshed my being from the tips of my gray hair to the end of my big toes. My body was prepared to endure another rugged night in the queue. The house wasn't so quiet now, so I went downstairs to say hello to the Demerys in the TV den. We talked about my good fortune and Tuesday night plans. Mrs. Demery promised another brown-bag delight and told me about a small restaurant a short distance away. Bed and breakfast had turned into bed and brown-bag. This was so thoughtful of Alex.

The restaurant, REFLECTIONS, was two squares from Wimbledon Park Station. Three tables, with accompanying chairs, bedecked the sidewalk and all but one table was occupied. The bar was short. I counted six 'blokes' warming bar stools, guzzling beer and watching earlier Wimbledon highlights on the teley. One 'bloke' drank Guinness, and the stuff looked like a glass of Texas crude oil. On the wall behind the bar, a picture of a beautiful, shapely blonde, dressed in revealing black lingerie, would attract any man's attention and cause his blood to gush. She looked as if she had just stepped out of a Victoria's Secret catalog.

The cafe was small and cozy. It became special the moment I heard Louis Armstrong's melodious sounds drifting through the place. The tune was "A Kiss To Build a Dream On." I moved to the unoccupied table on the sidewalk, parked my posterior, and continued to soak up the melodious tones that were unmistakably Armstrong. The next great tune was another fine Armstrong interpretation of "Blueberry Hill." The words flowed like gravel from Armstrong's mouth.

"I-found-my-thrill. On Blueberry Hill.
On Blueberry Hill, where I first found you..."

Louis was swinging into the bridge (middle) when the waitress arrived with a congenial smile on her pretty visage. I ordered a pint of bitters and requested a menu.
When she returned, Armstrong sung the first chorus of a lethargic, soulful blues tune, "Black and Blue." I grabbed the pint and imbibed several generous swigs, relaxed, and listened to Satch's guttural sounds that start when the horn is silent:

"Even the Mouse
Ran from my house.
What did I do.
To be so black and blue."

I caught her eye, when she started to leave, and ordered the roast chicken dinner, garden salad and coffee. By the time she returned with the meal, the beer was gone and so was Armstrong. The music had changed to a more contemporary sound that would orchestrate nicely the devouring of the splendid-looking meal that had been placed before me. She asked, "Another bitters, Luv?"

"No thanks. I'm in a bit of a rush. I'm heading to Wimbledon to queue for tickets," I said.

She gave me the most curious expression, as if to say, that stuff is for young folks. "I queued a few times back in the late 70s. I was a big fan of Jimmy Conners," she said dreamily. "I don't envy you. You're in for a hard night," she said, sounding genuinely sympathetic.

I nodded my head feeling superior.

Time flies when you are having fun don’t it? Or, when you're old and there isn't much time left? Or, when you're taking a final exam in Thermodynamics. Or, sitting on death row. Shut up! I quickly finished the coffee, paid the $15 tab and departed. Food and grog are not cheap in 'Jolly Olde,' but the price for this meal was reasonable, considering how tasty it had been. My gastronomical meter had pegged.

At the Demerys, I collected the green-sleeper, the brown-bag delight, and was off on foot to the Somerset Road queue and another hard-day's night. The Demerys wished me luck and, like people with innate intelligence, settled back to watch the teley. I would learn later young Rupert queued several times during the Wimbledon fortnight, but his father was a trifle too upper-middle-class for such a demeaning experience.

Around eleven, I joined the queue slightly winded from the brisk twenty-minute hike. Oh, my, what a difference an hour makes. I estimated there were 400 people ahead. I was not overly concerned, figuring many of the fans would opt for No. 1 Court where Becker would play Chamberlin and Lendl would play Goldie. With 650 reserved tickets available to divide between Centre Court and No. 1 Court, I felt confident a restricted ticket for Centre Court was in the cards. If not, No. 1 Court's matches promised the potential of being equally exciting. However, I'd opted for the match-up between McEnroe vs Wilander and Edberg vs Tim Mayotte. I had come to see the Yanks play.

My powers of reasoning, of the night before, were proved infallible. Sixteen £s ($27) were forked over for a restricted Centre Court ticket, and I repeated the previous day's actions. Restricted tickets are cheaper than unrestricted and some fans prefer them for that reason. They are ordinary sweat-hogs like me. Getting in Centre Court, at a discounted ticket price, leaves a few-quid for strawberries and cream and whatever.

The day was gorgeous. Who said it rains incessantly in London? I felt rested, although the young couple queuing next to me had disturbed me once with their passionate lovemaking. I couldn't get mad at them no matter how hard I tried. I admired their boldness. Besides, you have got to put some variety into it. The seat today was inferior to yesterday's, but I had a bird's-eye view of the Royal Box. "Hi! Fergie!"

The restricted seat was in Section 20. It was two tiers up in the southeast part of the stadium. The restriction was a thin, steel column blocking the view of the northwest corner of the court; a slight line-of-sight restriction at worst. I was amused realizing the elegantly attired lady sitting next to me had paid $37 for her seat. For $10 difference, the lovely lady could keep her elegantly attired posterior right where it's parked, I thought spitefully. She was amiable and good-natured, but she would favor the wrong players. More important, I'd saved $10, which would help toward the purchase of another delicious meal at Café REFLECTIONS. I knew I would return, again and again. The food was excellent and Armstrong's spirit hung out there.

The first quarterfinal match pitted McEnroe against Wilander. The serve and volleyer against the cool, steady baseliner for whom the untrue bounces off the soft, slick and browning grass of Centre Court would not favor. Shortly, the players were announced, entered, and they were honored with praises of past superlatives. They proceeded to their chair lugging their huge bags stuffed with all those free rackets sponsors provide. Shortly, both men stopped, looked up at the Royal Box and bowed sheepishly as though someone had called them a defaming name. Applause was light, if anyone cares. Many fans were still wetting their whistle at the Long Bar. Yes! My kind of people.. McEnroe looked tired during the warm-up, and I wondered why he'd elected to play doubles. John, in the arena of world-class tennis, is a senior citizen the same as me. Conserving energy seemed the better plan.

The match was a close four-setter with McEnroe clearly the superior player this day. The momentum switched frequently and the outcome was always doubtful. The suspense almost killed me, and I loved every second of the action.

One or two winning points Wilander's way could have reversed the outcome of this three-hour seesaw thriller. John controlled his emotions better than usual, but on several occasions, he objected mildly over line-calls. Mild, for John, is analogous to an erupting volcano that won't quit. When John is furious, his actions are beyond description.

I thoroughly enjoyed the match. I was pleased McEnroe won, for the simple reason he is an American. and he's patriotic. McEnroe plays Davis Cup for his country. He's definitely a Yankee Doodle Dandy in my book.