I was stuffed. Alex's breakfast had been consumed with delight. I finished my third coffee and went upstairs to dress. I bathed, shaved, dressed in tennis attire and topped the throne. Now, I felt contented. Now, I could face the day. The prune juice was working. A second thought might suggest it was the English beer at work.

A few fluffy, white clouds adorned the sky I noticed on my way to Wimbledon Park Station. I mused, are they heavy with rain? God, I hope not. My wait at the Station was brief. Four minutes later the train pulled into Southfields, the next stop. I'd stood for the short trip, contemplating what to do about obtaining a ticket for Friday's semifinals. I decided to haggle with the touts (scalpers) today. My strategy would be proven wrong.

The train had been loaded with bright-eyed fans gloating over the order-of-play and praising the sunshiny day. Today, Thursday, was the day of the ladies semifinals, featuring Graf Vs Evert and Navratilova vs Lindqvist, a surprising semifinalist. As I edit for the 20th time, I'm saddened realizing I'd never seen Chris Evert or Jimmy Conners play on the hallowed lawns of Wimbledon. But I still might. Surely, they will be asked to play in the over-the-hill draw. 'Jimbo' is my hero figure. Evert is the lady I'd choose to play mixed doubles with if chronology and fate had wished it that way.

I followed the electrified, cackling fans up the three flights of stairs and onto Wimbledon Park Road. After a short walk, touts smothered me with offers to buy or sell tickets. Prices quoted ranged from £200 to £300. As a kind fate would have it, two English chaps followed me and they had observed my interest in tickets. One approached rather shyly and asked if I wanted to buy a Centre Court ticket for Friday's matches. Was he reading my mind? He said he'd obtained two Centre Court tickets in the national lottery, and since his wife couldn't attend, he wanted to sell one.

He handed me the ticket. I scrutinized it closely for a date and watermark. The seat was located in the middle of the East Side. It was a mediocre position at best, so I offered him £150 ($255), which he accepted rather quickly. I wondered if I'd offered too much. The young man's eyes grew bigger with every £20 note he received. When I finished counting, the small man offered a greedy smile and thanked me.

"Wow! Two hundred and fifty-five hard earned bucks out the window," I groaned, placing the ticket carefully into my wallet where the notes had been and continued my casual stroll to Wimbledon. My wallet was uncluttered now, and I hoped the plastic in my wallet was not tapped out. The card belonged to Marjorie Lee, increasing the probability the credit line had reached its limit. In spite of my pessimistic outlook, I would stop by the Barclay Bank, located in Centre Court, smile confidently, and present the card with a 100-quid request.

My spirits rose higher and higher with every step I took toward Wimbledon, although my wallet had been depleted of the quintessence of life. It's only money, I philosophized, ignoring the outcry from my Scottish heritage. I'd come to conquer and, with faith, courage and plastic, I was succeeding. The touts had been denied and I'd saved $100. I'd made a young Englishman's day when I forked over the £150. I was happy. He was happy. Only the skinflint spirit inside me was unhappy. I had a ticket for Friday's potentially sensational matches. These positive thoughts aroused feelings of joy, overshadowing earlier feelings of guilt and remorse.

Anticipatory thoughts of the McEnroe/Edberg and Becker/Lendl matches, awaiting my pleasure on Friday, blocked the $255 pain in my hip pocket. I was so engrossed in happy thoughts I failed to realize I'd arrived at the Church Road entrance. Discovering the queue was nonexistent caused instant elation. I had a short private celebration. A ticket for No. 1 Court, where some late-round, double matches would be played, cost a mere $17.

The double's play was action packed. I observed closely, hoping to pick up a few pointers for my own game. God knows I need help. Doubles was a much-needed change of pace. For variety, I visited the outer courts and strolled the grounds, mingling with the International crowd and feeling inferior not having spent the time to become a linguist. Wimbledon is one of the most colorful and interesting spots in the universe this time of year. I dropped by the Wimbledon shops and purchased memorabilia and a tennis shirt for my boss's son, who plays…suck-up time.I enjoyed a few cool pints at 'Ye Olde' Long Bar, where I bumped into an Australian who coached. We enjoyed a lengthy discussion about the game, while consuming more pints than I care for Marjorie Lee to know about. This character was a drastic departure from the norms of politeness and refinement you expect of people encountered in such a classy place.  Possibly, he was from the outback…way outback .

It's not snobbery. They simply respect the privacy of others. If you initiate the conversation, they will engage in verbal intercourse without looking down their nose at you, even if you are wearing tennis apparel and need a shave, as was my case. Once their shyness has been penetrated, they become quite warm and friendly…loose as a goose. The English culture has elements of politeness that may be unique. Everyone treats each other with respect and dignity.

Presently, he approached and offered me 50-quid for the ticket. His preposterous offer galled me. I caustically advised him the ticket had cost 150-quid, and I would take my chances on the rain stopping. This squalid, little chap could be an undercover bobby, I thought. A few breaths later, he returned offering 60-quid, and again I refused sharply.

Now, I felt certain the little guy wasn't a cop. He needed a shave, bath, clean clothes, and he had already visited a pub.
I'd encountered had been immaculately dressed in white and black uniforms. Using this knowledge, I reasoned Scotland Yard's policies would require, as a minimum, plainclothes police to practice healthy hygiene. Now, I felt more inclined to risk scalping my ticket. Besides, if my reasoning were faulty, I would use entrapment as a defense should an arrest ensue. The rain trapped me and the tout tempted me twice.

The clock struck twelve. In 'Jolly Olde', continuous rain for days on end is common. Suddenly, my brain was possessed with tout mentality (greed) and thoughts about cutting my losses. I moved to the front window and starred at the smoke filled sky at length. Clouds were stacked on clouds, reinforcing my opinion that no tennis would be played at Wimbledon this day. I approached the tout and, in a quiet, patronizing voice, told him the ticket was his for 70-quid. I breathed shallowly trying to ignore the pungent odor radiating my way. I couldn't believe such a small man could smell so putrid. After carefully checking the ticket, the tout reached in his pants pocket and pulled out a wad of notes that would choke a goat. He peeled 70-quid into my eager, outreached hand. I had spent 80-quid for nothing. I wasn't arrested.

Hopefully, the Queen, Scotland Yard and AELTC will forgive my impropriety with this apology. But $255 is a hell-of-a-lot to pay to watch a few spoiled kids swat a yellow ball around on grass that is dying from their abuse, then pitch the 'bloody' thing into the trash because the games were rained upon. This is my life’s saving we're talking about. You chaps need to enlarge Centre Court and No. 1 Court and stop all this greed over tickets. Have you considered lights and night sessions? (At this edit, March 96, I hear they are building a new No. 1 Court. Are they clairvoyant?)

Thoughts of facing the day without a Centre Court ticket devastated my spirits. The weather had been gorgeous until early Friday morning. The thought of rain never entered my mind. Awed by the reality of seeing two dream matches, I was possessed and acted impetuously. There's a lesson to be learned. You must buy the ticket on the day of the matches. The delay will not guarantee a sunny day, but if it rains or appears so, you have leverage with which to negotiate a better price. The coffee had cooled while I brooded. A plan was conceived while I wolfed down the remaining coffee. I would find a pub and watch the matches on the teley. I had a sudden dose of the blues and wanted to drown my sorrows.

My eyes were moist as I departed Marshall's for Southfields Station and a trip to Earl's Court. I bought a day-pass, which is good until 11pm, and permits travel almost anyplace in London. I headed down the familiar three flights of stairs to the London side of the loading ramp. The platform was deserted, an expectation for this time of day. Shortly, a train arrived on the other side and the passengers, their peckers held high, bounded from the train and headed for the three flights of stairs leading to Wimbledon Park Road. These avid fans were holding up valiantly in the face of the dreadful weather, which was raining on their parade.

Moments later, a London bound train screeched to a halt. I pushed the button to open the double doors, stepped in and took a seat nearby. The train pulled away quickly and was soon at full speed. Earl's Court was only a few stops away, and I barely had time to evaluate the few passengers in view before the train ground to a stop. I followed an older lady, carrying a shopping bag, up the steps and onto the street. Several pubs were quickly sighted.

The pub across the street drew my attention as though it was a powerful magnet. I yielded and strolled that way. Stepping inside, the heavy smell of smoke burned my nostrils. If the TV hadn't been tuned to Wimbledon tennis, I would have thundered out of there posthaste. Thank God, smoking is not allowed in Centre Court and No. 1 Court, I thought.

The pub was quite ordinary - ancient - possibly Gaelic - a working man's pub. In the middle of the nineteenth century, this joint would have been called a 'boozing ken'. The furniture should have been replaced fifty years ago. The curtains were stiff and yellow stained with smoke. The floor hadn't felt the swipe of a mop for weeks. And the timbers on the wall looked petrified.

I stepped to the massive bar and awaited the barmaid, who was drawing pints for two other albeit shabbily dressed male customers. Three barstools away on my right, a big black cat slept with one eye open. The cat's obesity implied it found an ample supply of rats in the pub on which to dine. Of course, it gave me an eerie feeling. My luck had been great so far. Knowing the myth about black cats, I didn't want the cat to cross my path.

I mused, why was I drawn to this wretched place? Does the fickle finger of fate have something disastrous planned for me or was it just the nearest pub from the station? Of course, the latter would appeal to my indolence.

The stout barmaid, whose plumpness suggested slimmer profits for the proprietor, approached lethargically, proffering a bemused smile. I'm certain she hadn't been eating rats. My first thought, where in hell did she park the broom?

"What'll you have, Luv?" she asked in a husky, deep, intimidating voice. Her expression was deadpan and her eyes were furtive…breathing was a chore. And she had strong symptoms of a beard.

I was provoked. She had interrupted my thoughts of destiny. "Pint of bitter, please." I had responded automatically.

She grabbed a mug and drew the beer while I watched silently. I had no desire to converse with her. She didn't look friendly. She wasn't pretty. She wasn't shapely. Hell, she was a plain Jane if I'd ever seen one. I doubted if she would cheer up my day and blank my thoughts about the rain and Centre Court. I looked for a laugh to chase the blues…Centre Court ticket blues. She overflowed the mug, to run off the foam, and set the dripping mug before me half-smiling. "Eighty p, luv."

I tossed a quid on the bar. I took a big swig while my eyes circled the small, smoke-filled room, and then my tongue circled my lips to remove the foam. The thump of the quid, hitting the hard-oak bar, woke the cat. The pussy jumped off the stool, moved to another one on my left. Now, my path had been crossed. Avoiding crossing the line would require me to jump across the bar and exit through the rear door. I was certain the barmaid wouldn't allow me to escape in such a fashion. I accepted my fate. Furthermore, she might think I was a superstitious sissy.

The crowd numbered eight, not counting the cat and the barmaid. Mostly pensioners about my own age, who seemed more interested in their pint of Guinness, gabbing, smoking and stroking their grey beards, than watching tennis. Occasionally, they scratched places on their bodies, and I started itching everywhere. I was certain no one present had ever stroked a tennis ball or would ever. Their stroking days were over…years ago. I left the bar and took a seat as faraway from the smokers as practical and proceeded to make the best of a depressing situation. There wasn't one interesting person or thing in the place.

My stay at the pub was uneventful, except for the enjoyment of watching Edberg and McEnroe live on TV, playing their serve and volley, power tennis. No chance meeting of an unknown, distant relative, or an old girl friend, I'd known in the early fifties. Although, I doubt if I had recognized her I would care to become reacquainted. Perhaps fate had led me away from some tragic, perilous, or sinister circumstance waiting to harm me should I have ventured in another direction. Pshaw! Enough of this cloak and dagger dribble. My choice was an obvious one. I'm lazy.

About an hour into the Edberg/McEnroe match, showers stopped play. Quickly, the ground’s crews were out pulling the cover over the precious grass on Centre Court. Apparently, it wasn’t tea time. The weather forecast predicted the rain would end later this afternoon. I decided immediately to head back to Wimbledon. My spirits had lifted, realizing cheap Centre Court tickets would be available now.

At 5:30pm, the continuation of the McEnroe and Edberg match was announced. I gulped down the pint and rushed to the Church Road gate where I scalped a tout, paying him a measly four-quid for a Centre Court ticket. Considering how cheaply this Centre Court ticket was purchased, I surmised the tout, who had paid me 70-quid for my ticket, lost a tidy sum.

The events of the day whirled around in my mind as I rushed to Centre Court. The long rain delay had been avoided, and the McEnroe/Edberg match had been viewed thus far on television. Now, the completion of the match would be played with me in attendance. Afterwards, the Lendl/Becker match would follow. All this tennis was mine for bargain basements price of £87 ($150): £80 loss on ticket sold, plus £3 for a Ground Pass, and £4 for the tout-acquired Centre Court ticket. I had excelled for a country boy born in Vidalia, Georgia, the 'Sweet Onion Capital', of the world.

My nose started bleeding as I searched higher and higher for the seat. Halfway through the third level, I cursed the tout and did so again at the start of the last section. Finally, the seat was located. I wondered where the oxygen mask was stashed as I lowered my buttocks onto this coveted seat, which I had rented for a pittance. Immediately, I noticed many unoccupied seats at an altitude where the air wasn't so rarefied and I moved. It was late and many fans, discouraged by the rain delay, had gone for the day, or were they drowning their sorry at the Champagne & Pimms Garden. Of course, this was the reason why the ticket had been so cheap. No one showed up to claim the seat I would appropriate. I was struttin' in high cotton.

I rejoiced realizing I'd missed only a slight amount of the semifinal action, and I'd cut my expenditure by $105. Some remorse seized me with the realization that the day could have been mine for $12, if I had been more patient and waited to buy my ticket on Friday. McEnroe and Edberg were taking warm-up strokes. John looked dog-tired, even after the two-hour rain delay. Again, I wondered why John had elected to play doubles this year. I knew the answer. John hates to practice, so he plays singles and doubles to keep his game sharp. This approach has worked exceptionally well for him and would suffice for many of the other players.

I had observed McEnroe and a new partner, Hlasek, the previous day playing a doubles match on No. 2 Court, which was postponed for darkness. Afterwards, McEnroe defaulted and I believe this was due to his physical condition. Hlasek replaced Peter Fleming, McEnroe's long time doubles partner. The team of McEnroe and Fleming won this championship four times and they were finalists twice. What a super doubles team they made. It has been said, McEnroe combined with anyone would produce the best doubles team in the world: well possibly. How about Mac and me.

Play resumed with Edberg leading. Edberg had won the first set earlier 7-5 before the rain delay and led in the second 4-3 with McEnroe serving. Both players held serve to end up six all, and the tiebreaker rule was instituted. Edberg dominated McEnroe during the tiebreaker, pushing him all over the slippery grass and won easily. McEnroe looked a half-step slow approaching the balls humming his way. Definitely, he was tired.

The third set was another hotly contested tiebreaker set. McEnroe marshaled a second wind. He was half-a-step faster and his touch-of-genius returned. Edberg countered with gutsy determination and consistency. This combined with his power serves and brilliant net play devastated the weary McEnroe.

John had chances. If he'd been fresh, I believe he could have beaten Edberg. The match was much closer than the straight set victory may have implied. The sets scored 7-5, 7-6 (7-2), 7-6 (7-5). (December 1995: Reading of the magnificent Swede hanging it up after 1996, leaves me sad: what a gentleman. What exemplary sportsmanship he always exhibited. The bell tolls for everyone.)

A few points shifted in McEnroe's favor could have turned this close match around. This is why the McEnroes of the world get so temperamental about close calls going against them. Of course, Edberg foot-faulted a number of times and was not called. This alone might have made the difference. Close matches are won on a few subtle differences: close line calls, a sudden breeze, a noise from the crowd, a bad bounce and an undetected foot fault. Believe it!

I was reminded of a guy I play who foot-faults every time he serves. This is not an exaggeration. To play him, I have to accept it. One of these days, I'm going to march up to the service line and serve this chap a fuzz-ball sandwich. Maybe he will get the 'bloody' message. Then, how about those players who never give you the benefit of doubt on close line calls: the case of the permanently jaundiced eye.

He was also afflicted with this disease. I remember one match when I returned the potential winning stroke to his weak backhand with dazzling pace. He swung at the ball and hit it into the net. Then he called the ball out. I had come to the net and clearly saw the ball an inch inside the line. The cheat argued 'til he was blue in the face and I gave in. He thinks he won the match, but I put a notch on my racket handle. I was the winner. God knows it.

Again, I savored my good fortune. I had enjoyed several pints while watching the McEnroe/Edberg match on TV. I'd viewed the completion of the McEnroe/Edberg match in person. Now, the Lendl/Becker match waited in the locker room.

I heard the chatter. I saw the sparkle in fans’ eyes as they anticipated the second match. No one had the vaguest notion the tournament officials planned to scrub the second semifinal, with at least two hours of daylight remaining. They did. Too late to start was the reason, but I surmise the officials were thinking about sweetening the action on Centre Court on Saturday, the day of the ladies final. When announced, the crowd groaned loudly, climbed to their feet, and obediently and orderly departed.

Passing No. 1 Court, I stuck my head in and discovered a doubles match in progress between Fitzgerald/Jarryd, the eventual winners of the doubles championship, and Flach/Seguso. The attendant looked the other way as I entered. I found a seat nearby and proceeded to enjoy a super doubles match. Seats were abundant. They have a heart the size of a watermelon at Wimbledon.

What a super match this was. The doubles action topped off my day nicely, enhancing the value I received for the $150 I'd spent. The game of doubles is grossly underrated.

As the Delta L1O11 climbed to cruise altitude, I pushed back in my seat, spread the blanket over my bare legs, and reflected on the week that was. I drank tomato juice, trying hard to imagine it was a Bloody Mary. I was back on the wagon and on my way home to sunny South Florida, where I would watch the finals on television. My second week at Wimbledon had been smashing, as the English say.

I'd doubled the expenditure of the author of the article that attracted me to the 'Big W', but I'd seen twice as much tennis. I felt no regrets or remorse over my extravagance, because this probable once in a lifetime Wimbledon experience was worth every penny. The other chap had approached the ticket challenge differently, but with much less dedication. There was none of this all-night queuing for him. I had met the ticket challenge with courage and determination and was privileged to view some fabulous tennis.

In a few days, I would celebrate my fifty-ninth birthday. This early birthday gift, a week at Wimbledon, was the best birthday gift I'd ever received.

Thank you, Marjorie Lee.