This match would be followed by Steffi Graf challenging Jennifer Capriati and topped off with Stefan Edberg taking on USA's hero of the 1989 French Open, Michael Chang. Remember that desperation underhand serve Chang made in the fifth set of the 1989 French Open? Ivan Lendl will never forget. Incidentally, McEnroe never won the French Open, but Lendl has. Ironically, Lendl never won Wimbledon. Does this make a statement? Yes! Serve and volley players seldom win the French and vice versa. This Monday, July 2, 1990, Centre Court held the promise of some powerhouse tennis. I trembled with excitement and anticipation.

My mind strayed to the previous chilly night on the Somerset Road queue. I sat on a comfortable sleeping roll underneath a green rain cover. Marjorie Lee had purchased the sleeping roll, and it was a perfect sleeper for only one. I'd joined the queue at 5:45pm, after dumping the bed roll and travel bag to the ground with a huge sigh of relief. The backpack had grown heavier with each step of the two-mile hike from the Underground Station in Wimbledon Village. I felt much like an ass of burden and ecstatic to be settling in for the night.

My mind regressed to the day before in Florida when Lawrence, my son, dropped me off at the West Palm Beach AMTRAK Station, where I would catch AMTRAK's Silver Star to Miami, Florida. My destination in Miami was the International Airport where I'd catch Virgin Atlantic's Flight 6 nonstop to London's Gatwick Airport, assuming all went well; no one wanted a stop over in the Atlantic. The end of my travels was the All England Lawn Tennis Club (AELTC) and the Lawn Tennis Championships, Wimbledon.

AMTRAK was a smart alternative to driving. It offered a much higher probability that I'd arrive alive, while guaranteeing I’d be several hours late. Driving I-95 to Miami is life threatening.
The round trip ticket to London was the cheapest seat in the world. I knew for sure, because I'd called every airline listed in the Yellow Pages. I even priced a ticket on Safeways Airline that advertised, "Parachute Free (if not used)." When I discussed ticket prices with Virgin Atlantic, I told the sweet-sounding ticket hustler, on the other end, Virgin Atlantic was a frivolous name for an International Airline and asked if they were for-real. She giggled and made some silly comment about it being the airline of the virgins. I interrupted to tell her that this criterion excluded me, unless virgins flew at a discount. I was prepared to lie through my teeth for a cheap seat.

The humorous memory faded, as my warped mind slipped back into real time and the end of the queue neared. Looking ahead, I was struck with a feeling of awe. Seventy-five tennis fanatics already stood in line desperate for tomorrow’s tickets. Look who's calling the pot a kettle. They would experience temperatures in the low 50s through the night. The queue would grow two miles long by 6am, and everyone would have their spot-of-tea in the morning, except me. It's for the 'bloody' hardy. Being mindless helps.

The crack of dawn woke me. Have you ever heard the crack of dawn or the break of day? Skies looked hopeful. I gloated, realizing I'd qualified for the 'Century Club' as coined by me. This year, the first 100 fans were invited inside the ticketing area at 10am and were privileged to leisurely select from the available tickets. Every year the routine is slightly different. The price of the coveted ticket was a hard night's sleep on Somerset, tons of cold night air, and $41. However, all the happy tennis fans quickly make you forget the hardships.

This . day . was . SENSATIONAL. Un.be.lie.va.ble! The Seles/Garrison match was a superb three-setter Zina worked very hard to win. Her jitterbug receiving motion and slow, willful serving motion will try your patience, but she runs like a deer during hunting season.

Mr. Lendl, showing an uncanny cool, had a tough time putting the Austrian away, but was victorious in a super, hard-fought four-setter. It was strange watching Lendl serve and volley. He's determined to win Wimbledon, and his coach thinks the serve and volley game is the way. Maybe? I remember Conners and Borg, who won this tournament a number of times from the baseline and they lacked Lendl's big serve. But this was another time and circumstances were quite different. So much more power exists in the game today due to the improved technology: wide-body frames, bigger hitting area, high tech strings and shoes, etc. Increased power benefits the big servers. For this reason, the chances of two baseliners meeting in future finals are doubtful. The improved equipment is adding power to the lady's game and this is wonderful. Fans and the Virginia Slims Tour will benefit from the increased power.

Lovely Sabatini nearly fell victim to the Russian Zvereva. Gaby faced a match point in the third set. She raised her magnificent back, reached deep and denied the Russian. The match was a grueling two-hour baseline shootout that went to extra innings. Sabatini started rushing the net later in the third set and this strategy was beneficial to her victory. This match was an exciting three-setter and a fine climax to another thrilling day at the 'Big-W'. In a third and deciding set, the tiebreaker is disallowed. The match continues until a player wins by a margin of two. The third set score was 8-6. In the men's play, the fifth set must be played out (no tiebreak).

The other alternative is to become a member of AELTC and this queue is at least fifty years long. The quick route is to become a Champion. However, a ten-dollar bill will get you into the grounds Thursday, and be assured you'll find some high powered tennis to watch. The atmosphere alone is worth the price of the ticket, especially the smell hovering in the air near the Long Bar. Yes! Then there's the strawberry and cream a short crawl across the way.

The sky started falling at 9:30am. Luckily, Mrs. Demery drove up across the street. She brought something to her son, Rupert, who had queued the night. I made a hasty decision to walk away, since play was doubtful. To pay $50 and spend all day dodging raindrops, or maybe see no action at all would have been stupid. I decided to arrange lodging with Mrs. Demery. If she could accommodate me, I'd ask her if she'd drop me by her place, where I would stash the bag and be off on a spirited pub-crawl and sightseeing. Wimbledon's rain check policy weighed heavily on my decision.

Mrs. Demery was equally surprised to see my smiling face peering through the window of her car. Her face flashed a look of almost disbelief. "Hello, Mister Jackson. You're back queuing," she gasped.

Her astonishment troubled me. I didn't think my appearance last year had been in any way sickly, suggesting some terminal illness. Mrs. Demery's disbelief was a study in human behavior. She obviously thought a sixty-year-old man should be spending his nights in a bed and not on a road.

"I am, for sure, but I’ve decided to walk away. I need a place to stay tonight," I replied, and added facetiously, "I don't have a twin."

She half smiled. "Hop in, Mister Jackson."

I set my backpack in back, joined her up front, and we sped away in Alex's small English car along the left lane of Somerset Road. Riding on the left, is a strange feeling, especially the way Alex drives. "Where have you been staying?" she inquired with an inquisitive smile.

"Somerset Road." My answer stunned her, and she looked wordlessly at me. I knew what she thought. "There are facilities at my disposal where I wash, shave, brush my teeth and change my clothing. My favorite is in Centre Court. Hot water you know." I explained to rent a room, then sleep on Somerset didn't make much sense. Alex was dumbfounded by my logic and remained silent for the rest of the trip.

Pub-crawling: You buy a day-pass on the Underground system for about £4 ($6 '97) and this allows unlimited passage anywhere in London, until about 11pm. You catch a train headed toward the city.

My backpack and travel bag sped around the turn. I was pleased to see it. Three days sleeping on Somerset Road, without a sleeping bag, could be lethal by the end of the third day. Sighing, I said, "Here comes my bed." A young couple standing nearby gave me the most whimsical stare. I prepared to snatch it from the baggage track and be off to Customs. In the past, Customs had taken forty minutes, but the line was short, and I was through in twenty minutes. The Delta flight arrived early.

Reaching the terminal, I felt completely lost. Unbeknownst to me, the L1011 had arrived at the north terminal. The last two years the south terminal had been the point of arrival, and this subtle difference was the cause of my confusion. Now, the short naps during the movie had been insufficient for me to have a clear head. Sustained sleep had been impossible. Eight restless kids made certain of that, but all things considered, it had been an excellent crossing. It always is if you don't have to swim part of the way.

I spied the sign directing passengers to the south terminal where the Gatwick Express to London's Victoria Station would be available. A free train service connected terminals and, after a short ride, I felt more comfortable. I remembered this Gatwick.

Hurriedly, I found a convenient currency exchange and passed a C note to the clerk. While counting the money, I wondered why I chased my tail. I was on holiday, and this was a time to relax and enjoy. Now, I owned £64 of English legal tender. Five-quid that had rode the chest-of-drawers for a year were brought along. Next, I strolled to the WC and cleaned up. Then I changed into long pants and sweater that were appropriate considering the weather. Now, I was off to the steadfast British Rail Service to catch the Gatwick Express.

A highlight of this scenic excursion is a glimpse of the historic River Thames, pronounced Tems. The Gatwick Express is no bullet train, but you feel confident you are going to arrive safely and the conductor smiled when he took my ticket. As the train sped along, I observed the countryside and thought about what I would do this miserable looking Sunday morning in Olde London Town. An activity requiring little energy was advisable, considering the numbness existing between my gray hair and the tip of my big toes.

The weather was frightfully British: overcast, temperature high 50s, humidity 95%, and the potential for rain was dreadfully high. It was a ghastly day by South Florida standards. My body felt as if it was wrapped with a cold, wet, dishrag. Make that a live mackerel in a newspaper. My first thoughts: Perhaps, a pub or two. The weather conditions would favor a relaxed pub-crawl.

Instantly, I found myself fighting my conscience over this idea. I had quit drinking in December of '90, after a severe cold nearly consumed me, and I really thought I could live without a beer. But it would be tough to deny my lust for English beer acquired in the fifties and reawakened my last two trips to Wimbledon. I fought the devil. Nay! I've vowed to abstain from the ruination and damnation alcohol causes.

I wondered if this righteous thought was spawned by my conscience or a fear Marjorie Lee followed me. I would make a decision before the Gatwick Express reached Victoria. Has anyone got the notion I'm henpecked?

This is a good place to digress. I spent twenty-seven mouths in England starting in 1950. I was quite aware 'Jolly Olde' could be a dismal place at times due to the climate. One piece of apparel you cannot be without is a raincoat or baggy Mac. At times, it seemed rain would continue forever, people would build arks, and creatures would pair up. If the weather is strange, English colloquialisms are downright comical:

Bloody good show. I feel a bit queer. Keep your pecker up. I was sacked. Ta luv. Ta Ta, or cheers. I feel knocked-up. Call me a hack. Fortnight. Bobby. Lorry. Petrol. Lift.

Translations: Damn good show. I feel a bit sick. Keep your chin up. I was fired. Thank you, miss. Goodbye. I'm beat. Call me a taxi. Two weeks. Policeman. Truck. Gasoline. Elevator.

I have purposely left unmentioned several colloquialisms, since I consider my essay to be family fun reading. They'll have to learn that from the teley.

Pub is a shortened term for Public House where cellar-cooled beers and spirits are served, and people gather, partake of spirits, and indulge in verbal intercourse, usually. They are abundant. You would most certainly die of cirrhosis of the liver should you attempt consumption of several pints in half the pubs in London, but what a way to go.

This story was told to me once in a pub back in '51. If dry English humor does not appeal to you, skip this yarn:

Three RAF pilots enjoyed a spirited outing at a pub one night. The conversation revolved around their memorable escapades: Paris, Rome, Madrid, etc. At the apex of their reminiscing, an elderly English lady entered the pub. Finding no other seating available, she joined them. This put a damper on their tales of conquest. Excusing themselves, they went to the Men's room and discussed the sticky problem. They decided to go back and embarrass the old gal into leaving. They returned. After a moment, one of the pilots spoke up.

"You know, 'arry. I was born a whole year before mother and father married."

"John, that's nothing y' know. I was born five years before my mother and father married," admitted Harry.

"Really chaps, that's not so awful. Here I am, and my parents aren't married yet," smarted the last pilot smirking.

She’d listened curiously. After a short pause, she glanced up and asked dispassionately, "Pardon me. Would one of you bastards pass the salt?"

The All England Club had sanctioned play this middle Sunday, for the first time in Wimbledon's illustrious history. Week one had been almost a complete washout, and the schedule was up the proverbial creek. For an instant, heading to Wimbledon straight away dawned, but I thought it might be pointless, realizing the high probability of rain.

I had traveled the length and breadth of London on the Underground while doing a bit of sightseeing and pub crawling my last Wimbledon, so I thought bus rides on the surface might be interesting, certainly different and inexpensive. The main idea was to rest my bones and catch a few winks of sleep, and this might be possible on the top deck. Go for it echoed from my brain!

The Gatwick Express pulled into Victoria and decelerated to zero velocity. This didn't take long. I grabbed my backpack and headed to Left Luggage where, for £2 50p, my belongings were safely locked away. Unburdened, I returned to the station's shopping area to find a shoppe to have coffee and meticulously plan the bus tour. On the way, I stumbled upon several groups of young Europeans asleep in their sleeping rolls. Seeing backpacking youngsters is a common occurrence.

Several establishments around the square served coffee. I choose the closet because of my laziness, explained by this simple philosophy; never perform standing that which can be done sitting, or sitting that which can be done lying down. A look at my watch revealed the time to be 9:50am. Approximately six hours had to be passed before heading to Wimbledon. After purchasing a coffee, I took a seat. No beds were available. After several sips, I produced a bus guide, called The Shoppers' Bus Wheel. You're going to love this. The wheel has two-sides. A smaller diameter wheel turns independently, and it has a bus route selection window, where bus numbers appear.  Aligned with the bus numbers are twelve shopping locations, six on each side of the small wheel.

Suffice it to say, I rode while they drove. I lunched, drank a few half pints, reminisced, catnapped, saw tons of concrete, took a few notes of some places worth returning too. I even squeezed in a few conversations. I'll spare you all the fascinating details, because the theme would be ignored. London is so spread out you could spend a lifetime trying to see all of it from the top of a double-decker. Next year, this scenario may be repeated and the experience recorded. It will be named, "London from the top of a double-decker bus, or Don't cuss, shop by bus." I have poetic urges often.

The time was 3:17pm when the bus stopped across from Victoria Station. The rest had renewed my vitality, and I felt like a Homo sapient again. Say what! Wimbledon called out, so I fought the temptation for one more pint at one of six pubs that were within walking distance. Two trips around this square would certainly give one a head start on an incurable case of liver cirrhosis. That's why I only went once.

The backpack was reclaimed, and I started for the Underground. Victoria Station was dead. Usually you encounter a multitude of people. I purchased a ticket and headed for the District Line. The tracks in the center of town are very deep in the ground and usually there are escalators to ride. This was not true at Victoria Station, because the escalator was out of order. I walked the stairs to the platform deep in the ground and was pleased the next train went straight to Southfields. Some trains require that you change at Earl's Court. Incidentally, these deep cavities in the ground saved many lives during World War Two.

My feet had a homey feeling the moment I planted them on the Southfields platform. Luggage in hands, I joined the small number of fans up the familiar three flights of stairs. The scarcity of fans baffled me. All previous trips to Southfields had found me amidst throngs of fans. The absence of fans suggested they had already arrived for Sunday matches, and fans for the Sunday night queue would come later. The latter meant the queue for Monday's tickets would be short. I felt a warm glow inside.

Food obtainable near the queue was expensive and poorly prepared, prompting me to detour by Marshall's Bakery, where I'd scalped my Centre Court ticket in '89. Once there, I wolfed down a ham, lettuce and tomato sandwich with the help of a cola. On the way out, I bought three sugar cookies to devour on the bus ride to the Grounds. I should have bought a dozen. All along Wimbledon Park Road, there were sidewalk merchants selling Wimbledon paraphernalia and their prices were ridiculous; higher than Wimbledon shop prices, where you know you're getting the real McCoy.

I reached the bus, fed 40p into the coin collector, and occupied a seat on the lower deck next to an empty seat, one for my tired rear and one for the gear. I relaxed and munched cookies as the bus rolled toward Wimbledon. I was passing the last bite to my small intestines as the bus pulled into the Wimbledon parking lot and passengers prepared to leave.

Yesterday, I reached the Church Road queue to observe skies choked full of smoky clouds. Fortunately for fans, the ugly sky had not produced rain to hamper activities on this historic Sunday. Looking over the queue, I estimated there were two hundred people queuing for today’s tickets. The queue for Monday's tickets formed on the opposite side, and already 12 over achievers were queued. Mostly young ladies, leading me to speculate Stefan Edberg and Andrea Agassi played on Monday. I'd read that Andrea would don white and play this year. This would be only his second Wimbledon.

The urge to join the short queue for the historic celebration hit me like a Mohammad Ali jab. The compelling urge surrendered quickly to a stronger outcry from my stressed-out body saying, settle down there's a tomorrow. I joined the queue for Monday's tickets. I counted precisely 12 young people in line. I liked the idea of being number thirteen.

Preparing my little piece of the Church Road queue started immediately. This would be my first time queuing on Church Road. I wanted to check it out to determine if I had been sleeping on the right road. Furthermore, the Somerset Road queue was a two-mile hike. I would not splurge for a hack, and I was too tired to walk.
The extra sleep improved my disposition. Some optimism surfaced, displacing the earlier pessimism. It drizzled only slightly, but brolleys were highly visible. Queue animals were beginning their routines. These people are professionals. Most fans have been queuing for years, and they have boiled it down to a patent. John had trouble breaking down his tent and I helped him, whereupon John reciprocated. This guy is crazy about this tournament. The Stewards, all old timers, were out doing their thing and every one of them knew John by his first name.

The gate opened at 9:30am and the price of a No. 1 Court ticket was 26-quid ($46). This was the place to be. Skies were partly cloudy and grey, but the drizzle had ceased, and my instinct told me fear not, the weather would cooperate.

I dropped off my backpack at Left Luggage and headed straight to the Long Bar for coffee. Play didn't begin 'til eleven, permitting time to sit for a spell, and sip and dig the fans passing by. The Long Bar crowd was small now, but by two in the afternoon, the walkways would be as busy as Time Square. After coffee, I headed to No. 1 Court. The seat in section 9 was ground level and ten yards away from court...next to the sport photographers with their long cameras. Oh! Yes! Another super spot to view the action.

The stage was set. The ball and line persons immaculately dressed in green and purple, and brown and green respectively, were positioned for the start of the match. It's a class act all the way. Promptly at eleven, Agassi and Krajicek entered the court and started warming up. The crowd was sparse and the applause was soft.