This year Marjorie Lee purchased a Dome tent
just big enough to sleep me…at least we
thought it was...and two blowup tanning floats.
I had asked for blowup dolls. Hot 'diggity'
dog! I was going to be sleeping on air. Why
did I take two floats? Wrong! The second one
wasn't a hospitality mat. It was a backup in
case one leaked. Of course, she purchased a
bedroll and a set of earplugs. But dreadfully,
in retrospect, she forgot to pack my overcoat,
long johns and fur-lined underwear. Fortunately,
she packed flannel pajamas. This June was the
coldest in the last 104 years.
Five years had expired since a grayer,
balder and heavier Walker Joe graced the hollowed
grounds of Wimbledon. Yes, five more years of
spite for a few who had wished me gone years ago.
Laugh will you. There's Social Security and two
private pension payers namely, United Technologies,
General Electric, and a few other non-contributing
individuals.
My spirit had become tormented with
desire, although my wallet is less clutered with
the quintessential of life, wampum, and the decision
had to be weighed carefully…inflation you
know. Private companies' pensions do not increase;
therefore, since retirement, my only increase
in income had been social security. They give
it to you with one hand and take it away with
the other; the raise goes to pay the increased
Medicare costs. I threw frugality to the wind.
Often, over the last five years,
I'd read and updated my Wimbledon memoirs, the
50,000-word essay, which I have painstakingly
chronicled for posterity, but more hopefully prosperity.
My intentions had been to satisfy the craving
stirring inside me. Although the resulting stimulus
only served to heighten my longing for my spot
at the end of a rainbow, the Somerset Road queue.
The place I once queued to obtain regularly priced
Centre Court and No. 1 Court tickets to watch
inspired tennis played on a grassy lawn.
The bird, a Jumbo 747 named "Tinker
Belle," left Orlando International thirty
minutes late. No one seemed to care. It was packed
with happy vacationers and the flight attendants
would work their sweet little buns off pleasing
the packed flight. Like the 1990 crew, they were
attractive and friendly. Three cheers for Virgin
Atlantic.
I sat in a window seat well ahead
of the wings. A couple several years my senior,
who lived in Winter Park, Florida, sat in the
two seats next to me. He was a golfer. I thought
so the moment I spotted him. The abundance of
lard gave him away. She had played tennis before
a back operation ended her love affair with the
game.
Mr. Bill Loh was originally from
Macon, Georgia, and Docia was a Georgia Peach
born in Blairsville, Georgia. Bill was a graduate
of the University of Georgia. I told Bill my dad,
brother had graduated from Georgia, and that I'd
graduated from Georgia Tech. The rivalry between
the colleges had caused uncomfortable relationship
at home, but Bill and I were too grown up to let
school rivalry interfere. He was a retired air
force officer, having piloted transports. They
headed for England to visit a son with a newborn
son.
Since none of us could sleep, we
talked, drank beer and frequented the toilet.
We chased the sun for eight hours and finally
caught it over Ireland. I looked down nodding
respectfully to my distant Grandfather, George
Walker, who came over to America from Ireland
in 1750. Then I prayed for his soul.
I get my first name from him. Incidentally,
he married Mary Duhart and they birthed twelve
children: what a libido. There has got to be some
Walkers out there somewhere, but only one famous
name, Robert 'Bobby' Jones. Maybe I should have
picked up golf instead of tennis. After all, it
seems to be the more politically correct game
to play. It's definitely more expensive.
The trip was pleasant although I
was a trifle upset discovering Virgin no longer
passed out decals, i.e., do not disturb, wake
me for duty free, wake me for meals, and wake
me for sex. Apparently, decals have become an
obsolete method of communication. The world seems
to keep on passing me by. Obviously, Virgin has
never passed out such decals. I made a similar
jest in my 1990 episode, and I thought it was
high time I sanctified Virgin's image.
I'd purchased £120 at my bank
in Sebring, Florida, near to where I now live.
This smart move denied those expensive hole-in-the-wall
exchange banks at Gatwick that rape you. I went
straight to the Gatwick Express. After removing
my sterling stash from my Reboks, I purchased
a £10.5 ($18) ticket for Victoria Station.
(Update: I would learn later that I could go directly
to Wimbledon Village and save the fair from Town.)
On board, I met three young men
who were on a two-month backpacking adventure
in Europe. They had spoken to me first, having
noticed the Georgia Tech sweater I wore. They
were recent Georgia Tech graduates. We had a short
discussion about Tech, and I was reminded of the
midnight oil I’d burned to keep up with Tech's
high standards.
Time! On these trips to Wimbledon,
I always have several wonderful happenstance experiences
that relate to the past. It seems uncanny to me,
but maybe it just goes to prove what a small world
we live in.
By ten-thirty, I arrived at Wimbledon
Park Station and walked the short distance to
Mrs. Jane Scoon's home. She had weathered the
five years better than I had I noticed slyly.
Perhaps the fifteen years age difference was in
her favor. She took little time away from my day
finding a B&B victim to take me in. The fare
was £28 ($48). It was located in Wimbledon
Village within walking distance of the 'Big W'
and only four squares from the business section.
It was ideal.
This day, Thursday, it rained constantly.
The huge rain covers were never removed at Wimbledon.
Fortunate for some of the fans, who paid for tickets,
the rain check policy has been liberalized. Read
on.
At the Long Bar several days later,
I cornered a young person and had a rather lengthy,
friendly and interesting conversation with him.
He said this about the rain-check policy of yore.
"On days that no play occurs, the 'genuine
tennis fans' leave the gates mumbling adjectives
that sounded like: rained-off and ripped-off."
Well, it is a huge disappointment, but fans keep
coming back like a song.
I met him on the second middle-Sunday
ever. This was not supposed to happen again, but
I was ecstatic over it. It was a wonderful break
for me, which you'll learn about. Think about
it. Only two middle Sundays have happened in 111
tournaments and I was there both times. Is that
uncanny?
At one point I drawled, "Why
is the Long Bar so dead? In the past, an available
table at this time was impossible. Actually, you'd
be lucky to find an empty chair."
Without hesitation, he said, "These
Sunday fans have come to watch tennis. They are
sitting on courts relishing an opportunity to
watch Wimbledon tennis at a bargain price. On
regular days, fans are less avid and mostly come
for the international atmosphere, feasting, drinking
and socializing. Take a look at the Champagne
and Pimms Kiosk."
I stretched my neck and had a look.
"Only one customer," I said surprised.
"Right. The 'genuine fans'
can't afford champagne and Pimms." I smiled
sardonically and continued, "And amazingly
they have already sold-out of strawberries and
cream. (It was only about three dollars and affordable.)
This is the first time in many years this has
happened."
Another advantage afforded by rain
delays, starting times are three hours earlier
than usual. This results in more matches being
scheduled. So, you always get more tennis for
your money.
Time! On middle-Sunday, I queued
three miles away. After the ticket gate opened
at 10:30am, I reached the gate at noon and purchased
a No. 1 Court ticket that cost a mere £15
($26). I wanted to see Martina Hingis play. Any
court was available. The Grounds, which now hold
32,000 spectators, was full by early afternoon.
This has to be a testimonial to the popularity
of this great event. Sunday play had been announced
the day before. (Up 4,000 from last year probably
due to No. 1 Court seating 11,000)
I arrived at my B&B around noon
and Mrs. Noni Holland, my host, made me a lovely
cup of coffee. She was a linguist who taught French
and Russian in their home, and Roger was a media
consultant. I would learn they were very hospitable,
genteel and erudite.
Afterward, I went to my room on
the third level, undressed and jumped into the
single bed. This old house still has steam radiators.
Finding warmth within the radiator, I became ambivalent.
I felt as though I had receded to Victorian times.
And perhaps the month was January, not June. My
internal time clock said it was 7am and time to
rise. Sleep came slowly, but my eyes were closed
for five hours.
I woke at 5pm, dressed and walked
to the business district to find an affordable
hot meal. Balderdash! The price for food is high
as a cat's back by our standards. Anything smacking
of gourmet will cost you $20. Should the linens
be made of silk and the cutlery silver, prepare
to spend $30. I didn't succeed and ended up having
a sandwich and French-fries at Volleys, a friendly,
modern pub in Wimbledon Village, which required
two pints of Stella Artois to wash it down. Price
about $17. Afterwards, I went back to Mrs. Holland's
and read Shakespeare, and on Friday, I read Milton
until the rain stopped.
Time! I found an old fashioned pub,
"The Grid Inn," near Southfields Station
that served excellent hot meals for about $8.
I ate three meals there: great chow, especially
the Barbecued Half-Chicken. And it was the only
pub I found that offered a small no-smoking section.
I bumped into a couple my age from
Victoria, British Columbia. They were attending
a dance contest in Fairbourne, and they popped
up to Wimbledon for the tennis. Strangely, he
played the trumpet, and said he'd been a line
umpire at the Australian Open in 1988. This man,
like me, was fond of dancing, playing tennis and
the trumpet: what an uncanny coincidence. Maybe
he's a chip off the old Walker block.
|
Headed
for the Friday night queue
|
As I bravely plunged down Marryat
Road, nostalgia boiled in my veins while dread
of the challenge waiting at the foot of the hill
raced around the periphery of my brain. After
all, I was 67 now, and five years had expired
since my last pilgrimage to this tennis Mecca.
The steep descent led from Wimbledon Village to
my spot at the end of a rainbow, Somerset Road,
where I had previously queued 19 times for tickets.
The travel bag on wheels was an improvement over
the hand carried bag of yore. For once, I didn't
feel like a beast of burden.
I'd stopped at Volleys and sipped
several half-pints of Stella Artois while waiting
for the constant drizzle to slacken. When half-pints
costs £1 20p ($2.30), a Social Security
recipient sips slowly and savors each swallow
like it was an exquisite vintage le vin. Considering
the time was 6:15pm, a look at the dark clouds
above suggested that this day, like Thursday,
had been a lost cause. There was talk of a second
middle Sunday, which has been dubbed "People's
Day" by a London tabloid. I was filled with
hope.
My big numbered watch showed 6:30pm
when I reached the gate where I'd queued my first
time at the 'Big W'. That night the temperature
had dropped to 50-degrees Fahrenheit. Somewhat
mild considering the temperature was already a
few degrees lower and dropping. The Georgia Tech
sweater and two polo shirts underneath protected
my upper torso from the damp cold, but parts of
me wished I wore flannel pajamas underneath my
cotton pants. Approaching a pretty Steward with
long black hair and pretty blue eyes, I asked
facetiously, "Where is the queue hiding,
luv?" She wasn't amused I could tell.
"Queuing on Somerset Road is
no longer permitted," she said seriously.
"Two queues form on Church Road now. One
runs south and the other runs north." Finally,
she smiled stingily.
My heart ached. My eyes turned misty.
I learned later this was due to the addition of
the new ticket turnstile inside gate 3 and a magnificent
new No. 1 Court, an oval that seats 11,000 spectators
with grass in the center. And there are many refreshment
centers around the exterior periphery.
My dread became amplified twofold.
I had queued once on Church Road in 1991, the
first middle Sunday ever, and it had been a mistake
in spades. The fans are loud, unruly and nocturnal.
The traffic sounds like the Daytona 500. Sleep
is impossible. Actually, I'd sworn never to do
it again, but I had no choice.
Deeply depressed, I turned around
and made my way to the Church Road queue a quarter
of a mile away fearing what lay ahead. As I walked,
I fought a sane notion urging me to stop a 'hack'
and leave the queue, but stubborn pride would
not allow it. I had to do it one more time.
I reached the end of the queue,
and although not certain, I thought I was positioned
for any court that pleased me. The All England
Club had held back 2,000 Centre Court tickets.
Since the first middle Sunday in 1991, the middle
Saturday is treated as a special day devoted to
"the genuine tennis fans." All ticket
prices are reduced and more abundant. I've said
this. I was on Centre Court the middle Saturday
in 1992.
I had just started setting up the
Dome tent when a gentleman twelve years my junior
arrived. I stopped, walked over and introduced
myself. His name was Dave. He said this was his
twenty-fifth time queuing for tickets, which made
me feel like an amateur. Dave was the second such
avid fan I'd met on the queue. John, whom I met
in 1991, had queued since 1965; neither had played
the game. Folks, Londoners have a fondness for
this tennis fortnight, which parallels their passion
for tea, pubs, pets and Royalty, but not necessarily
in that order. Strange attraction since most of
them have never played the game.
I digress here to let you know that
I have learned about a man who has queued 17 times
out of the last 20 years. Incredible! His name
is Richard Hess. He's from California, and he
queues the entire fortnight. Amazing! He surprised
me with a letter, which said a steward had sent
him a disk containing my story. Now, we are communicating
and planning things. His feat makes me feel like
a shrinking violet, but he's only 57.
After struggling with the tent,
I finally had it upright. Now, I had a strong
feeling I might be in the middle of the lake in
a leaky boat although the box said it was six
feet in diameter; I lie over six feet when I extend
my big toes. Next, I unrolled my bedroll and discovered
six inches overflowed the tent. Yes, I had a big
problem keeping my big feet dry.
The rain had subsided now. Only
a heavy mist persisted, I noticed struggling to
exit the tent. I had to kneel on all fours, crawl
clear of the entranceway, then rise to my feet.
This is not an easy undertaking when every bone
in your skeleton aches intensely. The cold and
damp weather had penetrated to my bones.
I wanted to take a short cruise
up and down the queue to see if I recognized someone
from the past, and I wanted to visit the WC. Incidentally,
the All England Club has provided a luxurious
facility with hot and cold running water for queuing
fans. This is just one of many wonderful changes
built since my last trip in '92. And there's more
coming. But destroying my spot at the end of a
rainbow was cruel.
I didn't meet anyone from the past,
but I ran into a small group of young fans from
Belgium, who played at a tennis club. I showed
them the article the Tampa Tribune published and
this established an instant rapport. I asked if
they would take a group photo with me and they
agreed. Fortunately, they spoke excellent English,
and apparently, they read it as well. Finding
foreigners who speak and read English makes me
feel inferior, since I have difficulty speaking
correct English.
Traveling the other direction, I
bumped into a large group of fans from Yorkshire
England who also played at a club, but no one
I knew. Also, a family of four from Scotland was
part of their entourage. I offered my newspaper
article and several read it. After some friendly
chitchat, they invited me to join them for dinner,
consisting of hamburgers, hot dogs and beer. I
accepted gratefully. After dinner, we gathered
for a group photo, which turned out super. As
I have said, fans are friendly and tied together
by two common threads…acquiring an excellent
seat and making it through the night.
About eleven o’clock, I entered
my tent on all fours. The heavy mist had turned
to light drizzle. I found my poncho in the travel
bag and placed it over my travel bag. I inflated
the tanning float, using the plastic hand pump
and arranged it under my bedroll. This wasn't
a simple task, but I'll spare you the details.
From a sitting position, I spread my six-foot
frame inside the sleeping roll while occasionally
bumping into the tent, which wept slightly. Now,
I discovered my feet were outside the tent's entrance.
So, I set up and rearranged the poncho to cover
my feet as well as the travel bag.
Finally, I lay flat on my back and
closed my eyes. I felt like a clam at high tide…make
that a sardine packed in water. The fans that
queue on Church Road lived up to their reputation
and the traffic was frantic. In spite of the clamor,
I almost slipped into dreamland at 3am, about
the time Dave started snoring. Did I say that
the earplugs offered only slight noise abatement?
Well, it's a fact. I might have just as well stuck
them in my...nose.
At 6:30am, I decided, since I had
had no sleep and little sleep the previous night,
that a day in Centre Court would not be very entertaining.
My weary state convinced me to chuck-it-in. I
struggled out of the tent fighting cramps in my
legs. Thank God, the rain had stopped. I took
down the tent, rolled the poncho inside, found
a trash receptacle, and discarded the tent. Then,
I found another nocturnal mortal awake and gave
him the tanning floats, which had worked to perfection.
After dropping by the new improved
WC accommodation, I left for Mrs. Holland's deeply
disappointed. I cannot remember a time when I
was so miserable. My first night in '89 didn't
even come close. Yes, I gave it my best stroke,
but I was not hardy enough to do the party. My
body had not adjusted to the five-hour time difference
and the very cool-damp temperature. This saga
has always been a conflict between my love for
tennis, my aging body and pride. But Noni saved
the day with a lovely breakfast and pot of coffee.
I walked to her home.
|
Better
late than never…My rainbow's gone forever
|
At 3:20pm, Saturday the 28th of
June, I arrived a second time at Wimbledon's Gate
3. It's the new non-ticket holder's entrance.
I was breathless after the mile hike from my B&B.
I'd slept five hours and felt almost human again.
Looking up at the 20 ticket turnstiles that have
greatly increased the rapidity with which The
All England Club sweetens the bottom line, I became
acutely aware that the only ticket available was
a £5 ($8.50) Ground Pass. And I felt like
cussing out loud, considering I'd queued the night
before and had been positioned to buy a ticket
for the court of choice. But of course, the queue
moves more quickly now.
Fortunately, for the hardy fans
who'd braved Friday's disagreeable elements and
paid the £25 ($43) for Centre Court and
£20 ($34) for No. 1 Court tickets, the weather
was behaving itself, although there would be several
rain delays. I was swept back to the horrible
experience the night before, which, I'm sad to
say ended my brilliant queuing career at Wimbledon.
My rainbow, Somerset Road, has been permanently
dispersed.
I shrugged off remembrances of the
'bloody' awful night before and entered a turnstile.
I passed the lady a fiver and headed for the Long
Bar to enjoy a cup of café, which cost
a mere 95P ($1.75). A pint would have cost £2
30p ($4.00). I would do very little beer guzzling
and a traditional pub-crawl was out of the question.
You believe that? Then you believed I spent time
reading Shakespeare and Milton. After mixing in
sugar and milk, I moved to a table near the boulevard
dubbed Main Street by me. The young gentleman
I joined drank something cool and watched multitudes
of humanity in pursuit of their favorite players.
I spoke first. He was aware immediately
that I was from the States. He asked where from,
and I told him Florida. Then I told him I had
been over four years starting in 1989 and that
I'd queued for tickets then, as well as the night
before, but I'd abandoned the queue. We swapped
several pleasantries, and finally, I told him
what a big heart the staff has and that I had
begged my way into Centre Court twice. To this,
he replied that isn't so unusual. He then spoke
some of the most precious words I had ever heard.
"I'm the Steward on No 1 Court. Come after
4pm and I'll let you in." I did and he kept
his promise.
Actually, I was kind to me twice.
You have to have faith. The Steward put me into
a seat reserved for the staff. Think about it!
In a thirteen-plus acre paradise packed with over
32,000 people, I was lucky enough to sit at a
table with a Steward who had a heart the size
of a watermelon. I will never forget him. Talk
about luck. In 1999, I lost my No. 1 Court ticket.
The manager of Wimbledon Park found it and turned
it in. I retrieved it at Lost Tickets. Incredible!
Here's the order of play for No. 1 Court; the
fantastic stuff I got to watch:
1. Miss V. Williams (USA) v Miss
M. Grzybowska (POL)/This match had finished.
2. G. Rusedski (GBR) v J. Stark
(USA)/I was seated for the third set.
3. Miss A. Frazier (USA) v Mrs.
B. Schutz-McCarthy (NED)/This match was postponed.
4. P. Sampras (USA) v H. Dreekmann
(GER)/I watched the entire match.
The first match, a first round match,
was finished before I was seated. Miss Grzybowska
won it in what the press called a surprise. But
they expressed confidence that Miss Venus Williams
would soon be a force to be reckoned, when she
became more focused. Set scores: 4/6, 6/2, 6/4.
I found out recently that phenoms Miss Venus Williams
and Miss Jennifer Capriati, who didn't stay focused,
were personally developed by "five-time"
coach of the year Rick Macci. And I know not why
I bring it up unless I hope Miss Williams stays
focused.
The Greg Rusedski showcase match
was a second round match and he played inspired
tennis to beat our man Jonathan Stark in five,
hard-fought, close sets. Greg had lost the first
two sets. The fifth set score was 11-9, during
which the Brits cheered out of control for every
advantageous play their man executed. The Union
Jack waved everywhere. Stark had to be intimidated.
I was. My applause for Stark was shy. A tennis
match is not worth dying for. The 11-9 set brings
to mind the marathon thriller between Henman v
Haarhuis that went to a fifth set and was won
by Tim Henman 14-12. The applause for their prince
charming could be heard in Piccadilly Circus.
Ninety-seven was a supreme year
for the 'Brits' comparably speaking. Both Greg
Rusedski and Tim Henman reached the quarters.
And Henman reached the quarters last year. The
last Englishman to do so did it twenty-three years
earlier. I was pleased they had something to cheer
about. Their spirited support for their own is
commendable.
The third ladies' match was postponed
to the sheer delight of almost everyone including
me. The All England Club, for reasons not explicit,
offered Sampras and Dreekmann on a silver platter.
Perhaps it was due to the lateness. There had
been several rain delays.
I sat on the edge of my seat when
'Pistol Pete' and Dreekmann entered. After the
usual five-minute warmup, three explosive sets
followed. Pete provided most of the TNT, but the
German wasn't too shabby. Scores: 7/6 (7-2), 7/5,
7/5. It seemed apparent to me that Pete was the
man to beat, and it proved true. I had watched
Pioline, the Frenchman Pete annihilated in the
final, play a New Zealander named Brett Steven
on Court 18, a new court, proving a Ground Pass
is a ticket to excitement, especially during the
early rounds.
Time! May I be permitted to stargaze?
If fate's fickle finger had not placed Peter Korda
into the draw against Sampras, the probability
of him reaching the finals would have been higher.
A final between Korda and Sampras would have,
in my opinion, produced more exciting final: equivalent
to their exciting five-setter. And one might say
that all the other sixty-two players, who found
themselves in Pete Sampras' half of the draw,
were dealt an unlucky card. Certainly, The All
England Club would have benefited from another
epic final. Thus, we have a fine example of what
the players call "the luck of the draw."
Leaving, after the Sampras match,
I thanked the Man above. He was being kind and
generous to me a fifth time. I'm certain that
no one has had as much good fortune as I have
during my five trips to the 'Big W'. I'm glad
I went this time, although I lacked the stamina
to queue. You can bet the ranch on it. I saw mucho
exciting tennis in the days that followed. Will
I go again? Hopefully, but only if I can attend
in the style of a gentleman.
In the interest of curtailing any
sympathy on my behalf, I'll list some of the other
interesting matches I witnessed: Pete Sampras
v Petr Korda, the first two sets; Mary Pierce
v Ruano Pascual; Richard Krajicek v David Riki;
the Woodies v Knippschild & Tarrango (He's
the hothead who called the umpire corrupt and
was fined £18,000 (his winnings), Hingis
& Vicario v McCarthy & Rubin, and Miss
Martina Hingis play singles and mixed doubles.
Hingis is deceptively brilliant. (Hingis is named
for Navratilova. I‘ve got a hunch she might
live up to the naming.) She makes every stroke
look so easy. And she's flexible and she thinks.
She's...only sixteen? And strolling around the
out-courts, I saw some familiar faces from the
past playing in the over-the-hill draws. Incidentally,
installing a large mirror on court for Mary Pierce
was a generous gesture.
The only way to describe Pete Sampras
is incredible, unbelievable, smashing...awesome.
The man is peerless and nearly invincible now.
I would, however, appreciate a short
pity party on my behalf. The remorse of having
spread $800 in the United Kingdom struck me the
moment 'Tinker Belle' lifted her wheels off English
soil. London, like Paris and all the other great
cities of Europe, is becoming prohibitively expensive
for the hoi polloi like me. But, if you plan from
an informed position you'll get more for your
dollars, like The Grid Inn, where I found delicious
food relatively cheap.
Really, is $1,570 too much to spend
for one week at Wimbledon and one expensive pub-crawl?
Remember, I had paid Virgin $770 for two magic
carpet flights. Not when you consider the improved
facilities for those that queue. And hot water
abounds.
Aren't you glad you asked?
What happens the other fifty weeks
at Wimbledon? Wimbledon never sleeps, although
the grass does. What, after all that abuse, it
needs and deserves rest. As soon as the finals
are history, planning starts for next year's gala.
Perhaps that's why it's such a regal act.
Between March and November there
is always some competition going on involving
professionals, park players, school children and
those who would resemble me. Each year over 600
Members, including Honorary, Temporary, and Juniors
take part in thirty Club matches, which includes
such match diversity as The Lords and Commons
LTA and the British Lawn Tennis Writers' Association.
And Davis Cup is played at Wimbledon, usually
on No 1 Court. No matches are conducted on the
sacred one, Centre Court. Once a year, shortly
after the finals, the Chairman invites friends
to play and socialize, who, like himself, have
worked diligently to make the Championships unforgettable.
(Singles Champions are made Honorary Members,
and they enjoy the same privileges as Members.)
AELTC is most generous with its
facilities, hosting many tournaments: British
Hard Court Championships Tournament, The London
Parks & Clubs LTA Tournaments, and the services
stage their Championships on the grass courts,
the National Veterans Championships are held in
the Aorangi Park section with its fourteen grass
courts, and it goes on and on. Besides the aforementioned,
hardly a dry day goes by that some courts are
occupied with friendly games. Did I write friendly?
You might see Virginia Wade, the 1977 champion,
or Christine Janes, who reached the '69 final,
using a wooden framed racket, and Kitty Godfree,
the 1924 and 1926 Champion, who played on her
90th birthday. It is truly a tennis center. Mrs.
Godfree, you will learn, is the only player to
beat Helen Wills Moody at Wimbledon. Fred Perry
is Britons’ tennis hero and Kitty Godfree
was their heroine. She was made a Club Vice-President
in 1986.
And of course, the Wimbledon Museum
and the Wimbledon Shops are accessible. At the
Museum, you can view a nearly real-life portrait
of Chris Evert, who is truly one of the all time
greats. Between 1972 and 1989, the year she retired,
Chrissie won Wimbledon three times and was runner-up
six times. Unfortunately, Chrissie's career paralleled
Miss Navratilova's, who denied her in five finals.
What a great rivalry it became.
Why was it so great? Besides the
fact that they were magnificent players of their
own style of play, spectators saw the two basic
styles of playing the game, which spawns more
stroke variety...Chrissie traversing the baseline
and Martina stalks the net. Chrissie won the U.S.
title six times, the French Championships seven
times, more than any other woman, and the Australian
twice. During a six year run, she won 125 consecutive
matches on clay. In all, she played 1450 professional
matches losing only 146. And every new player
wanted to develop a two-fisted backhand. Bravo,
Chrissie!
Note! Jimmy Conners, who played
in the same time span as Chrissie, also had a
great deal of influence on players developing
the two-fisted backhand. Did you know they considered
becoming husband and wife once? Man, those two
would produce a few future Wimbledon Champions.
Do they really play croquet? Yes,
the Royal, ancient and lethargic game of croquet
is played within the grounds. Each year a tournament
is staged to decide the Club Champion. Professor
Bernard Neal, I'm happy to report, has won the
Club title twenty-four times in the last twenty-six
years (up to 1989). This fact might suggest that
Members are not as bent and keen on croquet as
they are on lawn tennis and the tournament lacks
talent, or Professor Neal is just 'bloody' sensational.
The latter beams true. The kindly professor has
also won the National Championship. You might
say, "He brandishes a tricky mallet...or
is it a sticky wicket."
Also, an avid bridge circle thrives
in spite of the venom that sometimes drips from
the players' fangs. This knowledge comes more
as an expected than an unexpected. I, having played
the game, realize there's not another game involving
mental ability, albeit of an inert or physical
nature, that is more competitive. I've seen married
couples threaten divorce and opponents nearly
come to blows, as in fisticuffs. It might be likened
to umpiring a John McEnroe match. For these reasons,
I no longer | 
