The future, at last, is now. A grand, old (slow to move) sport had entered a brave new world as authorities at last closed Wimbledon’s highly touted gateway to God, their new roof.
Yes, Centre Court still has its same semi-sacred gras
s. The same proud guards are still in their spiffy unies, standing at proud attention. And the mighty among us still dwell in the best seats in the sport – the Royal Box.
But, make no mistake about it, the earth has been jarred off it’s axis. The Taj Mahal has been painted blue. The pyramids are square and that Leaning Tower is now straight. Everything had shifted!
The soft ever-changing light of the place now has an almost garish blare. The usual pre-match hum, now is loud and imposing – almost a clatter. English fans –religously proper, continually subdued – are now all abuzz. Souvenir photos – “Look at me, I was there” – were being snapped with a giddy ferocity.
For now the heavens were closed, a spectacular (Frank Lloyd Wright would be proud) architectural structure was in place, sealing off the summer dusk. The sense of enclosure was unmistakable, simply overwhelming. For better or worse, man again had conquered nature.
Now hallowed Centre Court was either more wondrous than ever or, if you prefer, just like any other arena: let’s book a rock concert or an NBA game.
White and bright, with nine rows of pipe, thin fabric and lights (hidden and apparent), the translucent roof had it’s own stunning beauty, a museum-worthy art installation atop one of the grand arenas in this world: old-world Rembrant say howdy to modern Picasso.
But aesthetically, the blend didn’t quite mesh.
Still, unto itself, you could easily argue that the new ceiling was the best roof in all of sports. Sure, it took four lengthy years from inception to completion. And than, this week, shockingly clear skies stalled it’s curious debut. King Roger or Mighty Murray should have been there. Likewise, Britain’s Shakespearian sense of pomp, place and theatre seemed to have vanished. Ultimately, they didn’t even play a match under the roof. You see, the roof had been closed for the first time so that the Francisco Gonzalez vs. J.C. Ferrero contest on Court 1 could be switched to Centre. But the supposed incoming showers never arrived. The roof’s enclosure proved to be a tease, quite the false alarm.
Still, the move touched off heated debate. The roof is great, said some: long overdue. Now we will get our tennis. No more frustrating rain delays, no more financial rip-offs as pricey tickets go to waste.
But no way, shrieked others. Gone now, the traditionalists passionately argued, is the (in touch with nature) mystique of this singular site. Gone is that singular dance with the dusk which just last year gave us the best match our sport has seen when Rafa and Roger bravely battled into darknes. And gone is the basic competitive imperative of this event, on an island nation long-battered by North Sea storms; gone is the underlying question of which competitor can navigate those maddening – “play is suspended” – delays that unnerve all but the mighty.
But the roof’s advocates volley back that the oceanic tide of modernity cannot, should not be denied, especially here at this still-quirky-after-all-these years mecca, which more than any sports event, delights at absorbing waves of change without capsizing that mightiest of ships – tradition.
