June 22 on a Virgin Atlantic Flight Above the Atlantic: The standing Wimbledon joke, which is a play on an old Carneige Hall quip, goes something like this: a Wimbledon Bobby, tall and imposing, stands guard at the exit of the Southfields tube station as hour after hour thousands of tennis enthusiasts emerge. All day fans ask the same tedious question: “how do I get to Wimbledon?” And all day the unblinking Bobby simply replies – “practice.”
In tennis there is nothing quite like the run up to a Grand Slam. There are only four such events each year and they inevitably produce an almost giddy, anticipatory glee that fills the heart of true fans, hungry-for-drama. Wow, Christmas is a coming.
Call it a mix of joy, wonder, heritage and curiosity.
Of course, as they say, getting there is half the fun. While going to the Aussie Open is quite the chore (and broadcaster Craig Gabriel rather bluntly cautioned that it’s not so wonderful an idea to sit next to chat-meister Brad Gilbert on a trans-Pacific flight). But once one is in Melbourne, it’s just a leisurely stroll or short tram ride to the Aussie Open action.
It’s easy enough to take the rather stylish Paris metro that smoothly rolls out to the French Open (unless it’s derailed by one of those bothersome little strikes). But, to actually get to the tennis you have to pass through a testy gauntlet. The toughest block in tennis stretches for nearly one-third mile. Never mind that you are in a park-like setting on the edge of one of the world’s most beloved cities, your path is crowded with young, aggressive, in-your-face scalpers who bring a bizarre audacity and a bazaar sensibility.Here ticket negotiations can be rather animated affairs that make used car haggles seem benign.
In contrast to the French, the U.S. Open offers a myriad of entry ways from the nearby metropolis and its unending suburbs. The most celebrated passage is via the Subway 7. Infamously bashed as an imposing, rather weird oddity or celebrated as an only-in-America melting pot filled with an expansive humanity, the subway is a gritty adventure packed with curious ‘New Yawkers’ who deliver sizzle ‘n spice, with the works.
The approach to Wimbledon has the tone of a pilgrimage, as stylish citizens of the realm descend en masse, walking down gentle slopes to that tennis promised land they call the All-England Club. Proper gentleman dressed in proper tweeds or handsome ladies decked out in quaint floral frocks, come from stylish Mayfair or distant Wales, Kent or Oxford, clutching their umbrellas, toting their kids and modest picnic baskets. A skip in their step, almost eager to obey a litany of “do this, don’t do that” instructions provided by a cadre of stiff volunteers called “Honorary Stewards,” they traipse the mile from the Southfields tube station or come down the hill from Wimbledon village; a jolly journey informed by a certain hush – that hush of English propriety, that hush of adoration.
The build up to Wimbledon is the shortest of the Slams. It’s been just two weeks since Raj Roger – at last ‘Rafa-free’ – slid his way to the French title to assure himself lofty ledge in the tennis pantheon. Now, with his nemesis on the sidelines nursing his knees, Wimbledon (like the French once Nadal vanished) seems like it’s Fed’s to lose. True, Scott Andy Murray could give Britain the title that ‘Tiger Tim’ Henman could never deliver. And Yankee big-banger, Andy Roddick, knows he has an opening to again reach the final where anything can happen. All-the-while tennis asks, “are Rafa’s knees sturdy enough to carry him through years of pounding battle or is he doomed to a way too brief career: think Maureen Connolly, Bjorn Borg, Tracy Austin, Justine Henin or Martina Hingis.
Who knows?
What we do know is that the Williams sisters again remain the most formidable gals to beat; that former champ Maria Sharapova and a small army of “ova-the-top” Euros – silent or shrieking – will storm the oh-so-slightly aging bastions of Venus and Serena’s imposing games. And we realize that it is more than doubtful that we will be deemed worthy of another magical match like last years “Twilight Zone” final-for-the-ages.
Still, Wimbledon shall remain. Grand and green, a feel-good English faire whose Centre Court will be keenly guarded by a snazzy new translucent roof that in just seven minutes will enclose the most sacred turf in God’s good tennis universe.
