By Bill Simons
Don’t you dare call it a sports cafeteria!
It is a gathering spot like no other, a hang out you can only imagine, and it offers the best tennis view this side of Monte Carlo.
It’s Wimbledon’s formerly-named “Competitor’s Restaurant” or, to you and me, it’s simply “The Tea Room.” It’s an enclave that buzzes with excitement, the celebrated place where Wimbledon gathers.
After all, there’s Roger Federer, right in the middle of it all, dreamy hair, calm demeanor, laid back and quietly holding court. This is a man who commands, so comfortable in his skin.
Three tables away from our game’s Superman is the game’s super mom, Oracene Williams, who now knows well the boulangeries of Wimbledon village and the finer hangouts in tennis. Who else has sat through so much tennis: Venus, Serena, singles, doubles, rain delays, triumphs and crises? For decades, this (weary long-ago) lady has been a witness like no other.
But the Tea Room is not about a single star or parent. It’s about the mindset of the whole game: family and fraternity, a moveable feast. Hordes hover on a dreary, drizzly day, or on a sunny afternoon, or at dusk, when England’s clouds go pink. From a distant corner of the fourth floor tea room, there is a lofty and singular tennis view. You gaze out at the magical horizon and all of tennis seems to be at your feet.
Here, you can spot the stately ivy of Centre Court and a whopping 12 courts (and you can follow play on ten of them.)
Below is the glorious St. Mary’s promenade, tennis’ Champs Elysees. Then the eye zeroes in on the exclusive members’ enclosure, where fine ladies and gentlemen merrily munch under lavender blooms. Life is good.
Here there are minor wonders: the elegant dining balcony outside the Royal Box, or the “how English can you get?” St. Mary’s Church up the leafy hill. On a quiet afternoon, early in the tournament, one sees Venus Williams debating to herself whether to indulge and buy a biscuit bar. A comforting Slovakian pinches her grand-daughter’s tender cheeks. Grandmothers dote, grandmothers rule.
Everywhere, there are women in trim athletic suits—young, muscular, and bursting with ambition. The tennis world is their oyster.
Of course, the Tea Room comes into its own when Wimbledon is socked in by a rain. The soggier the weather, the more lively the place.
By the bustling coffee bar, one hears accents of every tone and cadence: lilting Italian, speedy Spanish, Chinese, and, of course, a full range of British dialects, from the oh-so-refined King’s English to a Cockney accent or two.
For people watchers, this is nothing if not a dandy candy shop. There’s Roger’s agent and Raonic‘s publicist. Sania Mirza‘s mom (or is it her aunt?) sports a gorgeous sari. By the entrance, John Isner towers above all. Laughs abound and players talk of storied card games.
All the while, below on Court 3, brave fans in an array of rain gear huddle bravely in hopes the persistent clouds will lift and Genie Bouchard and Andrea Petkovic will resume their battle. And you wonder: Does any culture on this planet wait and endure like the English? Never mind foreboding North Sea squalls, the threat of invasion, the loss of an Empire—these folks do crises with a certain panache, self-punishment is a curious pleasure.
On this day, the ear catches assorted conversational fragments about a trendy shop in town, sticky residency requirements, upcoming schedules, coveted badges, and soliloquies on the smallness of the tennis world.
“Are you playing today?” asks one tall Columbian woman.
“No,” comes a response. “Just practicing.”
Here is the perfect place to practice your world geography. Indian baby boys, Dutch girls in pigtails, gritty guys in dreads, Bulgarians and Japanese—the internationalism of this game is a glory to behold, and the sheer variety of tennis folks astounds. Take your pick: Sharapova‘s agent; American teaching pros; doubles veterans; a stately London Times reporter in a blazer and tie; assorted physios, wives, and an ATP official or two.
Here is a place of wonder. A haven for insiders and heaven for people watchers. They actually might not serve that much tea in this tea room, but this place amazes and fills your fantasies, to a tee.
CARILLO, SAVIANO. AND THE GIFT OF MIDDLE SUNDAY: Middle Sunday is a gift.
Instead of the usual nonstop two-week grind of a Grand Slam tournament, Wimbledon gives you a reward: a break.
Over the 30 years I’ve been coming here, I’ve gone out on all sorts of Middle Sunday adventures: a blissful barge trip down the Thames; a visit to an ancient cottage near Stonehenge; trips to old churches with uplifting choirs; theatre outings to new plays with convoluted twists.
Today, “middle Sunday” would prove an old axiom of travel: Sometimes you have to travel 8,000 miles just to meet a friend or find out a simple fact.
So, I wake up early to venture out to Salisbury and an afternoon country luncheon with my beloved cousins, heading out to walk through the empty, serenely quiet streets of Wimbledon village to catch my 8:18 A.M. train.
Suddenly, when I round one corner of the charming enclave—BOOM—there’s Nick and Mary. That would be Nick Saviano, Genie Bouchard‘s longtime mentor—perhaps now the hottest coach in the game—and Mary Carillo, who has long been the hottest gal in tennis broadcasting.
Wow, what a “Of all the gin joints in the world” kind of moment.
Saviano immediately begins to joke with me, praising me to the rafters, as if I was the best writer since Shakespeare.
Not to be outdone, I interrupt to say, “Okay, okay—the next issue of Inside Tennis will feature a cover story on the magic of Saviano’s coaching.”
Carillo, perhaps the best talker in the game, then jumps in and takes over. She kids about being in the presence of greatness, adding that it’s not just because of their heritage. (Both she and Nick are Italian.) She then notes that there are so many great Italian coaches, like Vince Lombardi, Jim Valvano, Rick Pitino, Lou Carnesecca and, of course, Nick Bollettieri and then with glee (and one of her great cackles) tells the story about her fellow Italian-American, the baseball manager Tommy Lasorda, who—just to show his team that he had their back—would rush out onto the field to the umpire after a controversial call and wildly gesture his arms, start to yell, and feverishly point his finger—signaling to his team that he was with them—all the while actually telling the umpire, ‘That was the greatest call I’ve seen. You’re the best ump ever. Please, can’t I take you out for a beer after the game?”
But the game between the three of us is soon over. Carillo is heading off to do TV at Wimbledon, and Saviano is heading off to a mass in the same church where he was married in 31 years ago. As Nick and I walk for just a couple of blocks, I can’t resist asking him about Bouchard. “She’s a champion who wants it and works hard,” he says.
“She’s been with you since she was 12?” I ask.
“Yeah,” Nick replies.
“Could you tell then she was going to be great?”
“You know, I had a whole group: Mallory Burdette, Sloane Stephens, Lauren Davis, Monica Puig, and Laura Robson. In fact, it was Robson who insisted Bouchard come to me in the first place.” And with that, Saviano is off to Wimbledon’s local Catholic church, and I am off to Salisbury’s Anglican Cathedral.
I shake my head and again think to myself, “Sometimes you have to travel 5,353 miles just to find out the facts.”
WIMBLEDON PANTY RAID? “I think it’s weird checking out underwear. Don’t you think? I think it’s very weird to check under my skirt if I’m wearing white underwear,” said Barbora Zahlavova Strycova, after defeating Li Na in the third round. Caroline Wozniacki opined that any check on underwear is “pretty creepy.”
MORE GERMAN POLITICAL POWER: Many Europeans assert that Germans now rule politics on the continent. Broadcaster Andrew Castle said the popular and wise German Andrea Petkovic will “be running the tour some day.”
MORE GERMAN COMMENTARY: The curious fact that the German Jurgen Klinsmann is coaching America’s soccer team brings to mind the fact that the controversial tennis legend Bill Tilden was once the infamous coach of Germany’s Davis Cup team in the ’30s. When Tilden openly cheered for Baron Gottfried von Cramm in his famous Davis Cup match at Wimbledon against American Don Budge, the late iconic American entertainment figure Ed Sullivan, who was in the Wimbledon stands, became enraged. BTW: Sir Bobby Charlton, the hero of England’s epic 1966 World Cup win over Germany, was in the Royal Box on Saturday.
RICHARD AND ORACENE WILLIAMS’ BIG ERROR: Sports Illustrated’s Jon Wertheim noted, “The premeditated act of conceiving two daughters with the express purpose of making them tennis stars? That worked out pretty well. So did the plan to raise them to be strong and independent and brimming with confidence. But Richard and Oracene Williams didn’t get everything right. For one thing, they mixed up their daughters’ names.
Serena should have been the one with the planetary appellation. She has her own force field. She has a unique gravitational pull. Often, she eclipses. Plenty of bodies revolve around her.
Venus, on the hand, could scarcely be more serene.”
NOT A FAN OF MIXED DOUBLES (OR THE WORLD CUP): In a recent essay, columnist Ann Coulter claimed, “Any growing interest in soccer can only be a sign of the nation’s moral decay.” She added, “No serious sport is co-ed, even at the kindergarten level.”
OVERHEARD IN THE PRESS ROOM: “For years, I thought a hash tag was one of those labels I would put on my drugs.”
HEADLINES:
WOMEN OBJECT TO KNICKER CHECKS
GIRLS OUTRAGE AT WHITE-ONLY WIMBLE-BUMS
SUN IS SETTING ON VENUS
VENUS BELIEVES HER TIME IS NOT OVA
MURRAY WASTES NO TIME IN POWERING PAST BAUTISTA THE BANANA SKIN
DIMITROV STEPS OUT OF MARIA’S SHADOW
ANGRY BERD CRASHES
HEWITT RAGES AGAINST THE DYING OF THE LIGHT
LI NA RUES EASTBOURNE SNUB
TSONGA THE SONG AND DANCE MAN EARNS CHANCE TO BE AVENGER
DJOKOVIC INSISTS SLIP WILL NOT LEAD TO FALL FROM GRACE
DJOKOVIC IS OVER HIS PAIN IN THE GRASS
SUPER NOVAK IS NO FALL GUY
RAONIC ON THE BRINK OF BEING THE NEXT BIG THING
KYRGIOS THE WHIZ KID OF OZ HAS NO FEAR
CURIOUS QUESTION: To Rafa Nadal, after he won another match in which he dropped the first set: “Is there anything about the first set play that is difficult for you?”
KUKUSHKIN WAS SNAKEBIT: As Rafa ruthlessly brought down Mikhail Kukushkin, broadcaster David Mercer said, “Nadal’s a bit like a python. When he’s got you, he squeezes and squeezes.”
