Bill Simons
The word itself has its own allure, a certain warmth and beauty. Near and far, Wimbledon rings familiar. It’s celebrated like no other word in sports.
Wimbledon is tucked away in a posh corner of London, yet it stretches the mind and stirs the imagination. Like the Masters and the Kentucky Derby, or its crass cousins, the Super Bowl and the World Series, it’s an icon, brand and tradition unto itself. The grass glistens. Two hundred fifty-six dreamers dash from the starting line. But soon shocks will be felt, tears will flow, delights will be savored, injustices will be endured, until, in its twilight, a duke and his duchess will nod in royal approval as two elated souls lift their elegant trophies. Wimbledon always delivers – drama is its coin.
As much as anything, Wimbledon is an international gathering that draws from Japan and Jersey. In bulky tweeds or tight turbans, in formal frocks or flimsy flip-flops, granddaughters of Yorkshire aristocrats join with wide-eyed pilgrims from Singapore, Serbia, Syracuse and Sausalito to descend on SW19.
As much as bullfighting in Spain, Wimbledon reflects a national culture. It’s a feel-good English country fair. Subtle tones are its palette. An array of comforting traditions provides familiar contours: strawberries and cream, white gear, clipped English accents, Kipling’s lofty poetry, stiff propriety. Wimbledon rules have little bend – “Quiet, please.” It’s all rather starchy. “You can’t be serious!” shouted one American we know well. But the Brits celebrate serious.
An athletic cathedral like no other, Centre Court is defined by an almost eerie sporting silence. Here there’s an enclave within an enclave, the fabled Royal Box, a red-carpet world with subtle green cushions and bubbly champagne that shamelessly celebrates the good and the great. Admirals, aristocrats and nervous celebrities grasp the nuances of the moment – sip your tea slowly, nibble your biscuit properly, be pleasant, be proper or be gone.
All the while, a redemptive outlier romps about. A quirky gene is embedded deep within Wimbledon’s DNA. What other sports event has its own hawk? What other tourney has overnight queues that morph into youth celebrations where thousands party and cozy tents emerge? Even Wimbledon’s streakers beam. Henman Hill, St. Mary’s Walk, Pimms and the Tea Room spin an endearing web of embracing rites.
Here is a brave, unapologetic outpost of civility: picnic baskets yes, selfie-sticks not so much. On a distant horizon St. Mary’s spire seems to stand guard. Listen carefully and you detect faint God Save the Queen echoes of a once glorious empire that has, rather rudely, been stripped to its core. Petunias and pomp, cream bonnets and flowing floral dresses, blue uniforms and gold buttons are displayed with unfiltered pride.
“The trouble with Britain,” noted Art Spander, “is that everyone still thinks it’s the ‘90s. The 1890s. They can’t get over the loss of the Empire, much less the loss of a few soccer games, cricket matches or tennis matches.” The renowned cultural critic Jimmy Connors noted, “New Yorkers love it when you spill your guts out. You spill your guts at Wimbledon, and they make you stop and clean it up.”
Will Buckley observed, “There has always been a middling public school element to Wimbledon. The uniform of blue blazers and fawn slacks, the deadening decorum, the air of restraint. A suitable motto would be, ‘With privilege comes the duty not to be seen to be enjoying oneself too much,’ or ‘All things in moderation except moderation itself.'”
It’s no secret that British fist pumps lack any hint of Serenian fury. The polite throng offers incessant but plaintive cries of “C’ mon, Andy” that reveal a deep-rooted fatalism. The timid tones bring to mind Sue Mott’s complaint: “Only Britons interpret the umpire’s opening word ‘Play!’ as a knell of doom…After all, the back view of receding British women with towels around their hunched shoulders is a familiar sight to regular Wimbledon watchers.”
But the nation’s wry, unsparing humor softens the rigidity. One observer noted, “We’re hapless at all sports except bog snorkeling and rowing, where you’re sitting down and go backwards.”
What other player has been so cruelly attacked as “Tiger Tim” Henman, who was said to be “the human equivalent of beige.” Before Henman’s 1998 semifinal against Pete Sampras, a Cockney cabbie told me, “Well, lad, I’ll be serving you breakfast on the moon tomorrow morning if that bloke Henman wins.”
While it’s easy to dismiss the Wimbledon ethos as a stiff, stodgy indulgence, Britain’s humor counterbalances the starch.
The unhinged self-satire is hard to miss, as is an almost ingrown sense and sensibility that you’d expect from some 66 million plucky, umbrella-toting souls who still relish being on an island nation battered by North Sea gales, informed by sage bards and brash barons, a momentous, blood-spattered 1,100-year history and a “Where are my spats?” class system that lingers in drafty castles and mahogany board rooms. Wimbledon is the keeper of the faith, the mother church of tradition, a noble guardian of sporting civility. Yet, quietly, new stadiums appear. Stunning roofs are built, high-tech innovations emerge. Here change is an art form – quiet, constant, seamless.
Ultimately Wimbledon is a proper delight – an enchanting mix of garden beauty, refined intelligence and manners that mute loud voices and insulate against sharp elbows. A mighty sports competition on an odd surface, it invariably delivers athletic grace and a gladiatorial drama that reveals grit and amplifies character.
So, whether you’re people-watching on Henman Hill, strolling on St. Mary’s walk, lingering in the Tea Room or cheering Roger on Centre Court, Wimbledon is an oasis of sensibility that, as Virginia Wade told us, “combines all the energy of a teenager with all the wisdom of an elder.”
