Every day during Wimbledon, after I traipse down Church Road, I walk into the Wimbledon press room and first devour the order of play and then check out the list of just who is (and who is not) sitting in that most elite of spectator areas in the sporting world — the Royal Box. Invariably, there are ample Dukes and Duchesses (plus a Bjorn or Billie Jean or two). But the leading Royal of them all has long been conspicuous by her perplexing absence.
Never mind that Queen Elizabeth‘s home is a scant 12 miles away. Never mind that Henmania may be reaching feverish proportions or that Murraymania may be raging unchecked. Never mind that Raj Federer may be whipping up delicious athletic recipes or that Wimbledon itself emanates nuanced truths gained by generations and now boasts a minor techno wonder, its moveable roof, which tames every conceit the North Sea might throw its way. Never mind that wide-eyed combatants, celebrated in Kazakhstan or Kalamazoo, make pilgrimages here, dreaming of triumph on these lawns.
For all this has been but an after thought for the most powerful woman in the world (who’s not named Oprah). For alas England’s most regal royal is far more into hounds and horses than serves and volleys.
This sad reality should hardly faze me. But it does. After all, from Henry VIII in 1528 to Russian Czar Nicholas to the last Emperor of China (who Hollywood told us was playing mixed doubles when, on break point, he lost his empire) to Sweden’s King Gustav V (who’s in the tennis Hall of Fame) there’s been a storied connection between royalty, rulers and our rather elite sport.
Just this spring, Spain’s Queen Sophia handed King Rafa his trophy in Madrid – kiss, kiss. And Monaco’s Prince Albert has long been a regular in Monte Carlo. Finally, when Justine Henin reached the Wimbledon final, sports writer and military analyst Stan Hey noted that while Henin was playing the Wimbledon final, Belgium’s Prime Minister, Prince, Princess, Deputy Prime Minister and Ambassador to Britain were all watching from the Royal Box. So it would be a good day for invading this small country, if you have that in mind.
The Queen did show up for the Wimbledon centenary back in ’77 when Virginia Wade — seemingly on royal cue — prevailed. But ever since – for 33 cruel years – it’s been nothing but an unmistakable royal snub. Never mind that since the swift demise of Britain’s once grand empire, Wimbledon has been an unannounced surrogate, the Kingdom’s prime showcase to a skeptical (“you’ve had your day in the sun, now what?”) world.
Still, when the traditional Wimbledon fortnight unfolded, the world’s mightiest monarch is far more concerned about whether her Labs and Corgis would sit and heel, rather than whether Novak Djokovic‘s foot would toughen and heal to allow him to get through his Wimby semi.
Despite her royal absence, Wimbledon has long been a serious celeb magnet attracting Kings and Clinton, Carson, Streisand, Nicholson and a string of James Bonds. Princess Di loved the place. The Duchess of Kent became a beloved figure. But Elizabeth preferred the Ascot races and recently even made a pilgrimage to the Kentucky Derby, which is 4,000 miles from London. Again, I should just shrug it off. But, you see, I’ve got a curious thing for the UK.
It began long before I was born, when my Canadian stepmother headed off into the blitz of London to volunteer for the war effort. Then, in ’53, she and my dad sailed to London for the coronation of Elizabeth. My first trip to England was in ’66, just as the country scored its greatest athletic triumph ever — its World Cup win over the dreaded German side. And then there were decades of magical mid-Wimbledon adventures. You see, I’m blessed to have wonderful London cousins, who every year since I began covering Wimbledon in the early ’80s have whisked me off on Wimbledon’s middle Sunday (when, God bless, tennis takes a rest) for one delightful outing after another. We’d take off to a 16th century family cottage south of Stonehenge, “barge” on the Thames, have a garden gathering in Kent with the family of film stars, check out a neighborhood tennis tournament or go to services at London’s oldest church where ethereal sounds lift the spirit.
Beyond this, I actually got to cover the only pro tennis event ever held on the court at Buckingham palace, a fundraising exhibition with McEnroe and Borg which drew Euro glitterati and offered me the singular opportunity to interview Prince Andrew and his former wife, Fergie, the Duchess of York.
So it’s hardly a mystery why I love jolly ol’ England, or why I couldn’t help wonder why Elizabeth, 84, so consistently passed on the greatest sporting event in her realm.
Could it have anything whatsoever to do with the dreaded Di, the late Wimbledon-loving Princess who delighted in hitting with Steffi Graf and used her Prince racket to fend off the paparazzi?
I wondered whether the harsh anti-monarchists who railed against the monarchy were onto anything when they connected the dots between tennis, the upper class and royalty?
For instance, The Daily Mirror’s Brian Reade wrote unsparingly: “Tennis is a shambolic, elitist embarrassment, based around clubs which are bastions of conservatism for paunchy snobs who want to keep it that way. They are incestuous social havens…[The Wimbledon] fortnight is simply a jolly for anoraks in Union Jack decked chairs…A cringefest of blitz-like stoicism whenever the covers are dragged out, hideously overpriced strawberries, and curtsies to royal parasites whose escorted motorcades stop London traffic en route from palaces they pay 70 pounds a week to live in…It’s about middle England grandmas…creaming themselves over…speculation about whether the Queen will pull a publicity stunt by turning up…But mostly it is about rampant snobbery…It’s all about proud tradition, the same proud tradition that has stopped [Britain from] producing a men’s champion since ’36.”
Or maybe it’s just about the Queen herself. A shy, reserved private lady of tradition, the 84-year-old clearly was shaped by an earlier era. Her critics argue she has been safely tucked away by an affluent but smothering court life crowded with protective handlers who encase her in a domain of grand isolation, where protocol isn’t everything, it’s the only thing.
But her backers bristle at such condemnation. After all, as one of my more cynical British colleagues told me, “for damn-near 60 years she’s been in charge, she has seen governments and Prime Ministers come and go and has had weekly briefings with all of them. Most outgoing PMs say the Queen was one of their best and most trusted advisors because she has seen it all before. Also, as a good country and horse woman, she may be posh, but she does know and understand the basics of life, death and reproduction.”
Well said. Still, the woman has on occasion been in the wrong place at the wrong time. When her beloved father died in ’52, she was off some 4,200 miles away in a tree house in Kenya. But no matter, she flew right back and soon comforted a grieving nation: a pretty princess, youthful and brave, soldiering on despite her grief.
Then when Di suddenly died in Paris, the critics found a target for their upset. Elizabeth, they claimed, was isolated and tone deaf, distant and frozen emotionally at Balmoral, her 40,000 acre Scottish retreat. She just went to church and then off deer stalking, they complained. Where was the sorrow the masses craved, the sense of loss? Where were the comforting gestures or heartfelt remembrances?
Listen, replied her backers, protocol informed the Royals that Di was no longer a Royal Highness and she wanted the whole thing to be a private matter. And, of course, the Queen’s first concern was for her two grandkids, who had just lost their mum.
Still, the headlines pleaded: “Show Us There Is a Heart in The House of Windsor” Eventually, Elizabeth (with the help of Tony Blair) got it and came to London where she poignantly mixed with the mourners and tried to heal her people’s considerable wounds.
Not coincidently, she would later take part in celebratory rock concerts and even in our small little realm of tennis. Long gone were the condescending judgments (“Oh, I didn’t know tennis girls were so pretty.”) Instead, last year she opened the Lawn Tennis Association’s National Training Centre and sent Scot Andy Murray “a nice letter” after he won the Queen’s title.
Ultimately, it’s easy (particularly for us clueless Americans) to dismiss Britain’s pricey monarchy (with its annual price tag of about $30-40 million) as little more than a feel-good but antiquated institution.
Stiff and unfeeling — full of puffy pomp and stuffy closets crowded with fancy uniforms and official seals proclaiming inflated titles, it’s easy to reject the Royals for being distant from the everyday soul-sweat and hardscrabble heartaches the masses endure.
But truth be told, the Royals don’t do that bad. Time and again — whether confronting war or peace, death or divorce, scandal or skullduggery — Europe’s oldest unbroken monarchy manages to come through, making its not always graceful, mid-course corrections to save the day.
So this Wimbledon — on June 24 — just after I sashay into the Wimbledon press room and reflect on Thursday’s order of play, I do believe I will delight in seeing our planet’s ultimate Royal being listed (if that’s possible) as a guest in her own Royal Box. And, if all goes according to plan, she should see Andy Murray, as play starts at 1 p.m.
It should be a sublime day shaped by gentle announcements, by-the-book etiquette, prim bows and maybe – just maybe – a very loud and ignoble grunt or two, a gritty tumble and one, just one, authentic implosion.
And yes, if the crowd stirs up a wave that circles centre court, my bet is that Her Majesty will join right in with some grace and a curious royal smile.
