The Championships

Last Saturday dawned sunny with scattered cloud. Good enough for me to venture to Wimbledon. The first leg of the journey was a 30minute train ride from Waterloo to Southfields Station via Wimbledon main station and then a 10minute walk up the road to join ‘The Queue’.

You see, I did not have a ticket, so, I had to do what 10,000 other people did that morning and sit in a field for 3 hours in order to buy one of the day tickets on offer. At about 12:30 I bought my Ground Pass ticket (the tickets to the show courts being sold hours earlier to those hardy enough to camp out overnight) and entered the grounds. £20 is not a great deal to pay for the entertainment on offer. A Ground Pass gives you access to all courts except Centre and Court 1 (although you do have to stand if you want to see Court 2) and is valid all day. It lets you wander around the 17 outside courts and watch whatever match happens to be on.

Next year I must remember to get myself in the lottery for tickets and save on the queuing bit, but I guess first time round it just adds to the experience.

My first half hour in the grounds was spent wandering about before I settled in front of a court with a match about to start. The match was a men’s doubles match between Americans, Bobby Reynold and Rajeev Ram and Daniel Nestor (Canada) and Nenad Zimonjic (Serbia). I was only going to watch the first set and move on, but 4 sets and some strawberries and cream later, I got up having seen the American pair beaten despite a valiant 3rd set fight back. Having lingered at the doubles I only saw the last set of Arnaud Clement’s match against Austrian Jurgen Melzer on court 18. The match was pretty much over by then with Clement winning in 4 sets after dropping the first.

There is a distinct elegance at Wimbledon. The umpires and lines-people are attired in blue blazers and cream trousers, the roses are in bloom and the crowds wanders sedately eating strawberries and cream or sipping Pimms. No one is in a hurry, there is no running (except on the courts) no loud voices, no screaming children. Even the drunken Australians are unusually reserved and quiet in their inebriation. As you walk between the courts all you hear the hollow thud of racquet on ball, the grunts of the Eastern European, women players and the polite applause (and occasional cheer) from the spectators. It's all very proper, just as it should be.