Wimbledon - anybody for tennis?

 Wimbledon- anybody for tennis?

We all know about Wimbledon's sporting significance and most of us believe it to be one of the most satisfying and rewarding summer spectacles of them all. Apart from the first day of a Lord's cricket Test Match or the Henley Regatta, it is still up there with the best. In many ways Wimbledon is quintessentially English, as synonymous with Middle England and the capital city of London as afternoon tea with scones, jam and cream, an invigorating walk in the Lake District and then a swift half of warm beer next to a thatched cottage.

We've always done Wimbledon with a very British sense of style and impeccable sense of occasion.  We dress up in all our finery or simply casually with loose, possibly patriotic T- shirts, natty Panama hats, with hampers crammed full of middle class pate, smoked salmon, a tupperware box of cheese and pickle sandwiches, a couple of bottles of Pimms and of course the obligatory strawberries and cream, punnets of them. Oh, and don't forget the essential bottles of water in case the sweltering heat gets to us. We nod respectfully as the sets and games unfold, clap thunderously when the rallies are at their most mesmerising and then gasp with amazement when tie breaks look as though they could be drawn out until midnight.

So it is that Wimbledon is woven into the fabric of England's heritage. It always makes it in time for the last week in June and this year at the beginning of July so if you're ready we'll begin on Monday again. It's that hardy perennial that always looks pretty. You'd hardly expect anything else. The ivy clad walls outside the grounds of Wimbledon are being pruned to perfection, multitudes of flower boxes will decorate most of the main courts while on the outer courts there will be a constant buzz and hum. Here the young British hopefuls will limber up optimistically and then realistically when they discover they may have to wait for a while before approaching anything remotely resembling world class and world beating form.

In recent years Britain has finally found in its ranks one of the most precocious talents it had ever seen. He came from the sleepy Scottish town of Dunblane and his name was Andy Murray. We didn't expect a great deal of Murray at the time because we knew the last time a Brit had won at Wimbledon, some of the flappers had just conquered the dance floor with their twinkle toed Charleston and the social classes had accepted Fred Perry as one of the finest tennis players any of them had ever seen. But it had been roughly 75 years since Britain had unearthed its very own lustrous gem. And finally their patience had been rewarded.

Murray has reeled off two men's singles titles at SW19 and even now it seems as if we might have been imagining it. The Brits have always either failed miserably at Wimbledon or just surrendered when they were just agonisingly close to victory. The sight of Tim Henman bowing out in a semi final anti climax against Goran Ivanisevic on Centre Court must be one of the most harrowing sights ever known to any Wimbledon enthusiast. It was the Wimbledon where rain stopped play and with Henman poised to win, the umbrellas went up and the following day, Henman trooped disconsolately off Centre Court like a man who had been deprived of all his important belongings. 

It is now 51 years ago since another Englishman and proud Yorkshireman Roger Taylor almost reached a Wimbledon Final but then stumbled at the final hurdle. And therein lies the inherent frustration that has often come between a British tennis player and a Wimbledon final. True Virginia Wade did become the first English woman to win at SW19 in the late and much loved Queen's Silver Jubilee in 1977. A Dutch player by the name of Betty Stove was beaten on that gold tinted day for British tennis by Wade, the first English lady to curtsey before royalty wearing a mauve cardigan and then accepting her winning trophy.

But here we are once again and the towering presence of one Novak Djokovic looms ominously over Wimbledon as if he'd always been there and never left the building. This could be his eighth Wimbledon men's singles Final title and at this rate he could be in line for a knighthood or some very fitting accolade to acknowledge his remarkable achievements in the game. We may never see the like of Djokovic ever again but then we must have said exactly the same when Bjorn Borg, Jimmy Connors and John McEnroe were at the height of their careers.

When Borg chalked up five Wimbledon men singles titles there was probably an understandable assumption that nobody would ever emulate such a stunning feat. We can still the Swede blowing gently on his racket and fingers, composing himself almost constantly and twiddling his racket for good measure at least five or six times but none of us seemed to mind at all.

Then there was Jimmy Connors, the American gunslinger, brave, heroic, determined, stubborn at times, perhaps unnecessarily childish and petulant when he couldn't get his own way. Connors proceeded to go through that familiar ritual. He would yell at the top of his voice, growl and snap just to make sure that everybody could hear him and then severely reprimand himself  for not maintaining his absurdly high standards. There were the shouts, the noisy bellowing noises, the fruity language and the kind of behaviour reminiscent of a toddler at their second birthday party.

Then there was John McEnroe. Now if McEnroe had still been around today there is a real possibility that he wouldn't have lasted five minutes within the hallowed corridors of SW19. McEnroe was the ultimate revolutionary, a man who loved an argument, an insurrectionist of the worst kind, always kicking off, sounding off, blowing his top, insulting umpires, testing the emotional reflexes of everybody, rubbing everybody up the wrong way. Umpires were just a convenient excuse for McEnroe to let off steam, a rebellious non conformist who refused to listen to all and sundry. He was quarrelsome and troublesome,  spluttering his fury at an umpire who hadn't seen the chalk on a Wimbledon tramline.

So it is that we reach the present day generation of Wimbledon wonderkids, experienced veterans and the ones with massive potential. In the age of Rafa Nadal,  Djokovic and the latest big hitters Wimbledon will continue to hold us in thrall for perhaps for ever. The crowds will always converge on Wimbledon, queuing for ages outside, flasks of coffee or tea at the ready. The manners, etiquette and protocol will always follow the tournament wherever it happens to go. Wimbledon's quirky mannerisms and theatrical histrionics will never desert it because that's the reason they keep coming back year after year.

For some of us Wimbledon will always be remembered for the lengthening shadows that will fall over Centre Court at roughly 5pm in the afternoon when the punters were at their most relaxed and those who were taking their seat after work were always ready to cheer themselves hoarse. Then in the twilight of the evening and the onset of darkness all you could hear was the distinctive clatter of the old wooden racket. Suddenly a red light would appear on the electronic scoreboard and some of us were just looking forward to the nine o'clock news without worrying about the welfare of Bjorn Borg. 

So the nets will be tightened, the umpires chair adjusted accordingly, the lawn mower rollers heaved back to their right and proper place. The tramlines will look immaculate, the grass shimmering in the summer heat and the players will look at their fittest. Wimbledon has spanned all the decades seamlessly without wondering why it appeals to so many millions around the world, why it holds that enchanting fascination to those who just love tennis. Game, Set and Match, Wimbledon. You're guaranteed five star entertainment. Enjoy everybody.