-Mrs Santa, TW Guest Contributor
I spent 3 days sulking in London and pretending to do touristy things before my new best friend Gavin magically produced center court tickets for the men’s quarters and women’s semis. Gavin apparently had to do the sort of nasty degrading things that a nice well brought up Irish boy should never have to even think about to procure the lovely tickets. Gavin rules the world despite knowing nothing about tennis. His approach was to clap anytime he saw a hot woman which led to an hour and half of constant clapping during the Dementieva semis. He has a wrist injury now.
Wimbledon is tiny especially when compared to the USTABJKTC. I think it might even be smaller than Miami. It feels cozy but also like an elaborate set piece. The world’s greatest tennis tournament is right next door to someone’s yard. You walk past drive ways and I presume during normal times of the year people barbecuing (do Brits barbecue?) and cussing out their kids to get to the grounds. It’s a bit surreal. I took the tube to Southfields station which was adorned with copious Borg related propaganda sponsored by some enormous and clearly misguided bank. There was a Nike store at Southfields square with posters of Nadal and Serena in all white (very smart) and an Adidas store right across the street with posters of Nole and Ivanovic in random multicolored outfits. The attendants at the Adidas shop must all be newly unemployed now. Safin’s face had also been slapped on a nearby bus shelter. On Saturday a completely mad man with long white hair and nothing else on except a loin clothesque white sheet was standing in the square yelling something about heathens. Extended exposure to Safin’s poster must have driven him insane.
The Wimby grounds are full of lovely British people in truly hideous uniforms to help you when you get lost, which if you are me is quite often. A nice security guard at the gate spent a considerable amount of time rummaging through my purse before gravely declaring “I see you have 2 tube maps in your purse love.” Cue me with a WTF dude expression. “I’m sorry I didn’t mean to scare you but I’m completely lost and have no idea how to get back to North London. Can I please have this? I normally wouldn’t but I really need a tube map.” Poor sartorially challenged lost security guard.
Mine eyes have seen the glory of the cardiganned ex-lord.
I don’t remember anything of the first 3 or 4 games of Federer Ancic because I was sitting in my chair smiling deliriously and trying very hard not to start yelling “I’m at Wimbledon Center Court! I’m at Wimbledon Center Court watching Roger Federer!” The match was a novelty. In person the grass doesn’t seem slow although I have no previous benchmarks to adequately judge this. Both players were good enough servers that a large chunk of the points were over quickly. Mario though cannot handle slice which was a disaster for him because Federer on grass is all serve and slice. Tim Henman apparently saw god during this match based on his BBC commentary. Me too Tim. Me too.
Next up was the much anticipated Nadal Murray beat down which I mentioned before. Nadal was a bit scary which I suppose we all know now. There was nowhere Murray could go in that match. I would like to thank Parera for finally proving that serve and volley as a primary tactic is dead. Murray began clutching his lower back towards the end of the match which didn’t make much sense to me till Pete later noted that grass court tennis requires a different kind of athleticism; you basically have to be a contortionist. You are constantly bending, twisting and surprisingly often slipping and ending flat on your booty. I owe Murray an apology. I just thought he was just being a melodramatic baby.
Watching all the bad bounces live was a bit bizarre. The strange swings at air were comical. It was very windy throughout which I suppose didn’t help. The Nadal match had more weird bounces than all the rest combined.
The Williamses
All the women’s matches I watched involved at least one Williams. This is some people’s definition of a nightmare. Those people are minions of ctulthu.
Venus moves so fluidly on grass. Her serve was also working beautifully which leads me to ask WTF? I don’t remember seeing the exciting string of DFs she usually produces at very random times. As for Dementieva, Tamira Paszek has made me look at her serve in a whole new light. It is horrible but it can start a point which makes it about 75% better than young Miss Paszek. I liked this match because there was a lot more tennis than all the other matches. Both Venus and Elena have such great defense that they can sustain some great rallies even on grass. Dementieva squeals a lot. The aforementioned Gavin was deeply offended that Elena is dating a glorified ice skater who lives in a place named after wildlife instead of him. Gavin as you can tell suffers from acute bouts of delusion.
The Serena Jie Zheng match resembled Fed Ancic. Serena’s service games were over in a couple of minutes and then the real tennis started on Zheng Jie’s serve. I can’t say enough good things about Zheng’s backhand. She was however overmatched. She started shaking her wrists after every few points as the match wore on which is never a good sign.
The final was divine except for the result given that I’m a Serena apologist. Serena started out so strong that I was briefly lulled into pitying Venus. Of course a few minutes later Serena’s timing went off and she started her weird self lecturing while Venus serenely went about her business. It’s unusual for Serena to be losing concentration during big points. That odd squeal before the point was even over which led to her losing the point and getting broken was a head scratcher. The match was one of their best given that I have never seen the miraculous three-setter they decided to produce in Bangalore of all places. It was tense and played at a level that neither of the semis could match. I can imagine Venus sometime in 2015 scheduling a summer trip to London with her kids and in between educational sight seeing trips asking for a wildcard and winning her gazillionth Wimbledon. I hope she’ll celebrate that a lot more than she did this one.
The only thing missing from my Wimbizzle escapade was Frankie Dancevic and his Shirley Temple curls cavorting prettily in the grass. That and not scheduling my flight during the GREATEST MEN’S FINAL EVER which I have yet to watch save for the last set. I’m still dry heaving from the outcome by the way.
*Further disorganized thoughts*
Frank Dancevic’s second biggest fan (that would be our host Pete) took me on a tour of the press center on the women’s final day and kindly gave me some goodies. You deserve a Frankie of your very own Pete. Ubaldo Scanagatta has officially taken over from James Martin as the greatest genius of our time till further notice. Tom Perrotta is ten feet tall with a halo in real life and Jon Wertheim is a total rock star.
Where are courts 12 and 13?
Center court is a fraction of Ashe. There isn’t a bad seat anywhere. I had great seats for the quarters and semis but I watched the women’s final from the nosebleeds which were way better than my loge seats at Ashe last year. FYI you can buy Center court and Court 1 leftover tickets online for the next day’s matches starting at 8:30 p.m. from Ticketmaster.
Aorangi park, terrace and food court? Does New Zealand own part of Wimby? That would be extremely cool.
I’m in awe of Ali C who started lining up at 10 p.m. one day. My dedication to sloth precludes even considering undertaking such an activity.
I watched a random Pat Cash / Wayne Ferreira doubles match on Court 4. A nice lady behind me was blown away by how well Wayne Ferreira had filled out since his pro days. She went on and on about it till her husband declared that she’s hurting his feelings. I agree. She was hurting my feelings too. I didn’t need to contemplate Wayne Ferreira’s filling out either.
Young Laura Robson is in addition to having questionable taste in men quite doomed. I can hear the hype machine going into overdrive already. Godspeed dear.
Recommended summer reading: Status Anxiety by Alain de Botton.