In the popular imagination, or at least the American popular imagination, “Wimbledon” is synonymous with stiff-necked tradition. But that’s not the word that comes to mind as your taxi whips you up a narrow winding road and tosses you out in the center of the small suburban village that bears the most famous name in tennis.
To your right is an establishment known as the Dog & Fox. Those two words give you a pretty good description of the youthful humans you’re likely to find inside on any given evening during the tournament. To your left is the Brewery Tap, a similar but more compact drinking establishment where 20-somethings stand very, very close to said beer tap at the bar—and then lean forward just a little farther. I don’t know if it’s a legacy of the early closing times of English pubs, but people here don’t drink their alcohol so much as dispatch it, quickly and disdainfully.
At this time of year, quaint Wimbledon takes on a spring-break vibe. As I wandered down the otherwise quiet residential back street last night searching for my rental flat, I was serenaded by a barrage of clanging heavy metal from a club two blocks away. Sunday morning the town was equally bustling, in a brighter and healthier way, as families swelled the local cafes. Wimbledon could have been any well-heeled suburban yuppie town, as long as it included Bec Cartwright wheeling her child down the street—she leaned down and said “We’re going to Starbucks!” with real excitement—or Mr. and Mrs. Ivanovic, all in black despite the sun, making their laborious way in the opposite direction.
You could feel the storm of The Championships impending, but the All England Club was still in its eye today—the place remained in lazy pre-tournament mode. Ball boys and girls laid out on the bleachers to get some sun. The grounds crew methodically rolled out chalk lines. The lawn on the Centre Court stood netless, though I was happy to see that the old overhanging roof, missing in 2007, is back. The only people inside were a small cluster of ushers receiving a full-dress military-style lecture about how to do their jobs. Drinking, ushering, you name it—Wimbledon is serious business.
On the other side of the grounds, the new Court 2, which won’t be used this year, looked like an empty meadow, its grass unmowed and unlined. Plunked smack in the middle of the older part of the grounds, it’s an ampitheatre along the lines of the Pallacorda in Rome. A bit of a departure for Wimbledon, it nevertheless has the makings of a future classic tennis-watching venue, à la the Bullring in Paris and the Grandstand in New York.
There was tennis today. It was all wedged, somewhat chaotically, into the Aorangi practice courts on the far edge of the grounds. The shots were fast and loose out there, as the players had 45 minutes to get their final workout in. Novak Djokovic hit a diving stab volley winner off a passing shot from Janko Tipsarevic, who ran screaming toward the net and threw a ball at his countryman. Mardy Fish lost a rapid-fire volley exchange to James Blake but called Blake’s obvious winner out. Maria Sharapova and Svetlana Kuznetsova played a practice set; Sharapova sent a lot of her serves toward the bottom of the net. If you have trouble focusing and bringing your best stuff in practice, you would have been encouraged today. The pros can slack a little, too.
It all had a prep-school feel to it—like, one with the best tennis team ever—especially when Rafael Nadal showed up to watch a few seconds of Roger Federer’s practice session with Potito Starace. It was suddenly the unspoken battle of the coolest guys in school. Who were fans supposed to look at? Nadal eventually took Federer’s court—the show court, naturally—and they gave each other a little nod and a genuine smile but not much more. Federer was his usual casual self, ending points early with drop volleys and gunning go-for-broke forehands. Nadal looked a little unhappy with his backhand, but was in his own world of total concentration. He didn’t seem to notice David Ferrer and Uncle Toni clowning around right behind him. From up close you can get an idea why Nadal's successful at net. He isn’t fluid up there, but he commits to every volley as if it were a ground stroke. That’s may be the most common downfall of the dyed-in-the-clay baseliner when he gets to net: lack of commitment.
Do you have the feeling there’s a storm—of both doubters and defenders—descending on Federer at this tournament? It felt that way in the press room today, where we subjected him to a long grilling (the transcript was a full two pages longer than the one for Nadal’s interview). Federer, as always, was down to earth, diplomatic, and quietly prideful all at once. When he was asked about Pete Sampras and Bjorn Borg commenting on his chances, he began by saying he hadn’t heard anything, hadn’t read the press. By the end of his answer, his look and his words were colder: “It may be a time where some people talk a little bit too much.”
Later he was asked whether he was “disappointed” when he heard that Borg had said he wasn’t the favorite this year. This time it was clear Federer had heard about it, but he refused to take the bait. “Obviously at the moment he has a microphone under his face and people ask him many, many things. I like when it’s praise. When it’s something more critical, you tend to just forget about it and move on.” I thought that was a thoughtful and realistic answer. It was touching as well: He wants his idol's approval. More important, I thought it showed that the doubts and the pressure aren’t weighing too heavily on Federer at the moment—he's in the eye of his own storm. Federer said more than once that he was feeling fine and ready to go, and you had to believe him: When he was asked about his draw, he began by mentioning his potential second-rounder with Robin Soderling, skipping right by his first-round match with Dominik Hrbaty, who is, believe it or not, 2-0 against Federer.
The world's best even got in a good laugh line near the end.
Q: The girls are starting to wear shorts now. Will you do something new this year, or will you still wear the white jacket?
RF: I mean, look, I’m not going to go skirt yet. I’m not Scottish, either. I’ll make sure I’ll be a class act on the court.”
1:00 P.M. tomorrow, Act VI begins on Centre Court. I may not be there to witness it, though, as the crowded grounds always call on the first day of a major. The chalk lines will be down, the ball boys up, the net will be at the perfect height on Centre Court (it's already getting there in the photo above). I hear the sun might even be out. I think I’ll be over in the old Graveyard, Court 2, to see a little old-fashioned—or new-fangled, I should say—ground-stroking from Marcos Baghdatis and Steve Darcis. Or maybe I'll head for Court 18, to see how one of the American redwoods, Sam Querrey, holds up against Juan Carlos Ferrero. After that, I’ve got about 60 matches to choose from. I’ll be back to let you know how they go.