* !Picby Pete Bodo*
WIMBLEDON, England—Greetings from sunny Wimbledon, where it looks like we've got a good shot at getting through today with no rain delays, or so we were just informed, in an oh-so-British accent, by the elderly, paternalistic PA announcer who is as much a fixture around here as geraniums or a tipsy Grace Jones. I have come to think of him as the Great Ancient Orator, GAO for short, and aspire to meet him someday.
The GAO is the official voice of Wimbledon on the grounds. He's the one who welcomes the spectators in the morning and, depending on the kind of day it is, provides us all with inescapable, voluble updates on what the "Met office" is predicting, weather-wise, for the next few hours, or when the covers are likely to be removed form the courts (as you can imagine, the GAO is a busy old coot a lot of the time). We're led to believe that he's also genuinely got our backs, as he tells us what the temperature will be and reminds us on sunny days to put on the sun block. I see a great commercial tie-in here in Wimbledon's near future.
These public service annoucements are, like everything else at Wimbledon, highly ritualized. Sometimes I think the fellas who run this place ought to be walking around in robes bearing mystifying signs and symbols rather than the familiar, conservatively cut gray suits, wearing those ugly purple and green ties. Each day starts with announcements that herald the first two noteworthy events of the day—the "Opening of the Gates" and "Delivery of the Weather Report."
The Opening of the Gates ritual that has the makings of a good skit (think Monty Python, or the "Festivus" episode on Seinfeld), and it's preceded by the first PA announcement of the day. As those who have queued up, sometimes overnight or longer, are beginning to get really antsy, the voice of the GAO booms out over the loudspeakers mounted on the wall along with the concertina wire. He declares that the gates are about to be opened and gently reminds the eager invaders of tennis' inner sanctum, "For your own safety, we ask that you please do not run."
Then the gates are open and everybody runs like crazy, shoving and tripping all over each other, to stake out a favorite post for the start of play. Happens every time.
The morning greeting follows once the dust has settled, and it contains a few set pieces of advice, like the reminder that you can only leave or enter the show courts on odd-game changeovers, or after the first three games of any set, so if you want to see your favorite player you'd better settle in and make yourself comfy early. Left unsaid is: Make sure you don't find yourself having to pee when it's 4-all in the first set. After those are knocked off, we get—with some introductory fanfare ("Now, as I'm sure many of you will be happy to hear. . .")—to the Delivery of the Weather Report.
In this, the Grand Old Orator gives us fairly precise details about what to expect for the day, but for all the hair-splitting and speculation emanating from the Met Office, we all know that that the weather report here is always the same: It could rain at any time, who knows? And on especially sunny, warm days, like today, the GAO kindly and cheerfully reminds us to avoid sunburn and ends his oration for the day with a warning about the perils of dehydration—"Do drink plenty, and of course I do mean water."