By Chris Oddo | Sunday June 27, 2016
Wimbledon can bring out your sensitive side. Our advice? Don't fight it!
Photo Source: Chris Oddo
I stepped onto Somerset after walking up and down Church wide-eyed and wondrous. Have you ever seen Wimbledon Village on a mild summery day, when tree leaves gently sway like feathery Federer droppers in the honey-bourbon breeze? You probably have. You’re a tennis freak if you’re reading this. You’ve probably been to the Championships like eight times and caught Juan Martin del Potro’s shoe when he threw it into the crowd a few years back. You probably got me a keychain and told me it was the most can’t-miss tennis event on the whole freaking can’t-miss tennis calendar. You were probably there when a 17-year-old Boris Becker thunder-thighed (in extremely tight white shorts, no less) his way to becoming the youngest men’s singles champion in the history of the event. Ah, but me, I had never been there yet. It’s a long story, and a good one, but I won’t bore you with it.
Day 1 Preview: Federer, Djokovic Ready to Roll at Wimbledon
Anyhow, so there I was on Somerset, walking along the west wall of the grounds with a giant lump in my throat.
Wimbledon! The mythical monster that until now had only lived in my mind or on a blue screen.
Tap tap tap tapping keys. That was the sound of me trying to write about it like I knew.
A quiet, mild Saturday, 48 hours before first ball. Breeze ever so quaint. English garden to die for and in full bloom. Just two days ago I was squinting at TennisTV in my sweatpants, half awake at 3 or 4 in the ungodly morning, trying to slog through a recap of the Eastbourne quarterfinals. The life of a tennis writer in California. Coffee beans ground the night before so as not to wake the people in the house that lead regular lives…
Two days later, here I am. Walking past Dominic Thiem, who is loudly chatting in his native tongue on his cell phone, as I approach Gate 13. To my right is Wimbledon in all its glory. And oh my dear god is it gorgeous. I’m a sucker for pretty things and I’ve found my pretty thing right here. Tennis gods, strike this poor boy down! Not a single blade of grass out of place. Ivy creeps up the walls like condensation creeps down the side of a glass half-filled with ice, half-filled with Pimm’s. Shadows cling to the walls like they never want to let go.
I produce my passport. The letter. They let me in!
Over on the practice courts I can barely watch the players having a knock. Zverev and Kohlschreiber, Karin Knapp, Vasek Pospisil. It doesn’t matter who they are. All I can think of is Don Budge, Fred Perry, Althea Gibson, Rod Laver, Martina. History lurks in the ivy, in the soil beneath the courts, in the walkways, in the puffy clouds that languidly linger like an Andy Murray lob. That grass—hell yes it has stories to tell.
Breathe deep you can smell musty dirt. The lines on the court, the wooden nets framing the pitch—eight millimetres, a buzz cut for the ages. Looking at it, it’s actually quite difficult to fathom that world-class tennis gets played on these courts. That these brutish modern players haven’t rendered this surface obsolete, that our reckless, robust modern game hasn’t destroyed the essence of Wimbledon.
Who dares smash their racquet beyond these baselines! Send them to the brig!
They gave me a desk (holy crap!). I’m here to work. This joy I feel, I want to pay it forward. The world is full of crappy, sad stories. I want to write a few good ones this fortnight. I’m sure they are out there, waiting to be told.
Day 1 starts in 11 hours and 26 minutes. Night.