It's that time again, time to spill the extras, the
minutiae, the less-than-useful observations and wisecracks that no self-respecting editor would have allowed into print back in those days "before the
Internet." Why do we insist on saying we miss those days so much? Really, have you tried to write an entire letter lately? What would you do if you couldn’t see every single deliriously cute photo of your friends' children?
First, I'll go back to that bottomless well of dubious opinion, the tabs. Yesterday I said that there's no more heartening sight for
a word-loving American in London than that of a sidewalk newsstand overflowing
with papers. Their sleazy photos and sober analyses compete
for your attention as if they expect you to stop and actually buy one of them. Unlike
New Yorkers, who gravitate to the free dailies handed out around the subway,
people here really do hand over cash for the pleasure of reading.
Tennis fans, at least, seem to get what they pay for. I know
it's Wimbledon, and that six pages devoted solely to this rich niche sport is
hardly the norm. But each of the major London papers has a reporter dedicated to
following the tours year-round—can you imagine it in the U.S.?
With that in mind, I'll begin this press tour with the
relatively august Times, and descend toward the gutter from there.
—The most august of the Times sports columnists is Simon
Barnes. While he can turn a phrase, I wouldn't say he knows much about how
tennis is actually played. But today he does have a nicely rendered piece on
Laura Robson's defeat. It's the kind of article that, when plugged into the
middle of a high-profile newspaper, makes tennis as significant for a day as
the cricket and rugby and soccer news that surrounds it.
—Still, the Times can't resist a nice, scathing review of
Roger Federer's jump-the-shark opening-day fashion statement. Patrick Kidd
writes, "Roger Federer's new outfit for this Wimbledon season is, he
assures us, "modern" and "military." Switzerland's chief
contribution to warfare over the years has been a folding tool for removing
stones from horses' shoes and opening cans of corned beef, so perhaps he should
leave the military assessment to others." Kidd then goes on to speculate
that perhaps next year Federer will bring a chihuahua on court with him in his
golden bag.
—More sadly, the Times' other well-known writer, Neil
Harman, informs me for the first time that Rafael Nadal's parents are indeed
separating, as has been rumored.
—Things get rougher over at the Star. Andy Rose opens his
article on Robson's defeat with this sentence: "Schoolgirl Laura Robson
fought back tears after blowing her big chance to take Wimbledon by
storm."
Andy Murray's first-round opponent, Robert Kendrick, unimaginatively dubbed "Rob," is said to
be "running scared" and to "fear the Murray mob" that will
attack him if the American wins today.
—It's left to the Mirror to stoke the flames of the coming
Murray-Federer conflagration. "Murray: I Want You, Federer! Andy After Revenge" reads the back page headline. Next to
these words is a shot of Murray looking like a wild animal, his teeth bared. What did Murray say, exactly, to inspire this level-headed assessment from the
Mirror? "If I could pick right now and I was for sure going to win it, I
would chose [sic] beating Federer in the final," Murray said. Getting from
those words to "I Want You, Federer! Andy After Revenge" is a bit of
a stretch. As a journalist, I can only applaud it.
What else has been happening at SW19, besides getting my
hands stained with ink? Just the usual.
—Fellow writers Kamakshi Tandon, Tom Tebbutt, Chris Clarey and
I had dinner in the Wimbledon village Sunday night. Our big idea was to sit at a
sidewalk table and look at famous people walking up and down the street. Last
year we'd seen Maria Sharapova and Camille Belle try unsuccessfully to enter a
sports bar/dance club. This year? Uh, no Maria, or just about anyone else. We saw, in no particular order, a chair umpire, an ATP employee, Serena Williams' agent, a hanger-on of
Frank Dancevic's, and Radek Stepanek. The person we spotted most often was an Australian journalist who kept walking back and forth looking for a Thai
restaurant. See what you're missing? Journalists watching journalists.
—If you come and queue for tickets at Wimbledon, you will
undoubtedly be confronted with the rules of the All England Club, which are
posted every 20 feet or so on its outside walls. "Behavior" is the
most intriguing chapter. There, you are instructed not "to remove
your shirt or any other article of clothing that would cause offense" and,
more idiosyncratically, that "wheeled footwear" is prohibited. I
wondered why shoes with wheels would be singled out until I entered a nearby
Tesco, where I was rammed by two small children on scooters. It is unpleasant,
and I thank the Club for protecting me from these diabolical rugrats.
—Speaking of rules, Wimbledon is the Mecca of them. Yesterday, an unsuspecting fan walked toward a pair of unused press seats with a camera in his
hand. As he sat down, well-dressed female usher hustled after him and said, "Sir, you
cannot take pictures from there."
"Why not?"
"That is the rule."
"Why is that the rule?"
"It is the rule here and we follow the
rules."
"Do you just make up new rules each day?" he
finally asked as he put his camera away.
—Court 3 this year is the old Court 2. In other words, it's the
Graveyard of Champions by another name. It kept up that reputation yesterday. James Blake was
upset there, and Severine Bremond took a match-ending tumble against
Victoria Azarenka. New number, old ghosts.
—The press area in the new Court 2 bumps up against the Club Members area. These are generally well-dressed older couples who sit up with proper stiffness and
applaud quietly. They know each other. I watched
an interaction between a man in his 30s and one in his 70s; they may have been
related. Both were in green blazers and both sported the traditional dry-combed
side-part hairstyle—the older man just had a little less of it. They joked and laughed easily; as an American, I can only
imagine that what they were saying was exceedingly and effortlessly witty. That
clubbiness, which they must have enjoyed for their entire lives, made me jealously wonder: Had they ever, at any point, had a doubt about their place in the world?
—OK, I'll close on a lighter note. In Indian Wells, I
mentioned another fellow writer, Joel Drucker, on more than one occasion. He's
here at Wimbledon, and he came by my desk on Sunday. A few moments before, I'd
realized that my plug adapter for Great Britain didn't fit into the plug I'd
brought for my computer. The battery was running down with disturbing speed,
and I was entering panic mode. I showed Joel the problem. The original
tennis nut smiled and said, as I should have known he would:
"Champions adapt."
The sun is out at Wimbledon. Need I say more? Time to go
watch tennis.
