Being enchanted by the Wimbledon charm

It was supposed to be pure. It was meant to be all white. But it was London; hence the perfection was under threat. It was, in fact, the anti-thesis - cloudy, grey and dark.

The anticipation to catch the Championships live in Wimbledon had reached boiling point. The preparation to watch it had left one physically and mentally drained. If the gloomy weather on Day 1 of the year’s third Grand Slam was not disheartening enough, there were 7809 people already in the queue. Some of them relaxed on mattresses, while others, who had camped since the previous night and were in pursuit of greater comforts, even erected tents. 

It was two hours before play got under way. And it was two hours since one had left the abode in Stanmore to get to SW19. It was evident by now that the expedition to the tennis had the potential to be a drag. Just then, to make life more interesting, the heavens opened up. The temperature was under 10, and there was a healthy breeze too. The possibility of there being no play loomed.

But for all the hype and effort that the build up to this day had comprised of, one decided to wait. The wait, however, was hardly a walk in the (Wimbledon) park.

THE JOURNEY BEGINS

After a four-hour wait, the rain having relented by now too, the queue commenced its onward journey; albeit at snail’s speed. There were big screens and speakers on the way to keep the eager crowd updated; there was free, promotional juice on offer as well. But none of it would help. Two hours of play had been missed, while one waited helplessly outside the arena. And it would take an hour more to reach the ticket counters.

After the ebbs and flows of the wait, the curtains were raised on the venue, along with all its history. It was grand. A towering Centre Court and 20 other courts, with stands of varying sizes, stood in attention to welcome every faithful who had braved the rain, chilly breeze and an everlasting queue to make it in. A plethora of people – fans, officials, players, etc – was hurrying in every direction. But there was excitement in the chaos. Excitement to win a match, excitement to watch a favourite player in action and excitement because everyone around was excited. It was a moment that deserved an embrace. The venue deserved a show of respect. After all, it is the Holy Grail for most sport fanatics.

The stomach, satiated only with the anticipation of watching live tennis, was growling. But food could wait. The rush of the crowd pushed one to the board with the order of play. Janko Tipsarevic was the biggest name in action then. And hence, his game was considered worthy as one’s first live Wimbledon encounter. But all the efforts of making it to SW19 could have been dealt a tragic blow had it not been for a friend and journalist colleague’s intimation about Ana Ivanovic slotted to be in action at the same time.

DREAMS COME TRUE

To watch Andy Roddick and Ivanovic ply their trade live had long been a dream. The former retired too soon to ensure one half of the dream remains unfulfilled. The fulfillment of the second half was in grave danger too, for one had assumed the Serb only played the next day. But the stars aligned bang in time. One dashed from Court 9 to Court 12, which contrary to what the numbers suggest weren’t very close. Determined to not make a wrong turn, every steward on the way was harassed for directions. After the hustle, one finally made it, but there was one final hurdle. – one final queue. For, fans are allowed to move in and out of the courts only when the players change sides. When it was finally turn to step in, the players had were done switching sides. Thus, to my crushing disappointment, the grumpy steward manning the entrance asked me to stop, “Time out, please!”  

But that could not have been the reality; that was definitely not acceptable. So the minute the stiff upper-lipped steward turned his back, one’s dejected eyes made contact, and in a way pleaded to, a softer and more senior lady steward. She had been standing there – sunglasses and blazer on – observing the desperation one’s face reeked of to get in. “Quick, there’s one seat if you are alone. Grab that!” she smiled. She deserved a hug, but with the fear of that coming across as inappropriate, she was greeted with an over-the-top grin and a happy thank you. Barely able to keep the emotions in check, one made a dash to the court – even tripping on the stairs en route. It could have been embarrassing on another day, not when Ana Ivanovic tapped the ball in readiness to serve. It was happening. Finally.

Tap. Tap. Tap, Ivanovic served. Ivanovic aced.

Boom, boom, bang, Ekaterina Alexandrova burst into life to destroy the Serb’s momentum and boomerang past her to grab the first step. 

The buzzing crowd had been silenced. World number 220-odd had taken the lead over the current number 23 and a former world number one.

The players sipped their fluids and returned to the court. All one, a die-hard Ivanovic fan, could do is pray. But a shout of ‘C’mon Ana’ forced the eyes open. It was do-or-die. It was game time, again. Ivanovic wasn’t connecting the balls perfectly, her hands not offering the kind of power they usually would. An injury was troubling her, but she fought on. She was a game down, but she fought on. She broke back. She had to win the set to survive a first-round embarrassment. But the wrist injury got the better of her. As if her wrist had given up on her, she gave up on a return. The Russian opponent won a crucial point, while Ivanovic stared at a premature end to her London trip.

And like that, it was over. An unknown player had defeated an injury-ridden former French Open champion. The heart sank. The purpose of visiting the tennis was over. For a moment, the Wimbledon was over. But gradually, the realization sank in. The dream to watch this tennis hero play live had come to life. That it was at the Championship was the cherry on the cake’s icing. It was a fan’s sporting nirvana, if ever there was one.

WHEN AT WIMBY, SAY STRAWBERRY

With the heart, mind and soul satiated, it was time to address the long-ignored hunger pangs. A search was launched for what they say is the next-best offering at Wimbledon after the tennis – strawberries and cream! After bypassing clusters of fans and knocking at various wrong doors in pursuit of the delicacy, the red, luscious berries covered with thick cream were found and gulped within seconds. 

PULSULATING TENNIS

There was unfinished business with the tennis to get back to, now. Thomaz Belluci was up against Ruben Bemelmans on Court 10. There was a vibe to the game that trapped one - the gaze transfixed on the game and senses soaking in the atmosphere that had built around the court.

Court 10 is a paradox. It is one of the smaller courts, which could help you forget that you are at a Grand Slam. But at the same time, because it has just a single row of seating separating the action from the crowd gathered to watch the play outside, it makes you feel a part of the emotions in the centre.

The match had trudged into the fifth set. The players were tired. While Belluci hit the net, Bemelmans’ racquet and the ball were at an arm’s distance when the Belgian attempted a simple return. On each occasion, the stunned crowd fell silent. Belluci groaned, Bemelmans growled. The players emoted, the crowd felt it.

With the emotions of the thriller settling down, it called for a breather. And, what better than the famed ‘Henman Hill’ to relax the senses. But with the newly-crowned French Open champion and a people’s favourite – Garbine Muguruza – in action on the Centre Court, the hill was packed with all the supporters who had not managed one of the 700-odd day passes to the main court. With the game on the big screen, the crowd swayed with the momentum of the match. It also ensured that the atmosphere outside on the hill would mean you wouldn’t miss the vibe inside the court. 

It had been an overwhelming day with a visit to Wimbledon, Ana Ivanovic’s match, an engaging five-setter and strawberries and cream all checked. With a satisfied heart, one decided to commence the return journey an hour before the official end of day’s play. The emotions of the day should have worn down by then. But as one walked towards the tube station, there was a queue of people still waiting to get in. Their body language dripped of eagerness. It was the first day of the event. It was less than 60 minutes away from the end of day’s play. But there is a certain passion that the Wimbledon Championship evokes and there is an unmatched madness about it. And it was an honor to experience it first hand.