Wimbledon

The first thing people should know is that it’s not actually in Wimbledon. The tennis thing, that is. I took the tube on Saturday and was told to get out in Southfield. Like clockwork, five minutes after following the signs I was thoroughly and enjoyably lost within its leafy suburbia.

It was a summer’s day, and the walk to the common took me past rows of townhouses and BMW’s. I had run a half marathon earlier that morning, but was still feeling strangely buoyant. After almost an hour of wandering, I arrived at what seemed to be a set of barracks.

Security. Metal detectors and bag checks to rival any major airport. I was frisked so hard I felt like I was in a gay porn movie. Honestly, there was little left to the imagination, and I was straining not to push the guy away when he went for my inside thigh. After my bag went through the conveyor belt, I was taken aside for a ‘random’ baggage check. Every pocket was emptied, my books were leafed through, and my wallet opened and inspected. It was sheer invasion. I attempted small talk. “You do this often?” I asked the burly security lady. “Every fifth person.” She robotically replied. They’re not exactly paid to be friendly. She spied a bottle of Fanta in a pocket. Handing it to me, she instructed me to, “Sip this in front of me.” I knocked it back, earning another grunt from her. Even when searched in Harare I didn’t have it this bad. Somehow I don’t think I made a friend.

But eventually I did make it through to the village. And my goodness, what a sight. Thousands of spectators walking around, security and administration staff everywhere. Multi-tiered restaurants and of course the two imposing buildings: centre court and court #1. I watched the woman’s finals on the big screen on the lawn with thousands of fans. Afterwards, I wandered to court #3 to watch a mixed semi-finals match with Murray & Jankovic.

My dad plays tennis, and in our largely vacant family folklore, we’d grown up with the tale that he’d been taught by an ex-Wimbledon player. It means that for better or for worse, tennis is in our blood. Growing up, Wimbledon had always been a fixture, the ultimate tournament. Right now, in fact, my dad would be taping each game, driving my mum mad with frustration.

Back to Court #3. I was cattled into the standing room bays, and ended up standing a spitting distance from the players. This is where I met my happy clappy tennis friend.

He stood next to me, a strange man in his late thirties. Pencil-thin, he was perpetually biting his bottom lip while staring at the match. He wore a Wimbledon baseball cap about a dozen sizes too large for his head, and it had lopped backwards, balancing at forty-five degrees, eagerly waiting to tip over. The real magic was whenever the crowd applauded. He would shoot his arms near his face, holding his wrists against each other and clap his palms together like the jaws of a crocodile. It wasn’t just his form, but moreover the length of his applause. As the crowd died down, he would merrily clap away, oblivious to the silence around him. Then like releasing a coiled spring, his arms would shoot down to his sides. I liked him immediately.

Soon enough other spectators turned to give him dirty looks. If my happy clappy friend noticed any of this, he wasn’t paying them any attention. Gaily he would patter his hands together after each point, clapping louder and longer if the applause were sustained. The match was wonderful to watch, but my friend made it all the more entertaining.

I spent the day wandering between courts, watching the tail end of the championship. The veterans match was amusing, simply because of one player: a portly American, upholding the stereotype with his long stringy hair, balding, but geared with the trendiest threads. He would loudly chat to his team mate, holler at good points he’d won, and generally stomp around like he owned the place.

And the day wore on. By eight, the temperature had dropped, leaving me shivering slightly in my shorts and t-shirt. It was time to head back to reality. My fourteen pound general admission ticket had served me well for the past five hours. While I didn’t see the big names, I was more than content to leave, knowing that I’d finally done it: I’d made it to Wimbledon.